The Eagle

by studiosum fidelium

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 8561

Gallopoli's a rough city, but one griffon has decided to change that. He's taken up a crusade against the criminals who are in power, fighting them wherever he can. Center Stage is really hoping that that includes getting his friend back.

But who exactly is "The Eagle"? And why is he so willing to help Center Stage find his friend? Of course, he's not the only one hiding something; Center Stage's desperation doesn't quite match his story. As the two embark on their quest to save this mysterious friend, all shall be revealed.

A submission for the Equestria Daily Flash Fiction Event #4.

Published 2013-07-17 04:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-07-17 04:10:01 UTC

Chapter 1

The alleyway was dark – pitch black, in fact. Center Stage couldn’t see a thing past a few feet in – the shoddily built houses on either side had gradually leaned in towards each other until they blocked out the sun. “Uh…hello?” he asked nervously, taking a step out of the busy street behind him. “Anypo – uh, anyone here?”

This was stupid, he told himself as he walked further, peering into the blackness. The old stallion by the docks had probably lied to him and sent him here to get jumped by his friends. Odds are good he was being played for a fool, and most likely he would end up beaten or dead for it. He turned to leave.

“What are you looking for?” asked a voice, and he jumped several feet. A hulking figure had appeared in the alleyway behind him. This was it, Center Stage knew. He’d be lucky to get out of here in one piece.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you, I’ll just leave!” Center Stage babbled frantically. He looked around desperately for a way out, but the figure stood between him and the street.

The creature – Center Stage could make out enough detail to tell he wasn’t a pony – advanced a few steps, and Center Stage retreated in kind. “There’s no need for that just yet.”

“I don’t have any money on me!” he cried fearfully. “Nothing of value, nothing at all!” It was a gamble – either the mugger would let him leave unharmed, or he would search him forcefully. Odds are if he did that he would leave Center Stage badly beaten, if not dead, for his trouble.

“I’m not after your valuables. Who are you looking for?”

Center Stage paused. He could be lying, but what if he wasn’t? What if that old pony hadn’t steered him wrong after all? He paused for a moment, mulling things over, then mentally shrugged. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“A-are you…the Eagle?” he asked hesitantly, still intimidated by the figure’s massive appearance.

The creature grunted – Center Stage couldn’t be sure, but he could’ve sworn it sounded like amusement. “Who’s asking?”

“Please, I need the Eagle’s help,” Center Stage begged. Maybe he did know something! “If you can put me in contact with him, or point me in his direction – something! I need to find him, badly.”

The figure seemed to be thinking it over. Finally he appeared to make up his mind. “Come here.” He walked past Center Stage, further into the alley. The path was now clear, but Center Stage wouldn’t take it – he was on to something here. The figure disappeared into the shadows, only to reappear a moment later, outlined in the lamplight spilling from a newly opened door. He turned back to face the stallion. “Come on.”

Hesitantly, Center Stage followed; it could still be a trap. But he couldn’t risk it not being one – too much was at stake. He stepped into a small, dimly lit room. A single lamp rested on a ramshackle wooden table, illuminating the griffon that had led him in.

He looked around the room, filled with dusty, broken furniture and cobwebs. “Um…nice place you’ve got here,” he ventured.

The griffon looked at him. The lamplight threw his features into sharp profile: a long, harsh beak, bright blue eyes, brilliant white feathers. He was an adult, Center Stage could tell, but beyond that he had no idea as to the griffon’s age; he didn’t have much experience with griffons in general. He was also extremely fit, muscles bulging beneath his skin. It was a look Center Stage had seen plenty of – one that suggested the person was extremely dangerous. Ponies with that build were the ones who were at the top of the food chain in a city like Gallopoli.

He could tell that the griffon was sizing him up at the same time. Not much to see, he thought. Even after years of living in this town, he had very little that suggested he could fend for himself. No, there were no muscles bulging beneath his blue fur, nothing to suggest any danger or ability. And that’s because there was nothing to be suggested, he knew. He posed no threat and the griffon quickly realized that.

This exchange lasted for just a moment before the griffon replied, “It’s not mine. But it will serve for the time being. Now then, what is it that you need me so desperately for?”

Center Stage was caught off guard. This was the Eagle? He supposed that he did fit the bill – strong, dangerous, and a griffon to boot. But he had expected several intermediaries before meeting the actual figure, given the reputation the Eagle had given himself over the past year or so. Maybe he was just that confident.

“I…um…” he stammered nervously, and the Eagle raised an eyebrow. “I’m looking for somepony. A-a friend of mine. He’s gone and I don’t know where and…” He stopped himself short. Calm, deep breath, start from the beginning. “My friend came through here a couple of weeks ago, or he should have. He was just passing through. But he disappeared without a trace. I came here to find him, but…there’s not exactly a central authority I can ask for help.”

The Eagle snorted. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Center Stage nodded, feeling a little more confident. “I asked around and some ponies pointed me towards you. They said you could help me.”

The Eagle gave him a long, searching look. Center Stage began to squirm uncomfortably; was he suspicious or something? He couldn’t hide his nerves but of course ponies would be nervous at meeting someone like him. He understood that – didn’t he?

Finally, the griffon said, “Finding one pony in a whole city, especially one like Gallopoli, is no easy feat. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He was floored. The Eagle wasn’t going to help him? No no no, this wasn’t happening. He had to help!

“But…” the Eagle continued, and Center Stage found he could breathe again. “Your friend wasn’t from around here, right?” Center Stage nodded eagerly. “That makes things easier. Foreigners stick out like a sore claw, if only because they make easy prey.”

He began to pace back and forth across the small room, Center Stage following him with his eyes. “If he disappeared after arriving here, it’s because he was targeted by one of the gangs. How did he get here?”

“Um, he took a ship,” Center Stage said, surprised by the question. “Is that important?”

“Very,” replied the griffon. “The gangs that run the docks would’ve kidnapped and enslaved him, then. That’s a good thing.”

“Wait, what?” exclaimed Center Stage. “How is being enslaved a good thing?”

“Because if he wasn’t enslaved, he’d be dead. Those who come in by foot typically end up murdered, but that rarely happens on the docks. If your friend disappeared it’s one or the other; I don’t have to tell you which one is preferable.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Center Stage wasn’t sure what else to say. “So…if he’s been enslaved, how do we find him?”

“There are only a few gangs that work the docks. If we figure out which one grabbed him, we can do a little more in-depth… ’investigating.’ The only difficulty is determining who took him…”

The Eagle looked pensive. Center Stage also hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Wasn’t he forgetting something…?

He remembered in a flash. “Wait!” he shouted, causing the griffon to jump. “Uh, sorry,” he added sheepishly in response to his glare. “But I just remembered – they sent me a message!”

Center Stage turned triumphantly to take the note out of his saddlebag…only to realize he didn’t have it with him. He mentally facehoofed – how could he forget it? But of course, he hadn’t wanted to carry his saddlebag with him because it would make him a target for a mugging, not remembering that the note he had to bring with him was inside.

“Um…” he stammered hastily, “I…ha ha…I, uh, must’ve forgotten it.”

“But you do have it?”

“Of course!” Center Stage reassured him hastily. “It’s just back at my…uh, at the room that I’ve rented out for as long as I’m staying here.” That was a close one, he thought with a sigh of relief. “I’ll just have to go get it, I guess. I can meet you somewhere, maybe? Back here?”

The griffon was already walking to the door. “No need. I’ll just come along with you – no sense in wasting time.”

No, that was not a good idea. “No no,” Center Stage said hurriedly, rushing to block him at the door. “What if somepo – um, somebody recognizes you? It’s too risky.”

He snorted. “No one will recognize me. Just because my name is all over the city doesn’t mean my face is. Trust me, I’ve made sure of that. Come on.”

With that, he shoved past Center Stage and back out into the alley. The pony hovered there for a moment, at a loss. Then with a sigh of resignation he followed. “Wait!” he called. “You don’t even know where we’re going !”

“This is where you rented a room?” asked the Eagle disbelievingly.

The building was barely standing, though it really was only in slightly worse condition than its neighbors. That was the neighborhood, Center Stage thought bleakly: barely standing. Ponies littered the streets, collapsed where they lay or sitting and begging for coins. The building itself had its usual drunkard passed out in the front doorway.

“It’s not that bad!” Center Stage said with forced cheer, working his way around the unconscious pony. “Plenty cheap, too!”

“I expected an inn, not this…flophouse,” muttered the griffon as he followed. “Why did you come all the way here? We’re at least half an hour from the docks.”

“Uh…well, I wandered for a bit looking for somepony to help me. Somebody, I mean. By the time I figured I’d need someplace to stay, I was right around here.” Center Stage was proud of himself for that one.

“Right. Can I ask you something?”

He froze. This is it. With a sense of dread, he turned to the griffon and barely got out “Anything.”

“Why do you keep correcting yourself whenever you say ‘pony’? Like when you say ‘somepony’ or ‘anypony’?”

A wave of relief washed over Center Stage. That had not been the question he was expecting. “Well, I don’t want to be exclusive. Back in Equestria it was pretty safe to say ‘anypony’ because everypony was…well, a pony. But here in Gallopoli it’s different. There are a lot of people here besides ponies – griffons, minotaurs, and…uh…well, you know what I mean.” Truth be told, he had been once been violently “corrected” for not saying “anybody” once and he now desperately wanted to avoid that happening again. But there was no need for the Eagle to know that.

“Oh.” The griffon’s tone suggested that he hadn’t been expecting that thorough of an answer. “Well, that’s…nice of you.”

“Ha ha…right.” Eager to leave that conversation behind, Center Stage hurried down the hall to one of the ramshackle doors. Fiddling with the lock, he finally opened it with a flourish. “Ta-da!” He almost added “home sweet home” but stopped himself at the last second.

The room was almost entirely filled by a bed that barely merited the name – a sack of hay on top of some wooden planks. At the foot of the bed, separated by a few precious inches, stood a chest whose lock had been broken off a long time ago. Squeezed between the bed and the closer wall was a rough table with uneven legs. The whole place had a peculiar smell to it that Center Stage had never quite been able to identify.

“Wow. To be honest, this is…pretty much what I was expecting,” commented the Eagle, poking his head into the room; Center Stage had already entered and was bending over to retrieve his saddlebag from under the bed, and there wasn’t enough room for both of them.

The pony finally tugged the bag out and dropped it on the bed. “Yeah, well, it’s somewhere to stay, right?” He started rummaging around. “Better than the streets. Aha!” With a flourish he extracted a badly bent scrap of paper, and handed it over to the griffon.

The Eagle looked down at it dubiously. The note read, in crude handwriting, “We have your friend. Come to Warehouse #13 by the docks if you want to see him again.” It was unsigned.

“Hmm…” He flipped it over to check if there was anything more on the back, then looked at Center Stage. “I’ve never seen a note like this…never heard of those slavers writing one either. I’m surprised any of them can even write, truth be told. How did you get this?”

Center Stage was caught off guard by the question. “Uh…it came in the mail, I guess. I got it like any other letter.”

“They mailed it to you? How did they get your address?”

“Well…” His mind raced. “I just figured my friend gave it to them. You know, someone to ask for a ransom, or something.”

The griffon was examining the note again. “And yet there’s no ransom mentioned here. This whole thing is highly suspicious.”

“What do you mean?” Center Stage asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

The Eagle tossed the note onto the bed. “What I mean is that they probably aren’t interested in a ransom. This meeting that they want to hold is probably just a trap – they intend to get you too. You go in to get your friend out, but you end up enslaved along with him instead.”

“Oh.” He breathed an internal sigh of relief. “I guess that makes sense. So what do we do? Go to this warehouse and see if we can find him?”

“No…the warehouse is a decoy. I know of it – it’s completely abandoned. They just needed a private place so they could grab you. But that warehouse lies in Crimson Tide territory. They must be the ones who took your friend.”

“The Crimson Tide? Who are they?”

The griffon was already turning to walk out the door, and Center Stage hurried to follow him. He stopped out in the hallway. “Sorry, but I can’t stand that stench. Anyway, they’re your run-of-the-mill slavers, grabbing travelers and locals off the streets and selling them to whomever makes them an offer. Their leader is a nasty one – a minotaur by the name of Stonefist. They say he can shatter bones with a single punch.”

Center Stage shuddered. “Sounds dangerous. So what’s our plan?”

The griffon smiled. “Leave that to me.”

Center Stage settled into the tavern’s corner booth with an eye to the door. The Eagle sat next to him, cleverly pretending like he wasn’t surveying the room for threats. He took a sip of his ale – not bad stuff, certainly the best he’d had in a while.

The room was dirty and dimly lit – though the setting sun still provided plenty of light, most of the rooms windows were curtained, boarded over, or too grimy to let in much of it. It was also pretty full of various tough-looking types, drinking, laughing, and arguing all at a very high volume. In short, a typical dockside tavern, near as Center Stage could tell.

He leaned towards his tablemate and whispered conspiratorially, “So what are we here for? Eavesdropping on gang members? Trying to find one to tail back to their base?”

The griffon gave him a bemused look. “What? No, we’re here to eat and relax for a little bit. We’ve got some time to kill.”

Center Stage settled back into his seat. “Right, of course,” he said, giving him a knowing wink. “Relaxing.”

He sighed. “I’m being serious. We’re here to relax; I figured you could use some calming down, since you’ve been jumpy all day. We’ve got nothing left to do for the next few hours or so.”

“Wait, really?” The griffon nodded. “But…what about my friend? What about the Crimson Tide? I thought you had a plan!”

“I do,” the griffon reassured him. “Late tonight we’ll sneak into their base – it’s an old tavern whose owners they forced out months ago. That way we’ll be able to avoid dealing with most of them – they should be asleep by the time we get there. We break in and search for any signs of your friend; some gangs keep records of their transactions, but even if they don’t there’ll be traces of him. Push comes to shove, we’ll grab one of them and ask him a few questions. If your friend’s there, we’ll break him out; otherwise, we’ll find out where he is and then plan our next step.”

“Oh.” Center Stage was a bit taken aback. “Okay, then.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the pony. “What? Disappointed?”

Center Stage shrugged. “I don’t know, I just expected something a little more…daring.”

“What, like a frontal assault in broad daylight?” The pony shrugged again, and he snorted. “I’m confident, but I’m not stupid. Why make things harder than they need to be?”

“You have a point, of course,” Center Stage agreed hurriedly. “I just don’t really know what I expected. But that plan sounds good to me.”

They both fell silent as one of the servers swung by with a tray and left them both a dish of something that Center Stage couldn’t quite identify. It smelled pretty good, though, and upon tasting it he found that it was eminently edible, especially given how hungry he was. Neither talked as they both dug into their meal.

Several minutes later, having polished off his entire dish, Center Stage asked, “So we’re just waiting here until midnight, or something?”

The Eagle looked up from his food and noticed Center Stage’s plate was empty. “You ate all of that already?”

“What? I was hungry.”

He shook his head. “Wow. Well, to answer your question, yes, we will be waiting here. Though it’ll probably be more like one or two – enough to make sure that they’re all well and truly out. You won’t fall asleep on me, will you?”

Center Stage chuckled. “Not a chance – I’m way too nervous.” The griffon grinned and went back to his food. Center Stage took another look around the tavern. Then he looked back at the Eagle. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” the griffon replied around a mouthful of food.

“Aren’t you worried that somebody in here will recognize you? I mean, it’s a busy tavern – a lot of people in and out. What if one of them knows who you are?”

He swallowed before answering. “Like I said before, I don’t spread my face around town. Most of the people around here know that the Eagle’s a griffon, and that’s about it; fortunately, there are enough griffons in Gallopoli that that doesn’t narrow it down much. I appreciate your concern, but trust me, I’m fine.”

“But surely someone has seen your face?” Center Stage persisted. “Unless you wear a mask or something.”

“A mask? That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. Anything big enough to really hide my face would get in the way of my fighting, and anything less would be pointless. I’d feel ridiculous either way. So yes, plenty of people have seen my face, but pretty much all of them didn’t live much past that. Those that did are the ones I trust to keep my secret – or at least, ones that give me no reason to see them as a threat. In any case, none of them are here, so there’s no risk.”

“Right,” Center Stage agreed sagely. “Just another face in the crowd.”

The griffon shook his head. “Well…not quite. I am a regular here – I like their food. They just know me as Sigurd, not ‘the Eagle.’”

“An alias of yours?”

He shot him a look. “No, that’s my name. Sigurd.”

“Oh.” Once again Center Stage was surprised. “I guess I just assumed…It’s a nice name,” he added hurriedly. “I like it. Sigurd. It’s just unexpected; I thought you’d keep it a bit more of a secret.”

“What’s the point? It’s not like knowing my name would tell them anything. I would’ve told you, if you asked,” the griffon said evenly.

“I never did, did I? Sorry, I was just focused and –“

“Relax,” the Eagle – Sigurd – interrupted him. “I never asked yours, either.”

Center Stage hesitated for a second. “Right. You’re right.” After a second, he added, “It’s Center Stage.”

Sigurd grinned. “Nice to meet you.” He held out his claw, and Center Stage took it, giving it a firm shake. “So, Center Stage, are you an actor?”

He nodded towards the pony’s flank. Center Stage glanced back; his mark consisted of two masks, one smiling, the other frowning. “Well, yes, actually. Or an aspiring one at least. I haven’t had much luck yet, truth be told.”

“Not a lot of demand for actors back in Equestria?”

“What? Oh, no, just…well, just plenty of actors who are better than I am. In all honesty, I haven’t really applied myself too much in searching for a job. There aren’t a lot of opportunities where I come from, I’m afraid, and I haven’t managed to get off my flank and go somewhere there are. I guess you could stay I’m stuck.”

Sigurd shook his head. “That’s a shame. Well, I’m sure you’ll find a place somewhere. Best of luck in that.”

“Right,” agreed Center Stage. “I suspect I’m going to need it. Though…maybe when all this is over.”

The griffon nodded and took a swig from his ale. Center Stage followed suit. He took a few moments before finally deciding to go for it. “So…Sigurd.”

“Yes?” he asked expectantly.

“I’ve been wondering…how exactly did you end up here, doing this? The whole ‘Eagle’ thing. I mean, it’s hardly a normal thing to do. What inspired you to take up vigilantism in Gallopoli?”

Sigurd sighed. “It’s a long story.”

Center Stage gestured at the still setting sun. “We’ve got how long until we’re going to the Crimson Tide’s base, exactly?”

“You know,” the griffon retorted, frowning at him, “typically when people say that it’s because they don’t want to get into it, not because it’s particularly long. Though in this case it really is pretty long.”

“Come on,” wheedled the pony. “Can you blame me for being curious? The famous, mysterious vigilante himself, savior of the poor, rescuer of the downtrodden! How could I not be interested?”

“If you’re looking for an inspirational story, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Please?” Center Stage knew he was being incredibly annoying, and he didn’t care. “I’d love to hear it!”

Sigurd glared at him for several seconds. Finally, he rolled his eyes in irritation. “Fine.”

He took a deep breath, then said, “I used to be a Royal Guard, but that didn’t work out, so I wandered around for a bit until I ended up here and decided I wanted to help out. There. Happy?”

Center Stage’s jaw dropped. “Royal Guard…wait, that can’t be it! Are you serious? You said it was a long story! That was a sentence!”

He shrugged. “I thought I summarized it pretty well.”

“You can’t be serious!” Center Stage exclaimed. “That’s not the whole story!”

“It’s the important parts!” countered Sigurd defensively. It was Center Stage’s turn to glare at him. “What? What do you want from me?”

“The story!” Center Stage exploded, drawing looks from several nearby patrons.

“Alright, alright,” Sigurd said hurriedly. “Calm down. If you want to hear it that badly, I’ll tell you. Just…don’t get your hopes up, all right? It’s not really that interesting.”

Center Stage settled down and stared at him raptly. Sigurd sighed. “Great. Where to begin? Well, I guess it starts back with the Royal Guards.

“Back home, the Royal Guards were the pinnacle, the best of the best. They had to be – the king entrusted them with his life. Growing up I heard all these stories about them and their most famous members, heroic soldiers who saved the king’s life or won important battles or achieved a glorious death in combat. They were models of justice and kindness, helping out everyone and defeating the bad guys. It was always something I wanted to do, you know? Help other people. So the first chance I got, I signed up.

“The training was brutal. I mean, it had to be, of course; they had to weed out the ones who weren’t worthy. And they did – there were barely a third of us left by the time we finished. But I made it, I stuck it out; that’s probably one of the achievements I’m most proud of, was making it through that training. They honed us into the deadliest soldiers living, turned us into weapons. It was just like I had always imagined things to be. I felt for sure that I made the right choice, that in just a few days I would be slaying monsters and dispensing justice across the land.

“But the reality was nothing like that. I had expected some boredom, sure; I mean, enough of our training was spent making sure we made our beds or polished our armor correctly for me to get that. But we did nothing – literally, nothing. There were no wars to fight, no assassins to stop, no traitorous nobles to defeat; hell, I would’ve given anything for even a servant stealing some of the castle silverware. Instead, I spent two years guarding doors, patrolling hallways, and, once every few months, accompanying one of the princesses while she walked her dog in the royal gardens. I saw the king twice – once was on the day we finished our training, and the other was late one night when he asked me to fetch him a glass of water. That was the glory of being a Royal Guard.

“I guess I wouldn’t have minded so much except that there were still problems out there. Maybe not wars or rebellions, but crimes and murders and sometimes even riots. But we never left the castle grounds, not even to help; our job was to protect the king and his family, and nothing else. I got so sick of it, and it started to show. I got reprimanded several times for slacking off on duty, for talking back to my superiors, even for missing some shifts. I just didn’t care anymore – it wasn’t like I was actually doing anything. Finally, after a particularly nasty argument with the Captain of the Guard, I quit. Just straight up left. Nobody stopped me; sometimes I think they were glad to see me go.

“I decided to go help people, to actually do something, like I had originally intended. My first thought – really my only thought – was the city guard. It didn’t really matter which city it was, just the guarding part. I thought the Royal Guards were the path to take, but it turned out it was the common guardsmen who did all the real work. That’s where I wanted to be, and I figured with my abilities they’d snap me up in an instant. A Royal Guard – how could they refuse?

“Well, pretty easily, as it turned out. It’s difficult to explain, but…back home, responsibility is really important. I mean, stuff like keeping your promises, telling the truth, fixing your own problems…stuff like that. So the problem was I’d walk into a guard headquarters and ask for a job. I’d mention my Royal Guard training first thing because I figured it was a big draw, and the first question they’d ask was always, ‘Why aren’t you a Royal Guard anymore?’ I mean, of course they would ask, but…there are very few acceptable answers to that question. Something like old age or an injury keeping you from performing your duties – something beyond your control, that would be fine. Even a crippled Royal Guard is more lethal than most soldiers, even though he isn’t good enough to be a Royal Guard anymore. But my reason? That I was bored, that I got tired of doing nothing all day, that I wasn’t happy in my job?

“No. That was always the answer. The nicer ones would ask a few more questions before ending the interview, but most just stopped it there. None of them were interested in someone like me, a person who isn’t dedicated to his work, who doesn’t try his hardest, who cuts and runs if the job doesn’t suit him. My training meant nothing to them – all they saw was a quitter. I tried to explain, to tell them that I wanted to help ponies and the Royal Guard didn’t let me do that but the city guard could. But the answer remained, time and again, no.

“I drifted around, getting more and more discouraged with every rejection. I moved from cities to towns, hoping that maybe one of them would be desperate or kind enough to give me a chance to prove myself; no luck. Finally, I ended up in some port city or other – I barely remember the name. I didn’t have any more money or will to keep on going – I figured what was the point?

“One of the local merchants approached me about a job – said he was sending a valuable shipment to some city called Gallopoli and he was looking to hire guards to make sure it reached its destination safely. He was worried about pirates, to say nothing of the destination itself. I knew nothing about the city then – I might’ve seen it on a map once, but that was about it. But I needed the money, and it wasn’t like I was about to get any other work. So I agreed.

“We set sail the next day. The trip lasted a couple of weeks; I spent most of the time as alone as I could be on a ship at sea. I avoided the crewmembers and the other guards as best I could; I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me. They were all a rough bunch who thought I was ‘too good’ to mingle with them. I honestly just didn’t care. I was there to guard the cargo, and I would do that and nothing more. Not that I was ever needed – the trip there ended up being uneventful.

“Once we docked in the city the captain ordered us guards to watch the pier while he and the crew unloaded the cargo. I’d gone the whole trip without any idea of what it was – they never said and I never cared enough to ask. They started pulling it off the ship and it was – they were ponies. I don’t know where they came from, I don’t know how they ended up there, but they were slaves, there was no doubt about that. That was the cargo I was guarding.

“Needless to say, I was…less than pleased. I went over and started unchaining them, telling them to leave because they were free. The captain and his crew tried to stop me, so I dealt with them, and the other guards once they joined in. Pretty soon it was just me and the slaves. I set them free, told them to run into the city, and then gathered what few belongings I had and fled too, leaving an empty ship and a bunch of…well, corpses. I was afraid that I would get arrested for what I’d done. Seems ridiculous now, knowing what I do about the city, but back then that was my biggest concern.

“I wandered the streets for a while. It didn’t take me long to figure out this city was far rougher than the others I’d been to; four separate times some thugs tried to rob me. It didn’t work out too well for them. Finally, I wandered into a tavern and caught the eye of an old pony, a local who wasn’t a member of one of the gangs. He called me over, offered me a place to stay. He never really explained why he did, just said he could tell I was different. Anyway, he helped me out a lot – not just food and a bed but information about the city.

“I don’t know how much you know about this place, but it’s bad. There is no central authority here, no laws, no city guard. The whole place is run by gangs who carve the city into little territories and rule them however they want. Crime is a way of life here – the gangs extort protection money from the locals and then beat and rob them anyway. Mugging, slavery, murder – around here that’s what happens daily. And the perpetrators walk away without any sort of punishment whatsoever. Merchants and travelers come through here because it’s a major port, but they spend a lot of money hiring guards and paying off the local gangs. Meanwhile the common people live in squalor, in fear for their lives daily. It’s terrible.

“I decided to do something about it. I didn’t know what, exactly, but…something. At first I just walked the streets, and whenever I saw someone committing a crime I stopped them. That was about every ten minutes, but still hardly large-scale crime fighting. I wandered through the city, helping whomever I came across. That lasted about a day before I ran into one of the ponies I had freed when I got here. He was terrified, told me that most of the slaves I had released had been recaptured pretty quick by this gang called the Wolverines. He begged me to help them again, but there was no need; I knew it was my responsibility to get them out.

“I raided the Wolverines’ base, killing anyone who stood in my way. Their leader, a pony by the name of Red Dawn, tried to stop me – I killed him too. I found the slaves and freed them, then led them to safety instead of just throwing them to the wolves like last time. I still remember how they all kept thanking me, over and over again. That gratitude, that relief? That was the best sign, for me, that I was doing good, like I’d wanted.

“Anyway, after I raided their base the Wolverines dispersed. Their leader was dead, along with a pretty good number of their members, so the gang just fell apart. That was when I realized how I could help; not just by wandering the streets looking for fights, but by destroying these gangs by targeting their leadership. So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past year or so. I’ve taken apart over a dozen gangs; of course, there are way more than that in the city, and more keep on cropping up, but it’s progress. Along the way, of course, I racked up quite a bounty on my head – most of the local crime lords have offered various exorbitant amounts of money for my identity, my location, my corpse, anything to get rid of me, really. But I’ve managed to avoid all of that, if only because most people in this town are too stupid to pose any real risk to me. A few have tried to set ‘traps’ for me – I use that in the loosest sense of the word – and sometimes I walk into them intentionally just to get to whomever is trying to set it. I can handle a few thugs with clubs, which is the vast majority of gangs in this town.

“So, yeah. There’s my story. I mean, that’s pretty much it, I guess.” Sigurd sat back. “Um…any questions?”

Center Stage mulled it over. “Well, there’s one thing you never covered.”

“Shoot.”

“When did you start calling yourself ‘the Eagle’?”

Sigurd laughed. “I never did. Honestly, I don’t know who started the name – some of the locals, I guess. I got into a bit of a bind when I fought this one gang and ended up shedding some feathers. Apparently they decided it was my calling card or something ridiculous like that, and started calling me ‘the Eagle’ because of them. I thought it was pretty clear that it wasn’t an eagle leaving them, but I guess it sounds better than ‘the Griffon.’ Anyway, I didn’t really take to it at first, but you’d be surprised at how just one feather can scare a lot of different people. There have been multiple occasions where I’ll leave one on somebody’s pillow or desk and they’ll leave town in a hurry. So it serves its uses. Besides, I hadn’t thought of an alias yet and it was better than nothing.”

“Right,” Center Stage said quietly, in deep thought. “That’s, well, quite a story.”

He was starting to second-guess himself. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea; Sigurd said he could handle himself but Stonefist was really dangerous. Center Stage was worried, extremely so; hearing the griffon’s story had just brought home to him what they – what he – was about to do.

“Hey, are you okay? You’re being awfully quiet.”

There was genuine concern in his voice. Center Stage looked at him and felt another pang in his gut. “Fine,” he managed. “I…I’m just tired, is all. Do you think maybe I could try and take a nap before tonight?”

“I thought you were too nervous to sleep?” asked the griffon.

“I was wrong,” Center Stage replied flatly.
Sigurd looked around the crowded tavern dubiously. “Well, if you think you can sleep here, be my guest.”

“Great. Wake me up when it’s time to go.” Center Stage leaned back and closed his eyes, but the churning in his belly kept him from sleeping. Still, it was better than talking to Sigurd. Anything was, at this point.

Maybe he did finally drift off at some point, despite the noise and his nerves. It didn’t seem like it had been that long when Sigurd gently shook him and said, “Time to go.”

The streets were largely deserted that late at night – or early in the morning, technically. Center Stage followed Sigurd blindly, still absorbed in his own thoughts. He was debating whether they should still go through with it. He could still call it off, tell Sigurd it was a mistake. But then what? What would he think? What would he do? No, they were too close to the end, and Center Stage couldn’t see any alternatives. They had to go through with it.

After only a few minutes of walking, Sigurd motioned for him to stop and drew him into a doorway. He gestured down the street to a two story building that clearly had been a tavern at some point, though its darkened windows at this hour suggested it was no longer. A single pony stood guard outside, peering into the darkness up and down the street.

“That’s our destination. Guarded better than I had expected, too,” the griffon said.

Center Stage gave him a look. “One guard is more than you expected?”

“One conscious guard, anyway. Most of the time the ‘guards’ are asleep just like everybody else.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked concernedly. “How are we going to get around him?”

“By going in another way,” Sigurd told him.

The “other way” turned out to be climbing in through a second story window from the building’s neighbor. Sigurd handled it easily; Center Stage, on the other hoof, barely made it across. “What?” he whispered defensively in response to the griffon’s look. “Not all of us have wings, you know.”

Sigurd motioned for him to be quiet. Ahead of them stretched an empty hallway, with rooms on either side. Sigurd nodded towards the stairs at the end of the hallway. The two made their way to the first floor silently, the griffon leading and Center Stage taking up the rear.

The stairs opened out into the main room, a large and largely empty space. The tables had all been pushed aside to create a large opening in the center of the room. “The cellar,” Sigurd whispered, nodding at the bar. “The entrance is back there. Come on.”

He took a few steps when Center Stage said softly, “I’m so sorry.”

The griffon looked back at him. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Center Stage repeated, louder this time. “They didn’t give me any choice.”

Sigurd opened his mouth to say something when a sudden cacophony of shouts rang out across the room. A dozen ponies leapt from hiding places across the room. More poured down the stairs behind them. Finally, from behind the bar rose a massive figure – a minotaur. Stonefist.

Soon Sigurd and Center Stage found themselves at the center of a circle of ponies, all making various threatening faces and noises. Many of them were drunk, Center Stage could tell. But their leader was entirely sober as he pushed into the center of the group.

“So you’re the Eagle,” he rumbled, a grinning darkly. “I’m glad that you don’t disappoint – you got past my guard without him even noticing.”

Sigurd snorted. “It wasn’t that hard. Next time pick a hideout based on defensibility, not availability of alcohol.”

Stonefist scowled. Then he shifted his attention to Center Stage. “Well done, coward. You’ll get your reward soon enough, right after I deal with him.”

“Hey!” snapped Sigurd, drawing the minotaur’s attention back to him. “It’s late and I’m tired. Would you mind getting this over with, or do you plan on talking me to death?”

Center Stage could see the anger rising in the minotaur’s face; he always had a temper. “You want death, you’ll get it! Kill them!” he cried to his gang. “Both of them!”

“Wait, what?” Center Stage gasped, but they were already charging.

Stonefist took a swing at Sigurd, but the griffon dodged out of the way before diving in and hitting the minotaur right in the chest. The two tumbled to the ground, and that was the last thing Center Stage saw before he was tackled from behind.

He desperately rolled onto his back, bucking in a vain attempt to dislodge his attacker. He found himself pinned by a pony who slurred drunkenly to his friends, “Go ahead! I got this one.” They left to join the fray, and the pony leered at Center Stage. “Looks like it’s just you and me, friend.”

Center Stage squirmed, trying to get free, and the pony scowled. “Knock it off!” he said angrily, pulling out a knife and holding it to Center Stage’s throat. He froze, unsure of what to do.

The pony grinned. “End of the line.” He began to apply pressure, and Center Stage could feel the knife start to cut into his throat. He closed his eyes, wishing the pony would just get it over with already.

“Hey!”

Center Stage opened his eyes again in time to see the pony take a chair across the face. He went flying backwards, landing on a table and breaking it. He twitched, then lay still.

Center Stage shakily stood, putting a hoof to his throat. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. He looked up to see Sigurd, panting slightly and still holding a chair. “Are you alright?” the griffon asked.

He looked around the room in shock. Bodies were strewn everywhere; none of them were moving. Behind Sigurd lay Stonefist, dead. “You…you killed all of them?”

Sigurd nodded. “But…how? And so quickly?”

“Well, I had to save you,” Sigurd said nonchalantly. He glanced around at the carnage. “To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult. Most of them were drunk and barely any were armed.” He looked back at Center Stage. “Royal Guard, remember?”

“Oh,” said Center Stage weakly, still shaken by his close encounter with death. He struggled to process it all. “You…killed them all. And…and you saved me.” That part confused him the most. “But…I betrayed you?”

“You think you’re the first?” Sigurd asked, coming closer. “Center Stage, people betray me all the time. Desperation drives them to do crazy things, things they wouldn’t do normally. I can’t really hold it against them, can I?”

“I’m so sorry!” Center Stage said in a sudden rush. “They were going to kill me if I refused! I didn’t have any choice! I wanted to say something but I couldn’t work up the nerve to do it and – “

“Relax,” the griffon interrupted him. “Sit down and let me have a look at your neck.”

Center Stage obeyed and Sigurd examined him. “It’s not that bad; he didn’t cut very deep. I’d better bandage it, though, and you’ll likely end up with a nice scar to impress the ladies. Wait here.” He turned and walked over to the bar, fishing around until he found a few cleaning rags and started cutting them into strips. “So,” he called from where he was, “how much of it was a lie?”

“Most of it,” admitted Center Stage sheepishly. “I’ve been living in this city for a couple of years now. I’ve always tried to keep my head down, but unfortunately Stonefist decided that since I was an actor I was the best choice for leading you into a trap. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he was certain that I could handle it. Anyway, there is no friend that needs to be rescued – it was just a way to lure you here.”

“Hmm.” Sigurd finished cutting the rags and walked back to Center Stage. “Well, if it makes you feel any better I think you’re a pretty good actor. You really had me going.”

“Really?” asked Center Stage, amazed.

The griffon started bandaging his neck. “No.”

“Oh.” He thought about that for a moment. “Wait, so you knew this was a trap but you walked into it anyway?”

“Not exactly. I knew you were acting suspicious and weren’t telling me the whole truth. I was only pretty sure it was a trap, not certain. As for your acting skills, they’re decent but could use a little more work.”

“Sorry, I perform better when it’s not a life-or-death situation,” Center Stage said sarcastically. “But you knew it was a trap – or you were ‘pretty sure,’ whatever – why did you still come?”

Sigurd shrugged. “Like I told you earlier, sometimes I spring traps just to catch whoever set them. The Crimson Tide are – uh, were – a pretty nasty bunch, so I figured I’d take the opportunity to get rid of them. Most gangs are like this – a dangerous, skilled leader and a bunch of people whose only advantages are the ability to take orders and numbers. Really, it wasn’t even a fair fight, especially once I took down Stonefist.”

He finished and stepped back, eyeing his handiwork. “That should hold, I think. Here, try moving your head around a bit.”

Center Stage obeyed. “So, you’re really not mad?”

“Like you said, they forced you to do it. I can hardly blame you for trying to survive, can I? And it all turned out fine in the end, so there’s really nothing to be mad about.”

“I guess,” agreed Center Stage dubiously.

“I could be furious at you, if you really want,” Sigurd offered.

“No thanks,” he said hurriedly, looking around the room again. “This works just fine for me.”

The griffon grinned. “Great. So stop worrying about it.”

He turned and started walking back behind the bar again. “What happens now?” Center Stage called after him.

“Now,” Sigurd said with a grunt as he hauled open the trap door to the cellar. “Hold on a second.” He descended into the cellar, and Center Stage could hear him rummaging around. Finally, he re-emerged and tossed a bag at the pony. It landed at his hooves with the clink of coins. “Now, we wait until morning and then head down to the docks to use some of the Crimson Tide’s ill-gotten funds to buy you a ticket back to Equestria.”

Center Stage alternated between gaping at the money and at Sigurd. “You’re serious?”

“Of course,” the griffon said, coming up to him. “You talked earlier about moving on and finding somewhere to work. Now’s your chance. Unless you want to stay here?”

“No!” Center Stage nearly shouted. He then calmed himself. “I mean, no, I don’t want to stay here. But…you’d really do that for me?”

Sigurd smiled. “Center Stage, I help people. It’s what I do. So of course I’ll help you get back home.”

Center Stage found himself at a loss for words. “Thank you!” he finally managed. “Thank you so much!”

“Relax,” Sigurd said, chuckling. “It’s not even my money. Besides, you should probably take it easy until that throat wound heals a little more.”

“Oh. Right.” Now that the griffon mentioned it, his throat was hurting a little. And by a little, he meant a lot. Gingerly, he touched a hoof to his throat, and found that blood was already beginning to seep into the bandage.

I have a cut across my throat, he thought to himself; then he thought it again. Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off he was acutely aware of the injury. That’s…I should…

Center Stage found himself having trouble forming coherent thoughts. A wave of exhaustion hit him like a ton of bricks, and realized he was swaying back and forth on his hooves. Sigurd was watching him with a concerned expression.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sigurd. The griffon who had spared – no, saved his life. Who was sending him home. He was going home. He was leaving behind this hellhole of a city and going home.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Just…feeling a little tired, is all.” Sigurd raised an eyebrow. “I think…I’m just going to go to sleep now.”

Next thing he knew, he was on the floor. For a second he was worried about…something, but it left and before long he had drifted off.

Sigurd sighed as he looked at the prone pony. A mixture of shock and exhaustion was his guess. Maybe a touch of blood loss. He’d be fine with a few hours of sleep, and by the time he woke they’d be ready to head to the docks. But he could hardly leave him here, he thought, looking around at the carnage. Reluctantly he bent down and picked the unconscious Center Stage up, throwing one leg across his shoulders. The tavern wasn’t that far, and he could rent them rooms there until tomorrow.

And then…well, hopefully he’d get Center Stage sent on his way. And after that? a voice inside of him asked. What next?

He grinned ruefully. Like he was supposed to know? He was making it all up as he went along.

With that thought to cheer him, the griffon hauled the pony off into the night.