Dawnbreaker

“Swordkeeper”

Eighteenth of Soulfire, 2583 BC

Zarril and Dusk slowly encroached upon the sword, the former taking in the pure hatred seeping from the blade itself. It radiated like a fountain, a domineering force in the room. They stopped a few hooves away from Dawnbreaker, looking around the large chamber in which it was held. It was a grandiose room; circular, pillared walls stretching up what seemed like a fieldlength in height culminating in a large dome. With the only sunlight coming from the myriad stained-glass windows a few dozen hooves above the ground, the entire chamber had a glum, downcast look about it.

"This is the thing I've been warding for my entire life," said Dusk, his eyes wistfully eying the blade as they had countless times before. "I may not look it, but I am actually much older than I appear to be. Powerful stuff, these enchantments," he continued, his voice turning a touch sad. "While I don't like saying it, I am growing... old." Dusk's eyes dropped to the floor as Zarril looked on. The prince smiled sadly in sympathy. "I admire your resolve, friend. It is truly inspirational." The swordkeeper turned his head toward Zarril, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly in a mirthless smile. "And I admire you for trying to cheer me up, yet it is a lost cause. I will soon pass from Terra Valley, and the next guardian must take my place. It's up to me to find this guardian, and ensure that they are able to care for the sword as I have all these years."

"I suppose I am a possible choice for this, then..?" Zarril asked, a brown eyebrow raising in inquiry. "Yes, you are," came his reply, Dusk nodding in emphasis. "And you appear to be fit and able to think on your feet... not to mention you are the only pony brave enough to come venturing out here in quite some time." The swordkeeper slowly trotted back over to his belongings, stretching out his wings once more before putting the tattered cloak and the old crossbow contraption on his back. He fitted them both into place before continuing. "Now, we must leave. Staying near Dawnbreaker tends to have... negative effects... on those who stay near it for too long." Zarril glanced once more at the wicked blade before following behind Dusk out of the sword's chamber.

As they proceeded back to the courtyard, the prince could hear the mechanisms inside the temple rewinding themselves as they left, the defenses re-arming as the very walls sensed the fleeting presence of its guardian. "You should probably get going now, Zarril, before more evils catch you. Do not try to make contact with me; I will appear when you deem it absolutely necessary. Since you are going to be the new Guardian of the Dark Blade, I shall protect you as well until you assume guardianship." The prince simply nodded in agreement, said a goodbye, and trotted along warily towards the way he came from.

During his trip back, Zarril reflected upon what had just happened. He had not only found a sacred guardian of an evil blade, but also discovered said blade itself. On top of everything, he would get to be the next guardian of it! This wasn't an everyday occurrence, even for somepony such as a prince. This was the sort of news that brought much visitation to a city, especially one such as Hoofshire and its keep. Zarril definitely had to tell his father once he'd gotten back.

Exiting the dreariness that was the Terra Valley Forest, the prince shielded his eyes at the harsh sunlight, as it began to set along the horizon in front of him. Speeding up into a gallop, he made for the cliffside path that wound upward toward Hoofshire's outskirts. At his approach, guards on the wall began to take notice of him, and galloped off to tell his father that the prince was returning from his small 'adventure'. Zarril came close to the entrance, and as he did the ponies clad in silvery metal armor went to work on lowering the bridge, two of them cranking the wheels with their hooves.

****

Meanwhile, in the Keep proper, the king of Hoofshire was sitting upon his throne as a party raged around him. Smiles all around, food this way and that, and decorations everywhere, this particular party was extravagant. King Rendara spoke with his subjects as though he were part of the common folk, mingling with the chattier guests and sharing toasts with the ones who were simply there for the spirits. Rendara was definitely the life of the party; then again, wearing a posh, decorative cloak and an overly-fancy crown made a pony stand out.

The large wooden double-doors opened as Zarril stepped in, flanked by two royal guards. Rendara smiled brightly, excused himself from the small group he was talking with, and trotted over towards his colt. "Zarril! How nice to see you again! Might I ask how your little journey went?" He threw a hoof around Zarril's shoulders and grinned all the while. "Greetings, father," replied Zarril, a small smile playing across his face as well. "It went well."

"You smell like death, my colt. Are you wounded?"

"No, no, it's quite alright. Just a..." his smile faded, "..manticore attack."

Shock exploded onto Rendara's features. "A WHAT?! My colt, that is not something to joke about!"

"Father, I don't jest. I fought two of them in the forest. I am perfectly fine, save for some minor scratches."

"Well, we need to get you down to the apothecary's immediately. Get you treated for those 'minor' scratches."

"I don't think that's necessary, fath-"

"Yes, it is. Now go. I'll stay here and, eh... mingle, for you, of course." He nervously chuckled, pushing the prince along in the direction of the large staircase on the west end of the hall.

Zarril made his way down the dark staircase, the only thing lighting it up being torches placed every dozen hooves or so along the wall. It spiraled gently down, heading into the deeper chambers of the castle where the Apothecary made his residence. As he neared the bottom, Zarril noticed a strange tune hanging in the air; he could faintly hear whistling as the Apothecary did his research around some primitive powders and herbs. Since the Apothecary was so old, he had forgotten even his own name, and as such everypony referred to him as just 'The Apothecary'. The Apothecary was, to be frank, likely insane. He never left his chambers, and the only company he ever truly had was his old hound, a black-coated Labrador that followed him around the halls. The prince reached the end of the staircase, taking in the musty, large room that was the Apothecarium. Cobwebs clung to old, rotting wooden support beams as stale smoke covered the ceiling. It looked like a haunted house.

The prince spotted the Apothecary behind some shelves, humming to himself as he searched for the ingredients to some potion or elixir, mumbling every now and then about unintelligible things. His blue eyes had long since faded to a decidedly grey color, one eye completely overcome by cataracts. The old earth pony saw Zarril standing there, and eventually stood upright to speak to him. The Apothecary's voice sounded like rattling rusty nails in an old tin can, but at least he could still speak. "Ah... hello, Prince. Come to speak to an old..." he coughed, hacking ravenously, "insane stallion make some things that probably.. will never work?"

"Actually, no," the prince replied, "I'm in need of some medical treatment myself, I suppose." The Apothecary slowly nodded, his eyes closed, "I see, then... Lemme take a look at your wounds." Zarril obliged, removing his armor and setting the blood-covered steel sword next to it. He looked at himself; he was definitely more injured than he'd thought. Several lacerations showed themselves along his legs and on his sides, where the manticores' claws were simply too sharp for the armor to protect against, and a few were still trickling blood.

"My, my. You look like you got roughed up pretty well," the Apothecary said, a look of intrigue crossing his face. "I can get those healed right-quick. Just give me a moment while I... gather the components." The weathered stallion trotted off in a wobbly manner before Zarril could interject, so the latter simply leaned on one of the shelves as he felt the fatigue of the day set in. After what felt like half an hour, the Apothecary returned with a scroll of paper in his mouth and a large saddlebag on his side. At Zarril's request to let him help, the old stallion raised a hoof. "Now just hold on a second, I need to prepare it for ya." And that he did.

Over the next several minutes, several jars were set out, the paper was rolled out flat on a table, and several powders were mixed on top of it. Next, the Apothecary mixed some of the fluids in these jars to create a sickening lime-esque green color. He made a small O-shaped hole in the middle of the powder mixture, and poured a small amount of the foul elixir into it. Taking a small stirring rod, the Apothecary carefully mixed the ingredients with as steady of a mouth as a patient artisan.

The result was a deep green paste, with a viscosity akin to glue. The Apothecary scooped up this paste and placed it in a small bowl. He held this bowl in two hooves, extending it out and offering it to Zarril. "Here... put this on those wounds. They will fix right up." Zarril raised an eyebrow, then enveloped the bowl in the golden color that was his magic, and levitated it toward himself and did as he was told. The prince took small gobs of the paste and smeared them across each laceration. It felt surprisingly refreshing and rejuvenating. "I thank you kindly, old buck. You definitely deserve your title." This brightened up the Apothecary's mood noticeably, and he grinned a homely, nigh-toothless grin.

****

Upon returning from the darkness of the Apothecary's Chambers, the now-armed-and-armored Zarril could tell that the party was beginning to wind down. The only guests that weren't at the tables were either talking with Rendara or the drunkards whom were unconscious on the floor, shattered glasses and spilled bottles next to them. Rendara himself was helping himself to what appeared to be a ten-drink-too-many glass of red spirits, toasting again with his subjects. Zarril sighed, smiled beside himself, and shook his head before slowly trotting his way up to his bedchambers, where he slept after the long and eventful day.