Rose would remember that day forever. Every colt and filly remembers the day they got their cutie mark. But for her, it would stick in her mind for more than just that. For her, she would remember it as the first time she saw a real sword fight.
And the first time she saw somepony die.
It was another typical Sunday in Cloudsdale, two hours or more spent in church, listening to the pastor speak on the glory of Celestia, and how she brought the sun each morning, and the evils of the dark and the night, and how the sinful worshipers of the Night Mare still resided amongst them all, and that all good Equestrians must be ever vigilant against their blasphemy.
As church let out, Rose’s eyes were drawn, as they ever were, to the figure of Sergeant Cumulus. The former Wonderbolt was nearing fifty years of age, his deep blue mane turning silver around the edges, nicely offsetting the soft grey tone of his fur. A scar ran over his right eye, and the orb itself was milky white, blinded by the injury. Rose and the others her age loved to pester the bard at the tavern for stories about their local hero.
Technically, all the ‘Bolt’s were local heroes, as most of them were born in Cloudsdale, but Cumulus was not just a Cloudsdalian, he was from their neighbourhood, and they were proud of that, as though his glory somehow made them greater.
They had heard all of the stories about him, about how he singlehandedly slew a roc, and brought it’s head in and dropped it on the table of the Lord of Cloudsdale, who thought no one pony could do such a thing. Of how he saved the Prince Regent’s life from a dozen bandits, killed them all by himself and brought the Prince home. And how he had saved the Prince’s daughter from a group of kidnappers holding her for ransom.
He was handsome, strong and brave. He was a knight. That said, he was always very quiet. You could not get him to speak of his past, hardly at all, and bringing up the stories either made him stalk off in a temper, or snort, and take anotehr drink of his ale. Rose could not understand it. If she had done some many great and noble things, she would want to sing of it to the rooftops, for everypony to know how amazing she was.
Now, as he stood and collected his things from the church pew, her eyes were drawn to the other thing about the ‘Bolts that drew her in, like a moth to a flame. The saber hanging from his belt. The Pegasi blade was light, slender, with a steep curve ending in a wicked point when it was out of its scabbard. The guard looped down and connected to the pommel in the front, offering plenty of protection for the wielder’s hand, something she had heard referred to as a “bow”.
It was a beautiful weapon, and made her long to see battle, to see him use it.
Little could she have known as her family walked outside a few steps behind the Sergeant, that she was about to get her wish.
The silencing of the crowd, followed by steady murmuring and worried tones drew her attention first and, as she pushed out and got a look, her mouth dropped open.
Standing in broad daylight, in front of a Celestial Church, was a batpony. The thestral race wasn’t . . . condemned, per se, but they were often shunned, especially by the Church, as former followers of the Night Mare. On top of that, they were notoriously nocturnal, so to see one here, at this time, was a shock.
The young stallion couldn’t have been much over eighteen, and he stood, a simple dark grey tunic and trousers on, a light hood and smoked goggles protecting his eyes and face from the sun. And he had a saber of his own in his hand, the old blade shining in the light of day.
“Wonderbolt Sergeant Cumulus?” He asked, his voice trembling with emotion. Several stallions stepped forward threateningly from the crowd, but Cumulus raised his hand, stopping them, and took a step forward. He looked the youth over from head to hoof, and Rose saw him frown.
“Do I know you, colt?”
“You’re Cumulus?” The thestral asked, gritting his teeth, his fangs looking strange and out of place in the pony face, to her.
Cumulus nodded. “I am. Who are you?”
“I am Night Fury, son of Prior Black.” The thestral said and Rose saw Cumulus blink, tilting his head in surprise.
“I see.” The former ‘Bolt said, and then sighed, looking at the bare sword in the other male’s hand. “I don’t suppose-”
“You killed my father! You’re not going to leave here alive!” The thestral snarled, and the crowd stepped back as a whole, only now seeming to realize that something violent was about to happen. All but Rose, who leaned forward, against her mother’s hand pulling on her shoulder, eyes locked on her hero. This was it! She was going to see the glory of a duel! She wondered how long it would last. How epic the fight would be.
Cumulus stood for a moment, a sad look on his face, then sigh again and slowly drew his saber, taking a step back and lifting the sword up in front of him, saluting his opponent. The honorless cur he was fighting only spat upon the ground, and then launched himself forward.
The bard’s words came to her, speaking of some great duel that the Sergeant had fought in his past. Talking about how he and his opponent moved in a blur of motion, their blades flashing back and forth with undeniable skill and speed, both of the striking, blocking, parrying and countering, back and forth, back and forth. . . . An hour it lasted, said the bard, until both parties were exhausted and spent, neither landing a blow on the other in all that time. So epic, so amazing, so. . . .
False.
One, two, three short moves, the pair’s blades flickered through the air, not making any contact, and the batpony simply collapsed to the ground in a pile, like a puppet with it’s strings cut. Cumulus staggered back, gritting his teeth and holding his side. He took his hand away and she saw blood marring his tunic, although not that much, really. No, not much at all, and yet the look on his face spoke of pain and shock. He stepped back, leaning up against the wall of the church and several ponies stepped forward from the crowd, asking if he was alright, and the spell broke.
Everypony began speaking, some screaming and yelling, while others chatted between themselves. All the while, Cumulus stood, staring at the thestral, and Rose turned her eyes to him as well. He hadn’t moved, strangely, since he had fallen. Rose had watched, she hadn’t seen it. She had watched closely, but she would have sworn neight stallion hit his mark. The bard always elaborated with sound effects, a thrilling shwing when the swords were drawn, a clashing and chiming as the blades met in the fight, and always, always a sound, a sound like something wet, or something meaty, being cut.
There had been no sound like that, the sword’s had met with a low clanking, chinking sound, once, twice, and then no sound at all. Nothing but the swishing of cut air. Nothing.
And yet Cumulus was bleeding, obviously injured, but surely only a flesh wound. But injured he was. . . .
And the thestral skull was split open.
She looked, blinking in shock as it finally occurred to her, finally sank in through her shock, that a pony’s head shouldn’t be open like that. That there was blood pooling around where he lay, and that his eyes were glazed over, not seeing anything.
When the bard acted out the villain’s death throes, he would twist and writhe, lamenting his fate before falling with a gasp or a final curse upon the hero that slew him. The thestral, Night Fury, hadn’t done any of that. He had simply crumpled to the ground like a bag full of rocks, and that had been that.
Rose came back to herself, at the sound of her mother’s voice, filled with worry and fear, chastising her. She looked down, shocked to find herself standing over the corpse of the young colt, and in her hand was his saber, which she had picked up. There were a couple of fresh, glinting nicks in the blade’s edge, but nothing more, not even any blood.
She felt something, a tingling on her flanks, and blinked as she became aware of a light fading from around her peripheral vision. She looked around at the silent ,stunned crowd, until movement caught her attention.
Cumulus walked up and knelt down beside her, parting her skirt over her right flank, and revealing a rose overlaying a sword that was now emblazoned there on her fur. Her cutie mark. She blinked, shock settling in even deeper than it had before as she looked up at him.
He stared at her sadly, before nodding. “You’ll be needing instruction, now.” He said, as he stiffly and painfully stood, sighing as he pressed his hand to the wound on his side. He turned and looked at her father, and they spoke, but she didn’t hear it.
Her cutie mark, was of a sword, for a sword. Her talent would be the sword and it’s use. She looked down at the saber in her hand, feeling it’s weight, so much more than her young hands could deal with, and the dead stallion at her hooves. What was going to happen to her now?
Only time would tell.
