Marshals: The Next Generation

Chapters

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Chapter 1

This is a short story in The Journey of Graves.

The series begins with the first story: When the Man Comes Around.

IMPORTANT: If you haven't read the series, please head back to the beginning and check it out. While each story stands on its own, the character and relationship developments will build on each other as the series progresses.

And so, the saga continues...

Marshals: The Next Generation

By: GentlemanJ

Chapter 1

“Remind me why I’m here again?”

A chill wind blew through the marble colonnades, an icy remnant of snows only just cleared from the still frosty ground. Though the main thoroughfare through the Academy remained packed with frantic cadets and slightly more composed officers with equally hurried steps, Graves strode through the airy hall in his own bubble of free and open space. Now, even the steely-eyed marshal couldn’t have commanded so much deference on a normal day, not even with the growing number who’d heard rumors of the fabled Gunmetal Graves after the Changeling Expedition. However, today was an exception as the raven-haired soldier strode along with a most august companion.

“Like I said before,” General Ironside grinned from behind his slate-hued beard as he walked along in the same spacious vacuum, “it’s about that time of year for graduating cadets to figure out which branch they’re heading for. Naturally, that includes the marshals, and since you just happened to be in town, I figured why not have one of our most active members give them a little intro?”

“Just so happened?” Graves repeated with a dubious eyebrow arched dubiously. “Didn’t you send me an urgent dispatch saying there was a Canterlot emergency and that I had to be here?”

“Did I?” Ironside asked, his eyes wide with obviously believable innocence. “Must’ve completely slipped my mind.” It was a great testament to the young soldier’s self-control that he only sighed as the general stroked his beard in a most satisfied manner.

“Never taught before,” the marshal flatly intoned as boot heels continued to click on marble. “Why not get Skylark? She’s lectured more than once.”

“She’s on loan to the Ivory Tower,” Ironside shrugged. “Helping with some important research, or so I’m told.”

“Then how about Typhoon?” Graves suggested. The general shook his head.

“Troglodyte hunt in the Manehattan sewers.”

“Starfall?”

“Zombies in Appleloosa.”

“Coursing River?”

“Thunderbird roosting in Seaddle.”

“Armistice?”

“Bad case of Dengue fever. Too long in the tropics, don’t you know?”

Graves hadn’t known, but he did now. He also knew that it was awfully fortuitous that every active marshal with some sort of teaching experience ‘just happened’ to be indisposed of on a day when those particular skills would be required. Yet despite his scrutinizing gaze that could have scoured barnacles from a ship’s hull, the general merely walked along with ice-blue eyes clear as a preacher’s conscience.

“So why me?” Graves continued with a weary roll of the eyes. “Why not get someone more convenient to do it?”

“Because they’re not as good,” Ironside smoothly replied. “We both know what your record looks like. You’re the best at what you do.”

“Yeah, shooting and not getting shot,” the marshal rebounded with a wry smile. “Teaching’s not exactly not part of my skillset.”

“Might as well add it on, then,” the burly officer chuckled. “Or, I could send you down to records to start working out how much the engine on that Stallion transport ship you blew up costs. That works too.”

It was a testament to his martial prowess that Graves only slightly stumbled at those words.

“No, ah, that won’t be necessary,” he coughed as a drop of sweat appeared on his brow. “Glad to be of service.”

Ironside just grinned.

“Knew you’d understand.”

*****

Under a dull, grey sky, the two soldiers crossed the massive field outside the city proper that served as the Academy’s main training center. With obstacle courses, running tracks, firing ranges, and blast shells, the Plain of Pain was a holistic proving ground designed to push Equestrian cadets to the utmost of their mental, physical, and magical capabilities, then egregiously beyond. Right now, the field was living up to its name as dozens of recruits slogged it out through the multitude of tortuous activities their less than kindly drill instructors put them through.

Right now, though, the pair weren’t concerned with that. As much as they would have loved to pause and reminisce about their own trips through the nine circles of hell, they had business to attend to, business that took them towards the large oak tree on the far side of the field.

“So, you sure you want me to do this?” Graves asked once more, readjusting the spell gun slung over his shoulder as he gave his commander a questioning frown. “I don’t exactly have a lecture planned.”

“Wasn’t counting on it,” Ironside replied as soon as he finished chewing out a greenhorn for improper shooting form. “Your biggest plus is your practical experience and that’s what we want these colts to get a taste of. No textbooks, no theories, just the raw, real deal.”

“Then… what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you feel like,” the general smiled as they reached the oak. “Have fun. Be creative. For the next three hours, these cadets are clay in your hands.”

At their approach, the presiding drill sergeant barked the order.

“Ten-shun! Form rank!” Like good little soldiers,the four lounging recruits instantly snapped to order.

An eyebrow arched in question as Graves looked over the group. They were an interesting and varied group to say the least, and by varied, he meant that they were about as varied as the ingredients in Pinkie Pie’s Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, Never the Same Surprise Cake. True, each wore the same faded green uniform that marked out cadets as the lowest rung of the armed forces totem pole, but that was pretty much where the similarities ended.

The one furthest on the right was a veritable giant of a youth, one probably a good few inches taller than Graves and probably half again as wide. With thick arms, a barrel chest, and a cleanly shaven head that only seemed to make his formidable form seem even bigger, he looked to be the sort of man who could bench press cattle before eating them for breakfast and going back for seconds.

Next to the giant, the girl beside him seemed downright miniscule. Dainty enough even without comparison to the hulk, a first glance would have had most thinking her far too delicate for the military life. A second look however, one that took in her burning bronze ponytail and tawny eyes that peered out with the sharp cunning of a wild fox, clearly showed that underestimating her would be a costly and – quite possibly – very painful mistake.

The third cadet was taller and the only one sporting a regulation crew cut, but his thin as a half-starved bean sprout body testified to how he clearly wasn’t one of the most physically capable of soldiers. Not that it mattered though. Even behind the bulky glasses framing his narrow face, there was no mistaking the spark of inner fire in those hazel eyes that marked the truly gifted mages.

Lastly, there was the fourth and probably most noticeable of all the recruits. Broad-shouldered with sandy hair and bright green eyes, the lad that stood eye level with the marshal was a living, breathing recruitment ad. With a face made for movies and a build to match, he was the kind of poster child the brass loved to put on those hokey "We Want You" posters everyone seemed to love. Of course, the confident smile and balanced stance showed the trained eye there was much more to this one than a pretty face.

An interesting bunch, these four. Very interesting indeed.

As they stood at attention, Ironside said nothing. Instead, he chose to slowly pace up and down the line as he gave the cadets a once over, a lion prowling before he settled down to dinner. Any joviality that the general had previously shown was now replaced by stern silence and imposing authority. It was time to get down to business.

“Recruits!” he called, his voice booming with the force of cannon fire. “You are the top one percent of your graduating class, a distinction that grants you right to enroll in any branch of the Equestrian armed forces you choose. So let me ask you. What is your choice?"

"Sir, we want to join the marshals, sir!” they called in forceful unison.

“Do you have what it takes?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

"You sure?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

“Well alright, then,” the general smirked. “Introduce yourselves. Who are you and just what makes you fit to join Equestria’s finest?”

“Sir,” the big one began, calling out in a deep, thunderous voice at a nod from his drill instructor, “my name is Boulder, sir! I’m as strong as they come and an expert in hand-to-hand combat. When it comes to up close and personal, nothing speaks louder than my fists, sir!”

“Sir!” the wild one called, never once having taken her tawny eyes from the marshal’s gunmetal greys, “my name is Foxfire, and I’m the best marksman that the Academy has. I don’t miss; never have, never will, sir!”

“Sir!” the thin one called in the cool, collected tones of a scholar, “my name is Spellbound and I have unparalleled mastery over the arcane arts. Subtle or fierce, simple to the supreme, my magics make me a one-man battalion, sir!”

“Sir!” the pretty one called, his voice sounding like it was half a moment away from breaking out into a confident grin, “my name is Comet and I’m just the best. I’m great at whatever I do, sir!”

Graves nearly smiled at that last one.

“Alright, then,” the general laughed aloud. “So seeing as none of you baby-faced recruits has any idea what it means to be a marshal, I’ve arranged a special guest to rectify the situation. This here’s Graves, though you might know him better as Gunmetal Graves, the Ghost of Thunder, or just the best goddamn marshal that ever walked these grounds. He’s going to be your instructor for the day and educate you on just what being a marshal’s all about.”

Like the general had before him, Graves at first said nothing. Instead, he looked, casting his iron-grey eyes over the four cadets before him, weighing and appraising them as he would a new component for his spell gun. Well, maybe not so much. Spell gun components had proven worth, after all.

“So, you all want to be marshals?” Graves asked, his gravelly baritones low and level in contrast to their raucous calls. Yet even as calm as he was, there was no hiding the hint of condescending skepticism lacing each and every word. And just as expected, the cadets bristled in response.

Of course they’d all heard rumors of Gunmetal Graves. Who hadn’t? The lone marshal who’d spent years on solo missions and single-handedly changed the course of battle more times than a drill sergeant lost his temper was the stuff of mess hall gossip gold. If they were honest, rumors of his exploits had been a big part of all their interests in joining the marshals, just like it was with every one in their class of recent date.

But now that they’d come up against the legend himself, they had to say, it was a little underwhelming.

Sure, he looked pretty tough – every marshal did – but he didn’t look that tough. After all, Comet probably had a good ten pounds on him, let alone Boulder who probably could’ve snapped him in half with a good hug. He may have had more experience than them, but really, standing there in that drab, brown coat with that over-sized spell gun... it was hard to see what he had that they didn't.

So it was with four very different voices but one very singular message that the cadets replied,

“Sir, yes sir!”

The raven-haired soldier appraised them for just a moment more. Then he smiled.

“… No. Definitely not.”

The pronouncement was met with four very confused looks.

“Sir?” Comet asked, a conciliatory smile coming to his movie-star face. “What do you mean you don’t think so? We’re the top of the academy, the best Equestria has to offer. Whatever it takes to be a marshal, we have it.”

“You think so, do you?” Graves asked as eyebrow arched in amusement. “Well then, let me prove you wrong.”

In one smooth motion, Graves unslung his spell gun and raised it towards the cadets. If they had been surprised before, then now they were blindsided-by-a-leprechaun startled.

“Sir? What are you doing?!” Spellbound cried in alarm. “That’s a Gungir-class heavy ordinance long rifle!”

“Yes, yes it is,” Graves nodded as the familiar hum of charging lightning began.

“Then why are you pointing it at us?” the mage asked with increasingly wide eyes.

“Why do you think?” Graves smiled. “I’m going to shoot you. All of you. In three...”

“Sir, are you serious?” Boulder interjected.

“Two…”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Comet laughed.

“One…”

Tawny eyes went very wide in alarm.

Four quick pulls of the trigger and all of the cadets went down, yelping in pain as they were each struck with the electrical force of a fully-charged stun baton.

“Nothing,” Graves sighed, sounding as disappointed as a kid who’d gotten underwear for his birthday. Twice. “Even with a countdown, not one of you fought back.”

“Of course not!” Firefox snapped back, emotions getting the better of her as she snarled at the marshal with near feral eyes. “What did you expect us to do, dive in kamikaze style? You’ve got that cannon of a spell gun pointed at us! Of course we did nothing!”

Graves arched an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Girl,” he began his tones still level, though now several degrees cooler than they’d been moments before. “Aren’t all cadets assigned a basic spell rifle or armor set upon enrollment?”

“Well… yes sir, we are,” she replied uncertainly, somewhat caught off guard by the unexpected question.

“And aren’t you all given permission to carry them with you at all times?” the marshal continued, his voice growing colder by the moment.

“Yes sir… we are…” Firefox answered softly.

“Well then,” Graves began once more, words laced with permafrost that would have made the chill air around seem a furnace. “Where. Are. They?”

The bronze-haired cadet openly gaped, then looked to her compatriots for answers. They could only stare back with the same, mute eyes.

“I suggest you run and get them,” Graves intoned as he leveled his charging rifle once more. “I suggest you run real quick.”

You know how urban legends get started, but nobody knows how? Well, this wasn’t one of those cases, because no less than two dozen witnesses would later corroborate the advent of a true Sergeant from Hell. Four cadets ran their way across the Plain of Pain, racing as fast as their legs could carry them. But every few seconds, one of them would yelp out loud as a soldier in long, leather coat and broad, flat-brimmed hat leaning against the lonely oak lazily popped off blast after blast of electric shock into their backsides. This continued all the way across the field, as the thunder of each blast echoed alongside the general’s booming laughter.

It must have really sucked to be those cadets. Not a single one of those lightning bolts missed.

*****

By the time the cadets made their way back, rifles in hand and spell armor pack strapped on, they were madder than volcano gods denied their regular dose of sacrificial virgins. As such, they were ready to get it on, to raise cane and make hell for the marshal who had dished out such healthy doses of stinging pain and burning humiliation.

Only, he wasn’t there.

“Wha- where’d he go?” Firefox gaped, sharp eyes darting about the field and catching no sight of the errant soldier. “Don’t tell me he ran off.”

“Hey, check this out,” Comet called, approaching the tree where the four of them had gathered earlier, where upon the trunk was tacked a single sheet of paper.

“Runts,

I know you don’t have what it takes to be marshals, but Ironside’s making me give you a chance. So here’s your job: get my badge however you can. I’ll be waiting on the first training mountain. You have three hours.

Good luck. You’ll definitely need it.

Graves”

It’s really amazing. In a succinct forty-nine words, Graves had managed to take the cumulative rage and hatred bubbling up in those four youths and magnify it fivefold. If they were mad before, then they were stark, raving furious by now.

“So, however we can, eh?” Boulder grunted, cracking his knuckles ominously as only a very large man with crackeable knuckles can. “Guess the general can’t blame us if some… ‘accidents’ happen, right?”

“Normally, I’d frown upon such boorish goals,” Spellbound sniffed as he checked his travel pack and rifle with practiced efficiency, “but for once, I agree with you, full stop.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Comet laughed aloud with the fierce grin of a war god painted across his face. “Let’s get this bucking bastard and make him eat his words!”

**********

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sweat readily beading on his narrow brow, Spellbound hitched his travel pack up once more as his thin legs took him farther up the forested slope. He was not a particularly adept mountaineer, cursed as he was with a rather meager physique, especially for one aspiring to join the elite ranks of Equestria’s finest. The young mage had never exceeded average marks on the martial components of his courses and so, it wasn’t surprising that the three other cadets had quickly left him in the dust. With no lost love between the four cadets who constantly vied for the highest rank, the others had been more than happy to leave one competitor in the dust as they raced ahead to see who would have the glory of apprehending the marshal.

That was fine with him. Let the meatheads run. After all, there was far more to being a good soldier than brawn.

What Spellbound lacked in strength and stamina, he more than made up for with near savant levels of intellect and skill. Hailed as a genuine magical prodigy, the arcana many of his classmates struggled with came to him as naturally as swimming to a silver pike. By the end of his first year at Academy, the brown-haired youth had already exhausted the entire curriculum and was delving into more complex magicks of his own accord. By the second, he’d qualified as a full-fledged magister. By the third year, the sheer breadth of his encyclopedic repertoire had transformed him from a scrawny lad into a bastion of unparalleled, mystic might.

No, there was much more to a soldier than throwing a hard punch. He’d realized that early on, and that’s why instead of wasting his time with push-ups and squats, Spellbound had devoted himself wholly to the study of magic, the wellspring of true power. Brains beat brawn in combat, and it was high time for someone like him to remind his peers just why.

Clambering over a moss-covered log, Spellbound adjusted his glasses with a slight smile as he found exactly what he sought. In between a dense mass of undergrowth on one side and a solid cliff on the other lay a small clearing he'd used many times before. Well out of sight from the common paths, this little hideaway would provide the perfect cover as he prepared to show that grey-eyed brute just who he was dealing with.

Removing his pack, Spellbound took a moment to crack his stiff back before he pulled out a utility wand and gave it a quick flick. Instantly, pale, yellow light surrounded the pack and summoned forth a truly impressive set of glass phylacteries chock full of all manners of ingredients ranging from the common bits of newt to incredibly rare finds like genuine ectoplasm. That one had been a nightmare to acquire – literally – but this moment would make it more than worth it.

With each subtle flick of his wand, the various vials tipped their contents into a pewter mixing bowl where a matching pestle swiftly ground them into a fine paste. While this went on, Spellbound knelt to the ground and began tracing out an elaborate spell circle into the loamy soil with his other hand. This wasn’t easy, even for a naturally ambidextrous one such as himself, but the bespectacled prodigy managed it, and soon, his work was done.

Carefully, more carefully than most mothers were with their newborns, Spellbound poured the shimmering green liquid from the pewter bowl into the circle, making sure each rune and every sigil was well-touched with the magical brew.

To the casual onlooker and even the well-informed observer, the thin cadet’s actions would make no sense. Despite the complexity of the design, the basic spell at the center was still a standard tracking spell, one that should hardly aid him now. While seeking magic was simple to apply when you had a target before you, it grew exponentially more difficult the farther out the target ran. This meant that in a man-hunt where the target could be hiding anywhere between here and Prance, tracking spells were about as useful as lead-lined swimsuits.

Fortunately, this wasn’t a regular man-hunt.

Amidst the all-too-arrogant marshal’s challenge, Spellbound had found a fatal flaw in the man’s bravado: he’d limited today’s test to just the first training mountain. Normally, such a large swath of land would still be too much for any sort of mage to cover with a sweeping scan, but Spellbound wasn’t an ordinary mage. Between the complex broadcasting array borrowed from some rather… restricted texts and the potent amplifying mix filled with all manners of magical goodies, covering the mountainside with a sensory pulse should be possible.

From there, it would only be a matter of time. The spell would find the marshal. A scrying spell would reveal his location. Spellbound would prepare by drawing on his vast array of spells and enchantments. Then, when he was nice and ready, the cadet would call forward the fires of heaven itself upon Graves wherever he tried to hide. By limiting the arena, Graves had taken a task more difficult than divining the five-year future of a draconaquis and simplified it into trigonometry. What a fool.

“There, that should do it,” Spellbound grinned in satisfaction as he took upon his finished work. Another flick of his wand drew forth a flat, silver disk that floated precisely into the circle’s center, forming the heart that would serve as the spell’s nexus. A few final checks, a deep breath for calm, and the hazel-eyed cadet pressed palms to the ground and began to chant.

Words of power flowed forth thick and fast as Spellbound poured raw mana into the ground and into the array that began to grow with a pale, yellow light. Minutes ticked by as Spellbound continued his chanting, the pale glow growing stronger even as sweat began to drip from his brow like heavy rain. Despite his natural gifts and the extent of his preparations, the limits of his physique and the sheer scope of his task made the endeavor a taxing one at best and debilitatingly exhausting at worst. It was like trying to put out the fires of a burning house with a bucket made of stone where the run to the river and back was uphill both ways. Nevertheless, Spellbound persisted, pouring more mana into the arcane array and bringing every ounce of his skill and knowledge to bear as he wove the intricate magic into being.

Finally, with a heated pulse of dense, sunglow light, the circle burst in a massive shockwave that disturbed neither leaf nor grass as it silently swept over the mountain. Taking off his glasses and wiping away a bead of sweat, Spellbound allowed himself a small, but triumphant smile as he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been difficult, a true test of his prodigious skills, but the spell had worked. The silver disk at the circle’s center pulsed with light as the magic wave returned information on the marshal’s location. His cover was blown. The end was at hand.

“Well, soon at least,” Spellbound chuckled as he returned the glasses to his face and heaved another weary sigh. “I’ll just take a few minutes to catch my breath, get my next spells ready, and then go… after…”

Hazel eyes fell upon the silver disk before him and the cadet frowned.

That was odd. According to the inscriptions, the disk was supposed to glow with two points of light, a blue one at the center to mark where he was and red blip to mark the marshal’s location in relation to his. Yet there was only one, and not in either expected color, either. Rather, it looked to be an odd, wavering shade of… purple.

“Strange,” Spellbound muttered. “Did I mess up the incantations?”

“Not at all,” a rough voice called from behind. “Just took you forever.”

… Oh, buck.

With the cold, unshakable dread of thin ice cracking underfoot, the young mage slowly turned around and found himself looking into the steely, grey eyes of Marshal Graves. Ah, that was it. The spell was working perfectly. He’d found the Ghost of Thunder, just as he’d planned.

“Not a bad idea,” the marshal drawled as he raised his rifle and leveled it on the hapless youngster. “ 'Course, standing still and using that much mana makes you painfully easy to find as well.”

Spellbound looked over to where his own spell gun stood neatly propped up on the tree behind the marshal. He hadn’t set it there. He hadn’t even heard it move.

“That was your mistake,” Graves rumbled as his gun began to glow. “And now you’re dead.”

Bang.

*****

Boulder crept through the forest underbrush, his movements surprisingly agile and swift for one so large, even with the bulky, cross-strapped pack slung over his back. Overhead, a stray jay cawed, the only sound in the woods as no insects yet dared surface to face the still frosty air. Silently, he moved ever forward, brow knit and furrowed from straining his senses to the utmost.

Boulder may have been big, but he wasn’t stupid. People just assumed he was, on account of his size and propensity for silence. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the smartest slap in the spanking. His scores on military strategy and magical theory were always middle of the pack at best, unlike some bookworms who couldn’t do anything but keep their heads buried in texts. That being said, there was a big difference between bad grades and stupid.

The giant cadet was definitely not stupid. For the first part, he didn’t try to convince anyone he wasn’t. In fact, he was perfectly content for them to think him a dull lug, a regular meathead who did more thinking with his pecs than his brain. Let them think that. While they laughed, he was slowly polishing his skills and asserting himself as one of the most formidable combatants to walk the Academy’s halls.

That lead to the second point that proved he wasn’t stupid: acceptance. Some of his classmates worked to develop flashy spells and convoluted of plans that more closely resembled a plate of spaghetti than any tactical progression. Boulder didn’t bother because he knew he couldn’t. The big man recognized that he simply wasn’t a gifted mage or a brilliant strategist. Even his aura-based magic, the less impressive of the two branches, didn’t allow for much creative glamour.

But the muscular cadet was clever enough to recognize that fact, accept those limitations, and thus free himself to develop his the gift he did have: strength. Drill. Train. Take the basics, repeat them ten thousand times, then repeat them ten thousand more in the arduously simple task of practice. Honed and refined, Boulder had taken his natural might, grown it twofold, and combined it with flawless skills that defined the meaning of simple but effective. While others danced and pranced about with their glittery spells and fancy tricks, he advanced, an unstoppable juggernaut that crushed all opponents beneath the weight of his stone-hard fists.

Simple didn’t mean weak. Simple meant flawless with no weakness to exploit. Simple strength was what a soldier truly needed.

This was how Boulder continued his silent trek across the forested slopes, not with showy spells or high-flying spider monkey acrobatics, but with practiced footsteps trained in the art of silence. He needed to be silent. As a short-range fighter who used the augmented strength of his spell armor to dominate opponents, the innumerable advantages he would have in hand-to-hand combat would be as useful as boots to a snake if he could never even get there.

Everyone knew of the Ghost of Thunder, of his reputation for nigh impossible precision and the devastating power of his trademark lightning blasts. While a fully charged suit of spell armor provided great protection against any form of attack, there was no way a standard set given to cadets could even hope to hold up against the marshal’s shocking bolts. He’d have to close in, but that’d be hard. Really hard. Honestly, how on earth was he ever going to–

A soft rustle ahead caused Boulder to freeze in his tracks. Crouching low, he minimized his massive bulk and peered from behind the cover of a tree trunk to see, much to his surprise, Graves just walking about. Well, maybe not just walking about. Even a passing glance showed that the marshal prowled about like a panther, every muscle relaxed, yet poised on the brink of explosive action as he set his gaze about like a pair of silver searchlights. But the key to all this was that as far as Boulder could tell, those searching eyes had yet to light on him.

You didn’t need to have thrice-awarded doctorates to see this was a golden opportunity, one not to be wasted in a million years. Boulder wasn’t going to waste it. Keep it simple. Simple plans couldn’t be broken.

Pressing palm to the medallion at the nexus of the crossing straps, Boulder released his magical aura and summoned forth his spell armor. Unfolding in whisper-silent metallic waves, the rune-inscribed plates slid over his body to encase him from helm to studded boot in protective armor. Hardened enough to protect the wearer from a charging minotaur, the arcane plating also served to increase strength and speed half again over. A proper aura mage could take that charging minotaur and toss it about like a steak on a grill, and Boulder was definitely more than just proper.

For a moment, the cadet paused, fearing that even the nigh inaudible whisk of spell-silenced steel would be enough to alert the marshal. But all was still. So slowly, ever so slowly, Boulder stalked closer towards Graves as he still remained vigilantly unaware of the approaching attack. Bit by bit, the cadet drew ever nearer, cautiously and steadily closing the distance till but a few meters remained between them. Tensing his muscles, Boulder clenched his fist, bringing his magical aura to maximum harmony with his armor, coiled tension into the immense pistons of his legs, and leaped.

Flying from their slotted grooves, rune frames flared to life as compact, pearly spell wings sprang forth and shot him forward like a loosed arrow. Boulder swung, aiming a devastating haymaker for the marshal’s head that would have sent a bull troll flying... if it had connected. It missed as Graves ducked just in time to let the crushing blow whisk by harmlessly overhead before, quick as a viper, spinning around to send a jabbing blow straight for Boulder’s throat.

Fortunately for the cadet, he’d only put enough strength in to land a powerful blow, not enough to throw himself off balance. Opposing hand came up for an open palm block the throat strike even as wings beat to arrest his momentum in midair. Jab averted, Boulder dropped to the ground and as soon as foot met soil, he charged, shoulder checking the marshal and forcing him to leap awkwardly back as his equilibrium was fractured by the assault. Smiling behind his visor, Boulder’s wings hummed into incandescent blurs as he rushed after Graves and pressed the assault. Keep it simple. Just attack.

His fists flew, a pounding storm of denting steel that never quite connected. Somehow, despite the great difference in size and strength, Graves managed to fend off the heavy blows with glancing parries and subtle redirections. Even in the middle of the battle, Boulder couldn’t help but be mildly impressed at the skillful defense. But only mildly. Between the cadet’s overwhelming strength and the agility provided by his wings, it was all Graves could do to slow the steady give of ground under the relentless barrage. Step by step, he fell back, and while the marshal tried to counter attack, the few counter blows he managed to sneak in bounced harmlessly off Boulder’s steely shell.

Victory was close. Boulder could smell it in the marshal’s panting breath and see it in his strained snarl. Sensing the break point, Boulder poured on the offense, raining down blows faster and stronger, stronger and harder. Graves was pushed to give still more ground, forced farther and farther until finally, he made a desperate leap back to clear some much needed space. Like a shark after blood, powers surged to his wings as Boulder charged straight in, an unstoppable juggernaut with arm poised and foot planted for the final strike–

“Whoa!”

–who quickly got to see the world flip turn upside down. Had Boulder been able to orient himself, he would have been able to look up and see that his ankle had been neatly snagged by a vine-made lariat. But he didn't because before the brawny cadet could even blink, a devastating blow to the back of his head hammered home, ringing his helmet like a gong.

“Passable offense,” a familiarly steady, baritone rumble called out from some blurred, dizzying direction. “But too simple. Got so focused on attacking, you forgot about your footing.”

As the vine slowly spun him around, the strong, yet addled cadet found himself blearily staring into the steely gaze of the marshal. He wasn’t breathing hard at all. Hay, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“You can’t tunnel in like that,” Graves sighed as his dull, metal barrel of his rifle began to glow. “But you did, and now you’re dead.”

Bang.

**********

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Darting from tree to tree, Firefox cast rapid glances in all directions as she made her way towards the top of the mountain. Be swift. Be silent. Don’t just note your surroundings, use them. Take advantage of every resource, utilize every opportunity. Such was the hallmark of a good soldier.

Nobody had expected much from her when she’d first come to the Academy. Almost a porcelain doll in stature and appearance, she looked far too pretty to ever voluntarily enlist. In fact, most assumed her one of the local nobles attending the entrance exams on a lark. By the time she’d sent her third opponent to the medical ward, however, that sort of image was quickly discarded for another, one that came with as many colorful nicknames as feathers on a peacock. Mad Dog. Rabies. The Tawny-Eyed Terror. From that day forth, the Academy rang with hushed whispers of a demonic little warrior, but only when they thought her well out of hearing range.

All according to her carefully laid plans.

They say that a good chess player thinks five steps ahead. Firefox averaged around twenty. What few people realized was that everything Firefox did, from tear people apart in practice to snarling like a caged badger, was all the product of a devilishly cunning mind. Nothing came from the girl without a meticulous series of calm, rational calculations to justify the act. Enlisting? Best way for a girl without two bits to rub together to make her way in the world. Joining the marshals? A few years hard work for credentials she could bank all her life. It wasn’t anything special, it was just business.

In the same way, Firefox had carefully mapped out her time at Academy from day one. She hadn’t really wanted to hurt the other applicants – she had nothing against them after all – but she knew that a strong reputation was a powerful weapon that could both demoralize opponents and deter potential adversaries in her quest for dominance. A few injuries here, some well-placed snarling there, a couple of wild-eyed looks over yonder, and before you knew it, most were too scared of her to even look at her cross-eyed.

Thus freed from the typical jostle of classmate politics, Firefox could devote her time to developing her skills. With such an astute mind, her investments in tactical knowledge and technical skills soon produced bountiful returns. Not the strongest mage? Snipe them before they saw you. Not the strongest combatant? Change the playing field around them. Facing overwhelming odds? Take pot shots and run, stringing them along till they overextended. Then strike. Firefox understood resourcefulness like none other; to gain the high ground was the absolute law of the world. It didn’t matter if she was outmanned or outgunned, if she could find a way to change the rules in her favor, even armies wouldn’t stand a chance.

That's probably why Firefox respected the marshals so much and distrusted them even more. Whenever people spoke of the fabled marshals, it was always with tones of reverence and awe. After all, who wouldn’t be impressed by soldiers with the strength of ten men, more magical power than a genie and who could fly like phoenixes without wings? Nobody obviously. And that’s what got Firefox to narrow her tawny eyes.

There’s truth in every story, but whether in nuggets or grains, it was often hard to say. How much of the marshal’s abilities were really there and how much of it was smoke and mirrors? Who’s to say that the marshal’s weren’t just a band of pretty good soldiers who simply used the mystique of their title to wage psychological warfare before the battle even began?

Especially Graves. Honestly, the Ghost of Thunder. Any more grandiosity in that name and he’d have to start addressing himself with the imperial we. Firefox didn’t doubt that the man was a good soldier, but really, a marksman who never missed? She personally practiced three hundred round every morning and even on her best days, she’d be off on at least one. Obviously, that was more hype than substance and mere puffery designed to give the grey-eyed marshal an edge. Well, she wasn’t falling for it, and after she took him down, all that hype would be hers, just one more tool to add to her kit.

It was with this resolution that Firefox slowly approached the mountain summit and the rapidly thinning tree line. Dropping to her belly, the bronze-haired cadet began to crawl forward at a snail’s pace so as not to disturb even a single blade of grass. Following the natural contours of the slope, she advanced forward bit by bit, covering mere inches per minute till at last, she came to the edge of the woods.

There, at the center of probably thirty paces of open ground all around, stood a small wooden tower at the very top of the summit. The vantage point used by officers to oversee training, the height and position of the tower made it the ultimate high ground unrivaled anywhere else on this mountain. From there, a good marksman could lay down fire on just about any point on those rugged slopes. For a great marksman like her, it would provide her unrivaled power.

But only if she could make it, of course. Naturally, a sharpshooter like Graves would be well aware of the tactical advantages of taking the spot, and with the head start he’d gotten, Firefox would bet bits to barleycorns he could make it there first. Could. Perhaps he’d adopted a more aggressive strategy. She didn’t know, and that’s why she waited.

Steadily, time ticked by as Firefox lay still, every muscle frozen in such motionless patience even stones would have been impressed. Carefully invest attention now to reap the rewards of assured victory later. Sharp eyes focused on the tower, the young soldier waited and waited and waited, looked for any sign, anything at all that might indicate a presence within its wooden wall.

She saw nothing. Nearly an hour gone, and not a breath stirred.

Time to make a calculated gamble. Undulating very softly, Firefox slowly worked the stiffness from her muscles and gathered her strength. When every fiber of her being was charged with kinetic potential, Firefox exploded, pouring the fiery ferocity she took to every fight into her legs as she dashed across the deadly open grounds. It was only thirty paces, but it was still thirty paces of pure, exposed vulnerability with made it seem more like thirty miles.

Even so, not once in that harrowing race did she let her attention falter. Ears were strained for the first crackle of thunder. Eyes darted for the faintest of silver flashes. Nose twitched like a hunted jackrabbit’s just in case the breeze brought in the charged whiff of ozone. Though she was taking a risk, she did so with every ounce of focus sent out to make sure that risk was reduced to zero.

And then it was over. She was across the clearing, up the rough-hewn ladder, and in the assuredly empty tower. The high ground was hers.

Firefox allowed herself the briefest of satisfied smiles before she instantly got to work. Darting around the tower’s interior, the cadet cast her sharp eyes over every open surface and scanned for traps. Just because the marshal wasn’t here now, didn’t mean he’d never been there, and a single strategically placed spell tag or concealed tripwire could turn this advantage into one giant, combustible cage. But she found nothing. Even checking for loose floorboards and looking under the steps spiraling up the tower’s central support pillar revealed nothing. The tower was cleaner than the mess hall on mystery chowder day.

Only once triple sure that she was safe did Firefox ascend the stairs to the viewing platform above. There in the open air atop the tower, the bronze-haired gunner took a deep breath of cold, crisp air as she panned her view over the entire mountain. From a crouch, of course. Standing up for all the world to see would not have been the most tactful of choices.

After a quick but thorough inventory of the surrounding lands, Firefox braced her spell gun against one of the low crenels encircling the tower’s top and reached into her travel pack to retrieve a long range scope. A few minute adjustments, a quick snap to the top of her rifle, and one standard recruit’s weapon transformed into a dealer of death from afar. Satisfied with her weapon, Firefox got comfortable, taking a well-practiced shooting stance as she relaxed her body and let her gaze drift out of focus as it crossed over the mountain side.

“Where are you?” she softly whispered to herself. “Where are you hiding?”

Don’t try to find the target. You never would. Instead, take advantage of the eye’s attraction to motion. Look for disturbances, distortions in the pattern. It’s at these distortions that the enemy hides, and it’s at these disturbances where you should fire. Smoothly rotating from crenule to crenule, Firefox’s now foggy, unfocused eyes searched the trees, never looking, but always watching. Always watching…

Firefox felt it almost before she saw it. Hairs standing on end, the tawny-eyed marksman caught the silver flash just out of the corner of her right eye. Snapping towards the sight, Firefox let loose with her own shot, a brilliant bolt of orange fire right for the lightning’s point of origin. The two arcane blasts passed in midair, streaking passed each other like hissing hornets before each found their mark.

The cadet’s shot hit exactly as she intended, striking the spot from whence the lightning came and exploding into a searing bloom of mystic flame. It wasn’t likely that it’d taken the marshal down, but it’d probably shook him up a bit. And most importantly, it’d given away his position. Now, all she needed to do was focus her attentions in that direction, train down, and then…

Firefox blinked.

Hold on a second. They both had guns. They’d both shot. Yet only one, hers, had been on point. Why was that?

Peering over the edge of the tower’s rim, Firefox saw that the lightning had not come for her as she’d expected, but had instead struck the tower dead center and burned a neat little hole through the enchanted wood. Why? There was no way that kind of shot would have done anything to disrupt a good marksman. Why hadn’t he aimed higher?

That’s when she heard the hum. Looking down into the tower, Firefox saw the central support pillar, the one right in line with the freshly seared hole, beginning to glow with a hum of magical charge. A hum that sounded an awful lot like…

Oh, buck.

Leaping from the top of the tower, Firefox cried to high heaven as the tower exploded into a typhoon of blinding light and wooden shrapnel. Hasty as her departure was, the bronze-haired cadet barely managed to catch herself in an awkward, tumbling roll as her body came into hard contact with the grassy ground below.

“… Ouch,” she winced, fiery splinters raining about her as she tried to collect herself. Tried to, being the key, as being tossed about unceremoniously like a sack of old potatoes has a decided way of making collecting oneself rather difficult. That’s why, prone on the ground she was, it was very easy for Firefox to catch the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Decent,” a gravelly voice called. “But predictable.”

Wincing as she sat up, the cadet spotted the broad, flat-brimmed hat first as the silver-eyed marshal crested the summit.

“High ground’s an advantage,” Graves continued as he idly tapped the barrel of his rifle on one shoulder. “But if everyone knows it, owners will add insurance, no?”

Of course. A fail-safe. One built into the very structure to keep it from falling into ill use. Of bucking bleeding course.

With a snarl, Firefox launched herself at the marshal with a flurry of ferocious strikes. Graves merely swatted them away, his hand seemingly predicting where the blows would be and beating them to the spot. The marshal had seen her previous behavior and would expect such a savage attack. What he wouldn’t expect was that the rain of blows merely provided cover as suddenly, Firefox opened her clenched fist and flung a fistful of carefully concealed grit straight for his gunmetal grey eyes–

–only to have it bounce harmlessly off his hat’s broad brim as a quick nod completely shielded his face. Then, with an almost casual step forward, Graves pressed a palm to the cadet’s chest, thrust, and sent her small frame skipping across the grass like a stone on a pond. It took a good twenty feet before she at last skidded to a decidedly unpleasant halt.

“Always have a trick up your sleeve, people will come to expect it,” the marshal rumbled as he stepped up and leveled his spell gun at the immobile girl. “Predictability is death, and now you’re dead.”

Bang.

*****

As Graves strolled down the mountain side, gravel crunching beneath his boot soles, he paused.

“… I know you’re there.”

“Of course you do,” a voice called out. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Out from behind a gnarled oak came Comet, spell gun trained on the marshal in perfect shooting form and a confident grin on his handsome face.

“Could’ve shot me, boy,” Graves idly remarked as he looked at the gun. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because that’d just be playing into your hand?” Comet quipped. “You’ve been waiting for me to open fire ever since you left the summit. I’d just be walking into a trap.”

An eyebrow arched in surprise. True, Graves had given off all the impressions of being oblivious, what with the spell gun braced up against his shoulder like a boy with his fishing pole. But really, mana had already gathered in his palm and a single twitch would have been enough for him to sling the rifle forward into blast of electric wrath. The fact that the boy had spotted it was more than Graves had expected.

“I see,” he nodded as he continued to face the cadet. “So what now? Show down at high noon?”

“Possibly,” Comet grinned. “But honestly, I’d still prefer to settle this like men.”

Eyebrow arched over silver eye in curiosity, then shot to stratospheric heights as Graves saw the handsome cadet take his spell gun and readily toss it aside. The marshal gaped, literally unable to keep his jaw from falling open in surprise. The boy had actually thrown his weapon away?

“It’s been said,” Comet continued as he began rolling up the sleeves of his uniform tunic, “that there are two ways to truly know a man. You spend a lifetime with him, or you can fight him. And since we’re on the clock, I figure number two’s the way to go.”

“So… you want to fight me,” Graves blinked. “Hand to hand.”

“No strings attached,” Comet nodded. “To be honest, I really respect you. You’re probably one of, if not the greatest marshal of all time, and if you think I don’t have what it takes, that’s got to mean something. But I don’t think you really know me, which is why I want to take this chance and show my worth to you in the best way I can.”

Graves looked at the cadet. Though younger than him by a few years, he was already at the point where age meant little. The soldier was tall and strong, with weight well centered on the balls of his feet, his whole frame ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Even his smile, as sincere as Fluttershy in speaking of love for furry animals, revealed not a hint of weakness. His green eyes were clear and focused, confident without hubris, just like good soldier’s eyes should be.

“Well?” Comet asked once more. “What do you say?”

Graves said nothing. But he did reach up one hand to remove his hat.

With a fierce smile, Comet prepared to fight. Lowering his weight with left arm extended forward and right fist held beside his face, the young man entered the fabled Archer stance. A fighting style that focused on overwhelming strength and speed, it was one many cadets sought to learn before realizing just how difficult it was to bring into actual combat. However, from the way Comet settled in, with weight perfectly centered and every muscle balanced on the knife’s edge between relaxed and ready, it was clear that he held no such qualms about its use.

And even then he wasn’t done. Without a word, brilliant emerald flames erupted around his fists, flames that burned bright yet left his skin unmarked despite the close proximity to his face. A perfect display of contained battle magic, a highly advanced skillset that created destruction for only the enemy. Few enough soldiers could use it adeptly in the field, and here was a cadet who showed the numbers would increase by one.

Perfect strength. Perfect skill. Even perfect planning. As the sun made its way down the horizon, it silhouetted Comet in a halo of light. Before the battle had even begun, he’d positioned himself to make use of the sun itself to blind his opponent. When the lad had said he was best, he hadn’t been bragging. Comet was certainly a man who had the makings of the perfect warrior.

“Alright then,” Comet smiled. “Let’s–”

Words cut off as he flew backwards, knocked off his feet by a blast of silver light from the marshal’s now extended gun.

“Wh-what?” Comet gasped, sandy hair in disarray as electricity danced over his skin. “You… you shot me.”

“That I did,” Graves nodded, hat back on head as he ambled over to the fallen cadet.

“But… but you agreed. We had a deal.”

“First off, I didn’t agree,” the marshal corrected. “And second… why the hell would you believe me even if I did?”

Comet could only stare in mute disbelief as the marshal – looking as if he were in acute gastronomical distress – pointed his rifle at the fallen youngster.

“You can’t be an idiot, alright? You just… you just can’t. Buck.”

Bang.

**********

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sun had already begun its descent by the time the thunderstruck cadets made their silent ways back down the mountain. The training field had by and large emptied for the day, save for the solitary figure in a long, leather coat and broad, flat-brimmed hat leaning against the lonely oak. He said nothing upon their arrival, instead choosing to cast his gunmetal grey eyes over their stiff and bedraggled forms in oppressive silence.

“… Time’s up,” Graves said, his gravelly baritones sounding neither gleeful nor even satisfied. It was merely hard, hard and flat like a slab of iron.

“Sorry, sir,” Boulder answered as he threw a slow, rough salute with joints that felt like they’d rusted over. “Our descent was slow.”

“So it would seem.”

Silence fell again as the cadets stood stone still, not even daring to lift their eyes to meet the marshal’s unyielding gaze. How could they? When the day had started, they'd touted themselves as the Academy's elite, the four cardinals who would lead that year of graduates to service and glory. Now, covered with dirt and twigs before the marshal who stood as fresh as the moment they'd met, it was only at that moment they realized the full depths of their own hubris.

“... Sir,” Spellbound called out, his voice deflated as it came from behind his cracked glasses. “What happens now?”

“Now?” Graves repeated. “Now you go home. You’re done.”

“Sir?” the twice-stunned Comet intoned. “What do you mean, ‘done’?”

“Done being marshals, of course,” Graves answered as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. “From what I saw today, none of you are even fit to polish the badge, let alone wear it. You were absolutely pathetic.”

The words were delivered with no heat or malice, yet they stung worse than the flaying barbs of a scourge. For four who’d stood at the pinnacle for so long, those few words cut deeper than any blade could ever match.

“With all-due respect sir, that’s completely unfair,” Firefox called out with a surprising amount of heat in her fatigued voice. Whether that heat was affected for impact or stemmed from genuine emotion, probably not even she could say, but it was there in every word she spoke.

“Really?” Graves intoned as steely eyes glinted beneath an arched brow. “Explain.”

“Sir,” the cadet continued, “I get that a lot's expected of the marshals, but we're still just cadets facing an experienced veteran. To expect us to beat you in simulated combat with no advanced warning in order to prove ourselves is basically impossible.”

“… Comet.”

“Yes sir!” the cadet called out in half-startled surprise as Graves named him.

“Remind me,” the marshal continued. “What was your mission?”

“Sir, it was to defeat you and retrieve your marshal’s badge, sir.”

“Was it? Was it really?”

Comet opened his mouth to respond, but paused as the question caught his tongue. The sandy-haired soldier looked to his fellow cadets, who in turn looked to Spellbound as he retrieved the original letter and read it again.

“ ‘Get my badge, however you can,’ ” the young mage carefully read as clear confusion spread across the four. What was the question? Obviously, if you wanted to relieve a marshal of his badge when he didn't want to give it, you had to somehow incapacitate him and take it by force, right?

… Right?

With the snap of a bullwhip, Graves spun and delivered a hammer-fist blow to the lonely oak that sent a shivering rattle to the very top of its aged branches. It was from one of those aged branches that – amongst the cascade of leaves and loose twigs – a small, silver disk fell down into the marshal’s waiting palm.

It was too early in the season for crickets to be chirping, but it they must have gotten a head start as four sets of flabbergasted eyes locked onto the silver emblem.

“You… left it behind?” Boulder gaped, for the very first time daring to look into the marshal’s eyes as confusion overpowered his apprehension.

“I did,” Graves nodded as he carefully affixed the winged-shield back onto the inside of his coat. “It was a two-part test, and you lot managed to fail both spectacularly.”

“Two part?” Comet asked, now more bewildered than ever. “What do you mean?”

“First, to see if you had an ounce of brains between you lot,” the marshal explained, the weariness in his voice to match a mother who’d explained that yes, touching a lit stove would be bad to the same child three and a half dozen times. “A simple call out to the badge’s magic would have instantly told you where it was. Should’ve taken you all of ten seconds, but you screwed up. Know why?”

Four working brains plus four connected mouths equaled zero proffered answers. It’s hard to come up with a good answer to justify your actions when the question makes it clear you were already as thick as a badly-baked pie crust.

“It’s because you’re idiots,” Graves sighed, the pity in his voice twice as painful as any amount of scorn could match. “ I gave you a golden opportunity to actually win if you’d used your brains for half a second, but no, you were so emotional, so wrapped up in the idea of taking me down a peg that you rushed right in like flies to a seven day carcass. You had a chance and you blew it, not for lack of skill, but because of sheer, unbridled stupidity.”

The marshal fell silent as he gave the cadets a moment to stew in their own mortification. Fabulous a chef as he was, it took mere seconds for their cheeks to reach a crimson that would match any marshal’s cloak.

“… Sir,” Comet said as what little confidence he had evaporated like water on a sun-baked rock. “If that was the first test, then… what was the second?”

“The second test,” Graves said with a voice grown suddenly a shade softer, “is even barring all of that, would you succeed. You didn’t.”

…. Wait, what?

“I… don’t think I quite follow, sir,” Spellbound hesitantly stepped. “Are you saying that we fail at being marshals... because we failed?”

Graves nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “What is a marshal?”

“Sir,” Spellbound began, “a marshal is a special division of the Equestrian military, designed–”

“Oh, shut up,” Graves snapped as for the first time, his temper flared and grey eyes flashed like summer lightning. “I’m not asking you to recite textbook drivel, I’m asking you to answer a bloody simple question. What. Is. A. Marshal?”

Spellbound worked his jaw for a response. They all did. But none of them could voice a response to that bloody simple question.

“… Incredible,” Graves gaped in dismay. “You want to be marshals and you don’t even know what they do?”

Once more, all he was met with was silence.

“… A marshal,” Graves sighed, sounding as if he’d lost all faith in this generation, “is someone who gets the job done. We get an order, we deliver, no questions asked.”

“…”

“… That’s it?” Firefox blinked, uncertain. “That’s all?”

“You seem surprised.”

“It’s, just…” The bronze-haired cadet swallowed and continued. “Isn’t that everyone? I mean, everyone does their job, right?”

“They do,” Graves nodded slowly as the gravel in his tones now took on the ominous tones of an approaching avalanche. “And what happens when they don’t?”

When no answer came, he continued, a glacier in his slow, frosty force.

“If others fail, they fix it. Maybe you get some extra help, maybe you burn the midnight oil, but more often than not, there’s a safety net to make sure it works out. Marshals? We get one shot because we are that net. We get the jobs where failure is no longer an option. Royal guards screw up? Ten people die and they call in the marshals. The marshals screw up? That ten grow to a hundred, a thousand, maybe more, because after us, there’s nothing left. That’s why when we get a job, we get it done.”

“But you don’t get that do you?” he continued, the soft, rumbling tones that should have been comforting instead sending a chill to their blood. “I gave you orders, even gave you a chance, and you went about it like dandies at a Sunday picnic. Then, you actually had the nerve to whine that it was too hard, that it was impossible after you went and bucked it all up to kingdom come. Well guess what? Impossible is what we do. If the brass tells a marshal to go to hell and kick the devil’s ass, we ask what boots to wear and how far up they want the leather. We get the impossible not because we’re the best or brightest, but because we make it happen whatever it costs. Too hard? Cry me a bucking river and jump in. If you’re too weak to carry the weight, then piss off, because when lives are on the line, anything except success is just an excuse. You wanna join the marshals? Get. The job. Done.”

…

Melodramatic, right? All that talk about death and failure and impossibility? One would think. But the silence from the four cadets told a different story, because one look into those iron-grey eyes revealed that those words held nothing but cold, unyielding truth. This wasn’t a fancy pep talk or some haughty, arrogant speech. This was a soldier from the field sharing a very grim reality.

“… If you bunch aren’t too stupid to get the picture,” Graves rumbled, looking to each one in turn where not one of dared to meet his heavy, silver gaze, “then I suggest you head back and think about–”

“Yoohoo! Darling!”

… Hah?

Four sets of very confused eyes look towards the unexpected sound. A chariot rumbled its way down the field under the deft hands of a skilled officer as he brought someone in the space beside. That someone, it turns out, was an absolutely stunning young woman in a pristine white chesterfield with a fur-trimmed urshanka perched atop a head of immaculate, violet curls. From her perch atop the chariot, the mysterious stranger smiled with the radiance of the sun as she eagerly waved to… the marshal?!

“There you are, dear,” the beautiful lady called as she elegantly descended from the chariot and – to their slack-jawed surprise – actually stepped up and planted a kiss onto the stony soldier’s lips. “My appointment with Fleur finished a little early, so I went shopping and ran into Princess Cadance, who asked if we were free for dinner?”

“Sounds nice, Rarity,” Graves nodded as he pressed a surprisingly gentle finger to her lips. “But can it wait? I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

“Yes, Ironside told me about that,” the aforementioned Rarity nodded as she turned to the quartet. “You’ve been in charge of their lessons for the day?”

“Yeah,” Graves nodded yet again.

“I assume you gave them some sort of test?”

“Of course.”

“They didn’t pass.”

“Not even close.”

“You told them why?”

“Naturally.”

“And now they’re absolutely mortified at the prospect of ever attempting to even set foot amongst the marshals for the rest of their natural born lives?” At this, Graves turned his eyes towards the group and gave them an appraising look.

“... Yup.”

“Well that certainly won’t do,” the lovely newcomer said with pursed lips. “You have to consider they're little more than children, after all." Now, it was rather strange seeing a woman of their same approximate age address them as children, but given the marshal’s spirited tongue lashing, it almost seemed appropriate.

“It’s simply not fair to expect them to live up to your standards,” Rarity continued, “especially if you don’t give them reasoning to make it bearable.”

“Bearable?” a star struck Comet repeated. The only sort of bearing that came to mind with the marshal was of the polar or possibly grizzly mauling variety.

“Indeed,” Rarity nodded. “If I’m correct, after your failure, Graves must have said something along the lines of fulfilling duty in all situations with a willingness to pay any cost, regardless of how difficult or unreasonable the task might be?”

Luna have mercy, was this lady psychic?

“And that is all true, every last bit of it,” she smiled. “But what he didn’t tell you, I’m sure, is that everything he said is only because he cares.”

“… What?!”

It was an egregious breach of military discipline, having cadets so brazenly shouting like that, but given the circumstances, the outburst of the four could probably be overlooked.

“Indeed,” Rarity said as she turned to the marshal with, as impossible as it may sound, a look of… endearment. Here was a man who’d thoroughly cowed the four elite cadets of the nation’s most august military academy like a wolf before sheep, and she looked at him as if he were a fluffy, little bunny rabbit!

“You see,” she continued, “Graves here demands absolute excellence because he cares far too much about others to see them hurt. That’s why he puts such high barriers in place. Not only is he protecting the people by ensuring their reliance on the marshals is well founded, it seems people like you need the help just as well.”

“People like us?” Boulder gaped. “You mean that everything today was his way of protecting us?”

“But of course,” Rarity intoned, looking quite confused at having to answer such an obvious question. “From his dour expression earlier, I can only assumed that you failed your exams in as fantastic a way as he could ever have imagined?”

Okay, it was official. Definitely psychic.

“There, you see?” the young beauty huffed. “You know you’ll be expected to do dangerous work, yet from your lackadaisity, that doesn’t seem to have sunk in at all! Better that Graves here humbled you and taught you the values of care and consideration than for to go and get yourself killed.”

The blank looks she got were clear indication that such a thought had never even entered the recesses of their minds. At least, not recently. Years of being hailed as the best and even prodigies tended to help you forget your own flaws.

“It seems you lot really do have a lot of learning to do,” Rarity sighed. “Well, here’s how it works. Being a marshal is difficult and often requires a very high price be paid. Graves pays that price not because he’s better than everyone else, but because he cares too much to do otherwise. He sacrifices himself when others can’t and does what others won’t to keep those other people safe. Thankless? Possibly. Painful? Definitely. But if you wish to be a marshal like him, you have to, and I mean have to have the welfare of others first and foremost in your minds. That’s the only way you’ll ever be able to pay the price that’s needed.”

Four pairs of stunned eyes turned from Rarity to Graves, sure that they’d see a laugh or scoff, something to render her words invalid. It was impossible, right? I mean, Rarity 's explanation was about as sensical as hearing that the dragon razing your crops was doing it for research on how to cure the common cold. There was no way that this merciless warrior, this harbinger of thundering death, could be so considerate.

However, if there was anything they’d learn over the course of this long and painful day, it was to recognize truth in the marshal’s eyes.

“Didn’t need to go that far,” Graves snorted. They knew it was impossible, the marshal doing anything even close to blushing, but at this point, they were willing to believe anything. “These fool cadets are namby pamby enough without you painting the marshals like a group of do-gooder saints.”

“But dear,” Rarity laughed, “isn’t it that sort of selfless, do-gooder sainthood what made me fall for you in the first place?”

“Was it now?” he intoned with a roll of his silver eyes. “I was sure it was my sparkling wit.”

“That too,” she giggled. “Oh, and let’s not forget your butt. You do have a very cute butt.”

It was official. Discord was on the loose and messing with reality. How else would you explain a legendary marshal actually having his bottom pinched by a beautiful Canterlot socialite? At least, they assumed that. She had grace and poise enough to do tea with the Queen of Prance, but that wasn't the point. She'd touched the butt. She'd touched the butt!

“Well, I should get going,” Rarity smiled as she waved the charioteer over once more. “I promised Cadance that I’d help her pick out some things for the nursery before we dined. Will you be along soon?”

“In a bit,” Graves nodded. “Just have to finish off here.”

“Lovely,” Rarity beamed as she leaned up to kiss him once more. “I’ll let them know and come pick you up in a bit. Au revoir!”

And just like a pretty little hurricane, Rarity was back on the chariot and gone from sight.

“... Now then,” Graves growled, his typical gravelly tones returning without a beat. “If you bunch aren’t too stupid to get the picture, then I suggest–”

“Hold on a second!” Comet interrupted as something clearly beyond common sense dictated his actions. “Who in the name of the seven stars was that?!”

“Rarity, obviously,” Graves intoned. “I said it already.”

“I know that,” Comet continued. “What I meant was, who is she? I mean, are you and her… like… you know?”

The marshal’s weary gaze laid on the handsome cadet like a heavy snowfall.

“I already think you’re an idiot,” he said with almost painful despair. “Please don’t prove that you're a hopeless idiot.”

“Sir,” Firefox quickly interjected. “How on earth did you manage to get yourself such a fine lady?”

“Why do you care?” Boulder asked with a quizzical eyebrow arched. “Does your door swing the other way?”

“Not at all,” Firefox shrugged, “but come on, just look at her. I’m straight as they come, but nobody’s that straight.” Boulder nodded in complete understanding.

“Anyway,” Spellbound joined in, adjusting glasses over a composed, if flushed face. “I think we’d all like to know – that is, with your permission, sir – how you and that lovely lady actually became an item.”

Graves looked to the four, their eyes now united through the earnest intent at the most unexpected of topics: love. For a moment, the marshal paused as he considered how to answer their question. And then, rising like the old gods from the deep, the wickedest, most deliciously evil smile came to his face.

“Sorry," he grinned. "Marshal secret.”

**********

To Be Continued

The Journey of Graves will continue in the next story: Marshmallows and Cotton Candy.