The Last King

Chapters

The Lost Idol
The Hermit
The Prophet
The Crossroads
The King

The Lost Idol

Guto Gildedclaw, son of Grettir, fifth of his name, King of Griffonstone sat upon his throne and dreamt of death. Not his own death. No, those dreams had come often enough of late, ever since the accursed Arimaspi had sundered his walls and broken his kingdom. Since then he had dreamt often of his own death.

But those were the dreams of the night, haunting him in the cold embrace of restless slumber. It was waking dreams of death that haunted him now, and this death was not his own. At least, not only his own. It was the death of a kingdom, of a nation. It was the death of Griffonstone herself that crafted his waking nightmares. A slow death, not of fire and sword, but of apathy, of acedia and lifelessness robbing his griffons of the will to live.

He could see it now – like a wasting sickness death came, sucking up all life and joy and leaving only the withered husk of a once proud body of griffons lying in its dreadful wake.

When he opened his eyes, the vision did not change. Griffonstone was dying, and its king was powerless to stop it.

After all, he mused, I am wasting away like all the rest.

Guto knew why the sickness had come. They all did. The Arimaspi had stolen more than some mere trinket. He had stolen their pride. Their identity. When he had fallen into the Abyss, he had cheated them not only of their revenge, but of any chance they had of restoring themselves. Their golden idol was beyond reach.

Many had tried. Many had died. No griffon born could master the winds of the Abyss.

And now, the king could not master his subjects. Every day, guards deserted, taking what they could of the treasury with them. The noble houses turned inward, hoarding their wealth behind walls of stone and spear. But the commoners would not be so easily cheated of the hoardings, and the nobles’ guards were just as prone to greed as any griffon.

And griffon killeth griffon in a dusty narrow room.

Guto saw it all. Waking and dreaming, he saw it all… and was powerless to stop it.

In their lesser thrones, his sons squabbled. Gilbear wanted the blood of the traitor guards and the spoils of weaker houses. Guillemin wanted the blood of foreigners, spilt in ruthless conquest for riches and gold. Gilbear hissed of rounding up the deserters and executing them as an example to the others, of knives in the night in the noble houses, while Guillemin squawked of the weaknesses of the other races, of lands ripe for plunder.

Both are fools, Guto knew. We haven’t the gold to pay an army, and the promise of plunder only buys an army’s loyalty as long as the victories last. But it was not worth the effort to correct them.

Guto closed his eyes and contemplated descending into the Abyss himself. He tried to tell himself that it was out of a hope that he might succeed, but had known too many liars over the years to believe it. The truth was, he was afraid of what it would take to try anything else.

“King Guto!” cried a youthful voice. The sound of rapidly approaching wingbeats assailed the monarch’s ears. “King Guto!”

Guto opened his eyes to see a young griffon tercel in the armor of a royal guard come flying into the great hall. He had the coloring of a common griffon, with tan coat and white eagle’s feathers spotted with darker flecks. Unlike most every other griffon in the palace, he had an energy about him – a palpable drive and hopefulness that Guto wasn’t sure if he found disquieting or inspiring.

Gilbear and Guillemin both found it infuriating. “Hold fast there, peasant!” snarled the first.

“You dare interrupt our deliberations?” demanded Guillemin haughtily.

Oh, is that what those were? thought Guto with a yawn.

The young griffon landed and bowed deeply, submitting himself before the brothers, but he did not leave. “Forgive my intrusion, your highnesses, but I have news the king must hear!”

Gilbear opened his beak to denounce the commoner, but Guto’s low command interrupted, “Stay.”

Of all the griffons of the court, only Gillian, the lowborn, had not abandoned the quest for the Idol of Boreas. Gillian, who delved deep into the lore recorded in bygone eras when the learned of Griffonstone had rivaled even the scholars of Alhocksandria for their wisdom. Gillian, in whose spark Guto saw the only life in Griffonstone not yet wasting away.

“I would know what he has to say,” declared the king. “Speak, Gillian, and tell us what learning you offer.”

Gilbear snorted, but did not gainsay the king. Gillian straightened and licked his beak before speaking. “My king, I believe I have found a way to master the winds of the Abyss.”

Guto stiffened, his claws digging into the arms of his chair. It was all he could do not to exclaim in shock. Once he had mastered his outburst, he bade, “Explain.”

Gillian reached into his pannier and pulled out a thick leather-bound tome. “I found an entry in the words of Grizier the Younger, telling of a powerful artifact, now long abandoned: the Fan of the Four Winds, crafted by the ponies in ages past to—”

“Ponies!” scoffed Guillemin derisively. “What value are those weaklings but for plunder and slaves!”

The younger griffon shook his head warningly. “Be not so quick to dismiss them, my lord. They wield a powerful magic. Their immortals—”

Guillemin cut him off with a derisive laugh. “‘Immortals?’ You believe that nonsense?”

“Our loremasters did,” replied Gillian evenly.

“Madness!” cried Guillemin. “Father, you cannot seriously be entertaining this fanciful—”

“Be silent,” ordered the king. Guillemin’s beak flipped open in protest, but a sharp look from Guto quailed him. “You forget, Guillemin. I knew Grizier the Younger, and he was not given to flights of fancy. Whether all the tales of the ponies’ power are true or not, they possess a deep magic we do not.” His eyes narrowed. “Only a fool lets his prejudices cloud his judgment.”

Guillemin bowed his head, “Of course, father. I spoke in haste.”

Guto grimaced inwardly. You speak the words, but you do not mean them. A glance at Gilbear revealed that the other griffon was no more swayed by Guto’s warning than his brother. Where did I go wrong as a father?

“Continue, Gillian,” he said, returning to the matter at claw. “What does this legendary Fan of the Four Winds do?”

Gillian smiled eagerly. “Gizier describes a weapon which grants the wielder total mastery of the winds! He can bend them, shape them, raise them with the force of a gale, or sharpen them into a wire-thin blade! It is said that it could even craft constructs out of the air – warrior pegasi born of the breeze and armed with wind-forged blades!”

At this, the princes perked up, exchanging a glance. “You mean, this Fan could create an army?” asked Guillemin.

“An army that follows orders without question?” added Gilbear.

Guto rolled his eyes. So now you take the ponies seriously?

Gillian seemed too caught up in the excitement to catch the brothers’ tone. “With the Fan, we could command the winds of the Abyss to be still, that we might retrieve the Idol! Grover’s eyes! We could just command the winds to bring us the Idol!”

“And much more,” said Guillemin slyly, tapping a talon against his beak. “Foolish of the ponies to simply abandon it. ’Tis a wonder these ‘immortal’ princesses fail to see the power of this Fan.”

Or perhaps they have reason not to fear its use, thought the king with a grimace. Too hotblooded you are, my son. You require tempering. Guto sighed. Still, one thing at a time. This Fan is, like as not, to be a fool’s errand, but then… he glanced around at the rotting finery of the great hall, what have we to lose?

King Guto sat up, his decision made. “Tell me, Gillian, where did Grizier say this Fan lies?”

The Hermit

It had taken three days’ hard flying north to reach the Strait of Gaius, which the Equestrians called the Strait of the Rising Sun, where the sea was funneled to a narrow pass between the griffon kingdoms of the East and Equestria to the West. From there, it was another two days’ flight west to the twin peaks called Hurricane Heights, where Gizier’s texts claimed the Fan of the Four Winds lay.

The journey had been a tense one for Guto. Though most of the griffon kingdoms, among them Griffonstone, were nominally at peace with Equestria, he was still crossing their borders unannounced with a score of soldiers. True, the ponies were a peaceful race, and Equestria had always been a welcoming land. But it was not his land, and foreign kings coming in secret with armed retinues on errands other than diplomacy tended to raise questions.

His sons had dismissed his fears of the ‘weak’ ponies as groundless, but Guto was not prey to their delusions. Unlike them, he’d met the strange horned pegasi who ruled Equestria. While still but a prince, he had journeyed to meet them on behalf of his father. Guto entered that meeting thinking their seemingly equivalent titles meant he was their equal.

He left that meeting knowing he would never be their equal.

The ponies may be gentle, but they are not to be trifled with, he thought. And, as we intend to abscond with a long-hidden artifact of theirs, it would be best if our presence remained unknown until we are safely returned to Griffonstone.

Fortunately, Guto’s fears never came to pass. Eastern Equestria was sparsely populated this far north. The few mud ponies they spied below had their heads turned to the ground and failed to spy the score of armored griffons soaring above.

Now, as the sun rose to its apex in the sky on the second day, they were nearing their destination. An eagle-eyed recruit was the first to spy the unusual pair of snow-capped peaks in the distance – twin spires of rock and stone lancing heavenward. At the sight, Guto felt the heavy talons of fate come to rest on his shoulder. When Gillian spoke up to say that the mountains matched those of the manuscripts, he only confirmed what Guto already knew in his bones:

Between those peaks, the fate of Griffonstone would be changed forever.

“At last!” snarled Gilbear. “Let us seize the artifact and turn our heels on this blasted country!”

“Or perhaps spend a little more time in these lands, if the artifact is truly so powerful as they say,” added Guillemin slyly.

“Think of it!” exclaimed Gillian, a joyful grin on his features. “Something powerful enough to quell the winds and restore us to glory! We must make haste!” Soon the other griffons were clamoring for the same.

Under other circumstances, Guto might have found it amusing that his sons not only found agreement with each other, but with Gillian the lowborn as well. And, indeed, a part of him did smile at the thought. But the great part of his mind was bent to worry. The certainty that the sword of fate hung poised above his neck sent a jolt of electricity through him, energizing him as nothing had since the Idol had been stolen, but whether this jolt was from joy or dread he could not say.

All he knew was that he would not risk this last chance for the ambitions or haste of any griffon, not even himself.

“Wait,” ordered the king. When the others looked to him in confusion, he kept his face stoic. “The treasure we seek may well be guarded or cleverly concealed with the strange magics these ponies are so fond of.” Guillemin scoffed, but Guto ignored him. “We have travelled long, and not taken rest or repast since morning. Before braving the Hurricane Heights and seizing this artifact, we shall regain our strength, the better to face what lies ahead.”

Several of the griffons grumbled to themselves about this, and Gilbear and Guillemin both hotly protested. Guto grimaced, recalling the days when his word had been law.

“Enough!” he shouted when he tired of their bickering. “I will not allow the impatience of any griffon to move us to foolishness.” His eyes narrowed into a glare. “Or would any of you risk losing the Idol forever to the depths?” One by one, the dissenters fell silent. The king nodded, mollified.

Ever diplomatic, Gillian pointed to an exposed outcropping of brown earth on the side of a heavily wooded hill. “My king, may I suggest we bivouac in that clearing? It shall allow us a view of our destination while we rest, and there looks to be a stream nearby for game and water.” King Guto nodded to the young soldier and gave the order.

The twenty-odd griffons descended to the ground, and if they did so grudgingly, they at least did so obediently. When they’d landed, Guto made to order foraging parties into the woods, but a voice from behind preempted him.

“Hail Guto Gildedclaw, son of Grettir, fifth of his name, King of Griffonstone!”

Guto spun in shock, drawing his jeweled sword as he scanned the trees for whoever had spoken. All around him, the startled soldiers readied their weapons. At first, they saw nothing. Then a lone pony emerged from the forest.

He was old, ancient even, his grey-brown hide wrinkling and bunching over a skeletal frame. The pony was robed in sackcloth like a beggar, his ashen-white beard long and wiry, his mane tousled and unkempt. The stallion’s features were turned upwards in a benign smile that seemed to crinkle his whole face, and there was a warm and merry laugh in his clear blue eyes. Yet, when Guto looked into those eyes for too long, he had the unsettling sense that he was staring into the ocean – endless and enigmatic, more than able to drown him if he strayed into their depths.

Guto shook his head to banish the haunting sensation. He is a pony, nothing more.

Guillemin, hiding his shock beneath a mask of arrogance, stepped forward and menaced the frail old pony with his spear. “Hold, mud pony!” he snarled. “Who are you to come upon the King of Griffonstone unannounced? What is your purpose?”

The pony turned his deep gaze upon Guillemin and smiled genially, seeming unaware of the danger he was in. “I have long passed the need for titles, Guillemin of Griffonstone,” he replied. His voice creaked like the mast of a ship in a squall, at once fragile and mighty. “If you wish, you may call me Ashmane. That is the name I am known by since my rebirth.”

Rebirth? wondered Guto. What could he mean by that?

Gilbear stepped forward, his wings flared out aggressively and his axe ready in his clawed grasp. “You did not answer my brother’s other question, you old goat! Why dare you approach the king?”

Ashmane raised a bushy eyebrow and spoke lightly, “Is a pony not permitted to welcome guests to his homeland, Gilbear of Griffonstone?”

But do any others know we ‘guests’ have come? thought Guto with dread. Do the Royal Sisters already know of our coming?

“Caution, my lords,” warned Gillian, who moved up warily. “He may hide a horn of magic under that bushy mane.”

Prince Gilbear paused, wary, and several of the soldiers stirred uneasily, but Guillemin took an aggressive step closer, jabbing his spear at the pony. “Foolish lowborn,” he sneered, “can you not see that if he was one of those blasted horned ones he would have used his pathetic magic by now? He’s just a stupid mud pony!”

The stallion gave a reedy chuckle. “Oh, young griffons, you mistake me. I have no desire for a fight.” He addressed Guillemin. “I am not of the proud and noble earth pony tribe,” his eyes flicked to indicate Gillian, “but neither could I cast the magic the young scholar fears.”

“I see no wings on you,” said Guillemin, tapping the stallion’s side with his spear.

Ashmane lifted a hoof to his head and parted his mane, revealing a shattered stump that had once been a horn. “Neither do you see a horn.”

Gillian winced. Guillemin laughed. “You are brazen, old one, to come upon us with no means of defending yourself.”

The stallion shrugged. “What need have I of defense? I am but a poor old hermit with nothing to steal.” The deep blue eyes drifted back to Guto, and the big griffon once more felt their magnitude. “Even if that were not the case, I do not believe your father wishes battle with the Sun and Moon. Do you, your majesty?” Guto opened his beak to speak, but Ashmane wasn’t finished. “Allow me to allay your fears by answering your question. The Daystar and Nightfall know nothing of your presence, and likely never shall.”

Guto felt his blood rise at the vagabond’s forwardness, though he still sheathed his sword. “You presume much, pony,” he said coldly.

Ashmane bowed humbly. “It was not my intent to presume beyond my ken, oh King. Please grant me the honor of repaying you with an offer of Hospitality, as Harmony demands.”

“The mud pony offers refreshment to the king!” laughed one of the soldiers. “What barbarity!”

“Madness it is!” mocked another.

“Madness, or stupidity!” called a third.

Soon, the griffon ranks were jeering the pony. They heaped insult and taunt upon his race, his age, and his poverty. Through it all, Ashmane remained silent, his benign expression never failing, his strange eyes mercifully leveled at the ground and not at Guto. Gillian, alone of all Guto’s retinue, did not join in the mockery, but rather regarded the pony with the same uncertainty that Guto felt.

The king beckoned for the young soldier to attend him. When Gillian came, Guto murmured to him, “What do you make of this Ashmane?”

Gillian cast a cautious glance at the pony. “I am unsure, my liege. He might be an ordinary hermit, but…” he shook his head, “I do not believe so. There is a measure of power to him that I cannot place, and he knows things he should not. We would be wise to find out what before proceeding.”

The king nodded, relieved that one member of his retinue was talking sense! “We are of one mind in this,” he replied. Gesturing for Gillian to return to his place, he addressed the pony. “Ashmane,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough to quell the jeers. “We accept your offer of Hospitality.”

Consternation replaced mockery, and the ranks loudly objected to the delay, but the king would not entertain their recalcitrance. This pony hides something, the king knew. Before we brave the Heights, I would know what that something is.

Ashmane bowed once more to the king and bade the party follow him. As they walked, Guto regarded the stallion cautiously. It is not unbelievable that a pony would know the colors of my kingdom and the current monarch, but that a vagabond hermit far from civilization should know the name of my father and those of my sons… and how does he know that the Royal Sisters are unaware of our—

Guto stopped dead in his tracks. The line of griffons staggered to an abrupt halt behind him, snarling in confusion and irritation. Guto ignored them, his mind racing as he played the conversation over in his mind. He had questioned whether the Royal Sisters knew of their presence, yes, and Ashmane had answered him. But, in his surprise at the pony’s forwardness, Guto had missed an important detail. A detail which chilled him to the bone as he felt the deep gaze of the patiently waiting Ashmane upon him.

He’d never asked that question aloud.

The Prophet

Guto kept a close eye on Ashmane for the rest of the walk, and his sword remained loose in its scabbard. Intellectually, he knew he was in no danger from the strange hermit. Ponies regarded the Law of Hospitality as an absolute, to the point that there were stories of them dying to defend complete strangers to whom they’d offered Hospitality. Guto found such practices naïve, but he could not help being impressed by them.

Still, the stallion was… unsettling. The griffon tried to assure himself that perhaps he was misremembering events, but knew in his heart that he wasn’t. Blasted ponies and their intolerable magic! he snarled mentally. What is this old relic up to?

After a short walk, they reached Ashmane’s home, which proved to be nothing more than a hovel of clay built into the wall of a cave. The hovel was barely large enough for one griffon, much less a score of them. So, the pony directed them to sit around a firepit outside, nestled in a clearing amidst thick bushes. There, much to the griffons’ surprise, waited smoked fish and fresh fruit – enough for everygrif to have plenty.

The soldiers sprang forward, but Guto barked “Halt!” before they could touch the food. While they stared at him in confusion, he glared at their host with suspicion. “What are you playing at, pony?”

Ashmane smiled in bemusement. “I play at nothing. I caught many fish today. Oh, ponies do not eat so much meat as you, but we do eat a little, and I rather enjoy fishing from the little stream near—"

“Not the fish,” growled Guto, gesturing to the food, “the feast. Why cook so much if you were not expecting us?”

Silence fell upon the clearing as the king glared at the hermit, who stared back with bland unconcern.

“Well?” demanded Guto. “Did you know of our coming?”

Ashmane’s bemusement returned. “Of course,” he replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Cries of dismay and outrage greeted the statement, but the king silenced them with a roar. When they’d bowed to his ire, he snarled, “Who are you really, Ashmane?”

The pony nodded his head thoughtfully as he considered the question. He sat, his gaze not on Guto, but on some point in the sky beyond. “As I told you, I am Ashmane. That was not always my name. My parents bestowed another upon me, but that life of mine has long since ended. I bore another name in my prime, when my magic was enough to make kingdoms tremble, but that life, too, is ended. Gone, and unlamented.” A strange smile, both joyful and sad, crinkled his features. “Now I am but Ashmane, an old fool who was blessed to find truth and purpose in his twilight years. Ponies seek me out for the wisdom I’ve been given, and I help them as best as I can.”

You know hidden things no wilderness hermit should know, and you call it mere ‘wisdom’? thought the king, incredulous. “From whence does this ‘wisdom’ of yours come?”

Ashmane’s smile broadened. “Why, the Source of Harmony, of course.”

Guillemin, who had silently endured the stallion’s explanation, now spat dismissively on the ground. “You ponies and your precious ‘Harmony!’” he mocked. “It’s no wonder most of your pathetic race is still pawing at the dirt!”

“At least they eat,” muttered Gillian so quietly that only Guto heard. Guto, and perhaps Ashmane, if the twinkle in the pony’s eye was any indication.

“They earn an honest living,” said the pony mildly, “and create much wealth doing so.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why else would greedy princes seek to plunder their lands?”

Guillemin spat an oath and stepped forward, but the king blocked his path with an outstretched forelimb. “Peace, my son,” he ordered.

“The dirt eater impugns my honor!” snarled the prince.

His father raised an eyebrow. “Would you not rather learn how an Equestrian hermit knows of things spoken only in secret meetings in a court across the sea?”

“I would rather have his slanderous tongue!”

The king frowned. “Your small-mindedness does you greater insult than this pony does. I weep for the day armies depend upon your strategy.” Guillemin gaped in offense, but Guto ignored him and turned to Ashmane. “Tell me, pony, how do you know things which ought to be secret to you?”

Ashmane, who appeared quite unbothered by Guillemin’s violent intent, replied, “I am given to know certain things in the proper time.”

Guto’s brow furrowed. “You are a prophet then?”

“I am called that,” said Ashmane blandly.

Gilbear chuckled derisively. “A prophet, you say? Bah! What sort of seer would be out here in the middle of nowhere rather than in the court profiting as the princesses’ pet prophet?”

Ashmane likewise chuckled, though his amusement was merry and unoffended. “Oh, their royal highnesses are blessed with visions of their own. They have little need of my meager self. No, my calling is and always has been to light the path for those in darkness, to set a flame in their hearts.” His tone dipped, and Guto thought he saw moisture in the stallion’s gaze. “It is to my shame that I took so long to follow my true purpose, but I am forever grateful of the mercy that has granted me such happiness now.”

“Happiness?” blurted Gillian, earning him reproving glances from the griffons of higher standing for his presumption to speak. “In this squalor?”

The pony gave him a knowing smile. “More than you could ever imagine, Gillian, son of Gideon.” Before Guto could parse out what the stallion meant, Ashmane gestured to the food. “Ah, but see? The food grows cold as we talk. Please, noble guests, eat. You shall need your strength for the trials ahead.”

Guto’s eyes narrowed. “What mean you by ‘trials?’”

“Eat, and I will tell you.”

The griffons looked to their king for direction, and Guto found himself wishing they hadn’t. This strange pony was unsettling in the extreme. He longed to take to the sky and leave this wrinkled hermit and all his disturbing portents behind. But if he truly is a prophet, I would know what knowledge he may offer. After a moment’s deliberation, the king reluctantly bade his subjects eat.

At first, they ate in silence, enjoying food much fresher even than what they’d had at the palace, but it was not long before Guto’s unwanted curiosity got the better of him. “You ponies are an odd bunch,” he remarked around a mouthful of fish. “I cannot fathom why you would not profit from such a gift as prophecy.”

“Oh, but I do profit,” countered Ashmane. “Just not in the way you define it. I gain the most by giving myself away for something greater than silver or gold.”

Ashmane’s statement was greeted with laughter by the griffons, even Gillian. “Now I learn you have a sense of humor!” exclaimed Guto with a surprised grin. “What could possibly be of greater value than gold?”

To his amazement, Ashmane pressed on, mild as ever, but utterly serious. “It is no jest, I assure you. Consider your own lives before you came here. Each of you held great wealth in some measure. Gold and gems and jewels, the envy of your neighbors. Your hoards were like those of dragons, and even the commoners among you had hoards of your own.”

The griffons clamored in proud agreement as they tore hungrily into the fresh food.

“But at what price did you keep that wealth?” continued Ashmane, his tone somber. “Each day, it possessed your mind. You clawed and scraped and scrambled to hold onto it, to increase it by any measure, to hide it and guard it from the greed of your fellows. Only the threat of spears in the day and daggers in the night dissuaded pillaging. Oh, you had your vaunted Griffonstone pride, enough to bond you together against the common threats of dragon raids and other warring kingdoms, but, at the end of the day,” he fixed first the princes and then the soldiery with his chilling gaze, “each of you, from prince to pauper, scrapped and scraped for every meager coin like desperate beggars, knowing that your whole world could be destroyed in an instant.”

Now, the griffons were less amused. More than one murmured angrily against the pony, and both the princes looked primed for violence. Guto himself frowned at Ashmane, offended by the hermit’s declaration. Yet Ashmane continued:

“A fragile edifice you built. Mighty and bright, yes, but fragile.” He turned his terrible gaze upon Guto. “I know well what it is to serve an idol, oh King of Griffonstone.” His tone would have been mocking were it not so sympathetic. “It seems to fill our hearts for a time, but what happens when the idol is lost? Then we are alone, as you have learned. Alone with nothing but our own meager selves.”

An image flashed in Guto’s mind – a dire portrait of Griffonstone laid to ruin, with all its griffons turned against each other, squabbling over trinkets and baubles like magpies. He blinked his eyes to clear the vision, and found Ashmane’s gaze boring into him.

“And so, he begins to see,” said the pony quietly.

“You’re quick to mock, mud pony,” snarled Guillemin, flinging the bones of his fish into the firepit, “but I think it to be jealousy, not wisdom, that leads you to jeer at our wealth!”

Ashmane sat up, sweeping his forelegs wide. “What need have I of silver or gold? I have all I need right here.”

“You live in a hole in the ground!”

“Yes. I do. And do I strike you as unhappy?”

Guillemin recoiled, blinking. “What?”

“Do I strike you as unhappy?” repeated Ashmane. “That is what all thinking creatures seek, is it not? Happiness? Tell me, Guillemin of Griffonstone, how happy are you, scrambling around in the dirt seeking gold that will never be enough to fill your hunger?” He glanced at the other prince, “Or you, Gilbear of Griffonstone, always looking over your wing for thieves and murderers. How happy are you? Or you, bold soldiers,” he addressed the lordly griffons of the retinue, “a collection of noble sons sent off by your families as a token investment in the king’s wealth should this venture succeed,” his gaze drifted to the lowborn soldiers, “all the while desperate commoners hoping to reap of the nobility’s largesse or, failing that, to plunder from the corpses of any who fall. How happy are you?” Ashmane’s eyes flicked to Gillian and a few older soldiers who’d served Guto faithfully in years past. “I tell you, the happiest amongst you are those who came with some measure of true loyalty or hope in your hearts. Yet even you stand in teetering towers of your own fragile selves.”

All pretense of good humor deserted the princes and the retinue. They hissed and spit at the stallion, calling him the ‘mad monk’, ‘mud sucker’, and worse. Even Gillian glared at the hermit with fury.

The king, for his part, sat in grim silence, mulling over Ashmane’s words. Is that truly all we are? he wondered. Is that all it is to be a griffon?

Ashmane addressed his attackers, his gentle voice somehow cutting through the noise, “You mock me, but can any of you tell me that I am unhappy? Can any of you make that claim? You?” he addressed one griffon, fixing him with that hypnotic stare until the bird fell silent. “You?” he asked another, and another, and another until the whole retinue had fallen silent. Ashmane shook his head pityingly. “Rich in gold you may be, but your happiness rides a knife’s edge. One step to the side, and you plunge into the Abyss with your idol.”

Guto flinched. We have already fallen. He caught the hermit’s compassionate eye. But you already know that, don’t you.

“And what would you have us do instead?” demanded Guillemin, unaware of the king’s contemplation. “Embrace your pitiful Equestrian values? Your precious ‘Harmony?’”

“It is not ‘our’ Harmony,” corrected Ashmane. “We are all children of the same Source. Harmony is the birthright of all thinking creatures.”

“It’s nonsense!”

“Is it?” demanded Ashmane, an edge of steel flashing in his voice. “A farmer lives his life serving his community, serving Harmony. He works hard, sells his crops as best as he is able. He makes his profit and stores the excess against times of hardship. When war strikes the land and ravages the new harvests, the farmer throws open his storehouses to feed his village. He expects no payment in return. The village survives. Then, a year later, the farmer falls ill. Because he made no money during the famine, he cannot pay a doctor. What do you think happens to him?”

Guillemin snorted. “The fool dies. What else?”

Ashmane regarded the prince with a sad smile. “No, he does not. For the village remembers the farmer’s generosity, and they care for him.”

“An amusing story,” Gilbear said with an affected yawn, “but it is just that: a story.”

“Nay, young prince, it is no mere story. I bore witness to his tale, his and many others, as I traveled the lands burned to ash by the madness of ambition.” Ashmane tilted his muzzle up to face the sun and closed his eyes, awe in his voice. “I saw ponies who had lost every worldly comfort rise from the cinders, and when they reached, they did not reach for wealth, but for each other. For each other, and for those higher truths which outlast death and transcend time. Charity, devotion, integrity, hope, compassion…” he opened his eyes and beamed at them with rapturous joy, “love, my friends. The love of friends. The love of friends and of Harmony. In their sacrifices they gained riches which they carried in wealth and in poverty. Can your golden idol give that?” His eyes narrowed. “Can this Fan?”

Gillian and Guto sprang to their claws. “The Fan!” exclaimed the lowborn griffon. “You know what we seek?”

Ashmane smirked. “I do not need visions to know why you came, young scholar. Creatures only ever come here for two reasons: wisdom and folly.” He chuckled. “Plainly, you are the latter.”

Guto felt a growl rumble in his throat at the insult, but Ashmane was not done speaking.

“You are not the only ones here who came for the Fan.”

At that ominous pronouncement, Guto grasped for the hilt of his sword, and he scanned the surrounding brush for threats. “There are others here?” he demanded.

“Many scores of them,” replied the pony calmly. “But you needn’t fear them. Come, I will show you.” He rose and creakily strode towards a thick patch of shrubbery. “They are just over here.”

Horrified that such a massive host could rest so nearby without making any noise, Guto followed, his nervous retinue close behind. They reached the foliage, and Ashmane raised a hoof to the greenery. “Behold, your majesty,” he pulled the branches aside, “your fellow questors.”

Guto looked and saw the great host.

Row upon row of graves.

The Crossroads

Guto gaped in horror at the multitude of graves, hewn from the rough earth and marked with cairns of stone. So many… he thought. Did all of them come for the Fan?

“Heavens above,” breathed Gillian. “Who are they?”

“I told you – they are your fellow questors,” replied Ashmane mildly. “You are hardly the first to come seeking to master your worlds, chasing one ambition or another. Anything which promises such easy power holds great allure. Scores upon scores have come seeking the Fan of the Four Winds. To each I told the truth – that the Fan would not grant them what they needed. Those who heeded my warnings went elsewhere to find real answers to their troubles. Those who do not…” he indicated the graves with a tilt of his head.

“Wha- what killed them?” asked one of the other soldiers nervously.

“The Fan, naturally,” replied somber Ashmane.

Gilbear shot the pony a disbelieving glance. “The Fan did this? Is it not merely an artifact?”

To Guto’s surprise, Ashmane laughed. “The Fan is one of the most dangerous magical weapons ever crafted. Did you truly believe the princesses would be so careless as to leave it inert in the wilderness where any foolish creature could claim its power? The Fan is not merely resting within the Heights. It is fortified within the heights. Its enchantment was changed so that it might defend itself from any who seek to usurp its might.”

Guto grimaced. “Can the Fan be claimed without battling its magic?”

“No, your majesty,” replied Ashmane. “The Stewards of the Sun and Moon locked the Wind away after the last fool to wield its power crafted an army from thin air and burned his way across the land, leaving only cinders in his wake.”

“So the Fan can craft an army, then?” demanded Guillemin eagerly.

Ashmane frowned at the prince. “You hear much, yet listen to only a fraction. Did Grizier record so little of the Fan’s history that you do not know its danger?”

“He recorded its power,” said Guto. “A power which would give us the means to reclaim the Idol of Boreas and restore the glory of Griffonstone!”

“Oh, Guto, Guto,” sighed Ashmane, shaking his head sadly. “Have you not listened either? Take heed of my words, if you would truly restore Griffonstone.” The hermit’s gaze bored into Guto. “Even if you could claim it, the Fan cannot save your kingdom.”

Guto felt the spark of hope in his chest whither and die. “Then we are doomed,” he breathed.

“No!” bellowed Ashmane, and for a moment it seemed the hermit was gone, replaced by a warrior of untold power whose frailty was mere illusion. “There is still hope!” With swiftness that bellied his age, he dashed up to Guto, the aura of command lashing like a storm around him. “Griffonstone has all the riches it needs, if its citizens but knew it! If they but looked to things greater than themselves!” He jabbed a forceful hoof into Guto’s chest, driving the astounded griffon back a step. “If their king but rose up and led them down a better path!” Then, to Guto’s mounting shock, he prostrated himself like a groveling petitioner. “I beseech you, your majesty, lead them down a better path! It is not too late! Even in the twilight of your kingdom, there is still a chance to save her! To make her grander than she ever was before! If you would only lead your kingdom to—”

The blow sent Ashmane flying. He crashed against one of the cairns and toppled it, lying sprawled on the ground amidst scattered stones.

Guto’s sword filled his grasp. “Guillemin!” he roared, “What in Tartarus do you think you’re doing?!”

Guillemin flapped contemptuously over to the old stallion he’d struck. “I’ve had quite enough of his blather, father,” replied the prince. Ashmane let out a low moan and Guillemin spat on him. “He insults us, he mocks our kingdom, and now he seeks to cheat us of our riches with talk of deadly magic and dark prophecy? Hah! I think not!”

“My lord, this is unwise!” cautioned Gillian, stepping forward. “We doubt the warnings of the hermit at our own peril—”

“Be silent you lowborn filth!” shrieked Guillemin.

Ashmane gave a weak, wheezing laugh. “Lowborn he may be, yet, if you continue down this path, a descendent of that lowborn griffon will lead Griffonstone where you failed to.”

Guillemin cursed and grabbed the pony by the throat. “I will make you silent, old fool!” He brought back his other forelimb with claws outstretched to spear the helpless pony. Ashmane looked up, unafraid.

Before the prince could strike, Guto lunged forward, smashing into Guillemin and knocking him tail over talons. Guillemin swiftly recovered his footing, only to find himself staring down the length of his father’s sword.

“Enough!” declared the elder griffon. “This pony offered us Hospitality! I will not have you or any others of my house impugn my honor by violating the Old Law in such disgraceful manner!”

“Out of my way, father!” shouted Guillemin. “I will spill the wretch’s blood!”

The sword did not waver. “Then I will spill yours.”

Guillemin’s beak hung open in shock. “You’d… you’d kill… for him?”

Guto glared. “I would.”

Father and son locked eyes. For a moment, it seemed the latter would attack the former. Then Guillemin withdrew, cowed.

A low, rasping chuckle rose cut through the stillness. Turning his head, Guto saw Ashmane rising shakily to his hooves, an approving smile stamped on his features. “Ah, see? The king declares himself,” proclaimed the old stallion, who bowed low before Guto.

Though perplexed by Ashmane’s words, the king nonetheless acknowledged the pony’s respect. “You have my apologies for the prince’s rashness.” He spared a glare at the frightened Guillemin. “It will not happen again.”

“Indeed it will not,” agreed Ashmane. “Though whether that be due to redemption or to tragedy remains to be seen.”

Guto shook his head as he sheathed his sword. “Always cryptic words from you. Answer me this, Ashmane – what did you mean when you said the offspring of Gillian would lead?” Heaven knows, right now I’d happily adopt the boy just to have a better choice of heir.

Ashmane smiled oddly. “You wish me to prophesy for you? Very well. I shall.” The stallion sat and looked to the sky, his face set in contemplation. After a moment’s pause, he spoke:

“You stand now at the crossroads, King Guto. The way you lead your kingdom now shall be the way that the griffons of Griffonstone follow for generations to come. Your first path is easy, but ruinous. If you should pursue the Fan, you will die just as rich as you are now. You and your retinue.”

“Not richer?” interrupted Gilbear.

“No richer, no poorer,” replied Ashmane. “I myself will be your litter bearer and your gravedigger. Your kingdom will fall into squalor, and it shall not rise for many years to come.”

“Who cares,” muttered one griffon. “We’ll be dead anyway.”

Ashmane ignored them. “The second path is hard, but glorious, oh King. It leads through poverty and sacrifice. You yourself shall die without a coin to your name, as shall your sons and many of your retainers.” Guto recoiled in horror, and the other griffons rumbled uneasily. “But,” continued Ashmane with a comforting smile, “the legacy you leave will ensure not only Griffonstone’s survival, but its prosperity for generations to come. A great kingdom will look back upon the foundation you laid and praise you as the first of a new line of kings, and they shall acclaim your loyal followers as fathers of a nation.”

Somber silence greeted Ashmane’s prophecy, only to be broken by snorts of derision from the retinue.

“So we’ll die poor? What use, then, is future glory?”

“Harmonic nonsense!”

“More pony garbage!”

“He’s probably lying anyway!”

“Can you imagine the shame of dying penniless?”

“Better to die with some wealth than none!”

“Beggar!”

“Liar!”

Jeers and insults once more filled the air, and even the cowed Guillemin, bolstered by the supportive ranks of mockery, lent voice to his venom. They accused Ashmane of madness, of attempting to frighten them, and they cried that his warnings of the Fan and the graveyard were but trickery.

Ashmane was deaf to them, his eyes fixed only on Guto. “This is your crossroads, King Guto. Yours is the choice of glory or ruination.”

Guto shook under the stallion’s challenge, his emotions at war within him. I want to save my kingdom. Truly I do! If this Ashmane speaks the truth, then there is only one way forward, but… to die without even a coin to my name… what end is that for a king?

His gaze swept over the retinue, all of whom, save Gillian, were jeering. How could I possibly lead them to Ashmane’s ‘Harmony’? These griffons for whom cairns and visions are not enough? He shut his eyes and turned away.

Who would follow me?

Gillian might.

Yes, but what are two griffons against a kingdom? Even my own sons do not listen!

Does it matter whether or not they listen, if other griffons do?

But can I take this gamble? Who knows if this pony is what he claims to be?

You’ve witnessed his power. What else could he be?

A liar?

But why would he lie?

Griffons seek gold! That is how we have always lived!

Would it not be better to live for something more lasting than earthly riches?

Yes… it would…

… if any griffon was capable of such a thing.

King Guto made his decision.

“We make for the Fan,” he declared. “It is our only hope.”

In that moment, the air seemed to change, as though the winds themselves sensed that the currents of history had shifted.

Ashmane bowed his head. “So be it.”

The griffons cheered, egged on by Gilbear and Guillemin. Gillian cheered too, but his excitement was strained, forced, and his wings ruffled nervously.

One by one, the soldiers took to the sky, spiraling upwards into a formation that hovered above. Gillian was the last to take off before Guto himself, but, just as he was spreading his wings, he paused and addressed Ashmane. “Seer,” the young griffon said respectfully, “I, too, must ask what you meant by your words of my future.”

Ashmane did not look up, but answered, “I meant exactly what I said. Be grateful, for hope lives on in your lineage.”

“But that’s just it,” protested Gillian. “My wife and I haven’t…” his voice caught. “We can’t…” He looked away in grief. Guto tilted his head in confusion, not understanding.

Now Ashmane did look up. He approached the young griffon and touched him with a gentle hoof. “I know well of your tears in the night, Gillian, son of Gideon. Take heart! Your barren pain shall end! This I have seen. From your line shall come the one who will restore Griffonstone. And, though she will not know its significance, she will bear your wife’s name.”

“But Gilda and I can’t have children!” protested Gillian. Guto’s eyes widened, and compassion tugged at his heart.

“You have suffered long,” said Ashmane kindly. “But have hope. Your longing shall be answered.” At his words, a great peace seemed to come upon Gillian, and the young griffon smiled.

Guto marveled at the certainty of Ashame’s promise, only to quail under his gaze when the hermit turned his piercing eyes upon him.

“Provided that the king remembers his true richness when the time comes,” declared Ashmane.

Thanking the old stallion, Gillian leapt into the air wearing the brightest smile Guto had ever seen.

Now alone of the griffons, Guto waited, desiring to bid farewell to the strange pony. Ashmane, for his part, had stepped over to the edge of the graveyard to fetch a cloth bundle. When opened, it proved to contain a pick and shovel. The pony unpacked the tools, then sat, his gaze fixed upon the ground.

Guto opened his beak to say his goodbye, but found it hard to form the words. A strange foreboding settled like a yoke across his shoulders, and the weight increased with each passing second.

This is foolish! he rebuked himself. The decision is made!

Can a king not take back his words?

Not without appearing weak!

Why won’t Ashmane look up?

“Thank you for your Hospitality, old one,” said the king.

Ashmane was silent for a moment before saying softly, “It would have been better if you had taken my advice, and not my fish.”

A cold dread chilled Guto to the bone. He found himself unable to bear the pony’s presence any longer and leapt into the air to put as much distance as he could between himself and the prophet. His warriors formed up around him and they flew towards the Hurricane Heights and destiny.

We shall conquer! Guto assured himself. We must! The pony’s cryptic warnings mean nothing! He kept his gaze forward, repeating confident promises to himself, resisting the urge to turn around.

Guto did manage to keep his course straight, but he could not prevent himself from looking back. Just once. With his eagle-eyed vision, he saw Ashmane hard at work. A horrified heartbeat later, Guto snapped his eyes forward and fixed them on their destination, trying with all his might to will away the disturbing act he’d seen. But, try as he might, he could not outrun the knowledge.

Ashmane was already digging the first grave.

The King

Harsh was the wind that beat down upon them as they entered the pass between the twin peaks of the Hurricane Heights. Guto was grateful they had taken the time to rest and eat before braving the ascent.

But thoughts of their meal of fruit and fish only brought back memories of their host and the grim portents he had read in their futures. Guto quickly drove those thoughts from his mind. There is no turning back now.

Higher and higher into the pass they rose. Grizier’s writings had said that the Fan of the Four Winds lay near the top of the Heights, where the shoulders of the two mountains touched. Already they had climbed a great distance, and the wind whipped the snow into their faces. Soon, even the sharp eyes of the griffons had difficulty penetrating the weather. Soldiers shivered and complained of the biting cold and the poor lines of sight.

Guto ignored them and watched the mountainsides, mindful of the hermit’s warning. He said the Fan would try to stop us, but we’ve flown for hours and faced only the wind. Perhaps this is the full fury of the Fan? Could any pegasi born face these winds without a griffon’s strength?

He tried to tell himself that they could not, and that was why the graveyard below was filled with dead questors, but in his heart, he knew this to be false.

A part of him yearned to turn around. But I cannot, he thought with a grimace. I have made my gamble.

Guto narrowed his eyes against the lashing ice and the shrouded visibility and urged his warriors on. With each passing wingbeat, their destiny grew closer.

With each passing wingbeat, the wind grew colder.

“King Guto!” Gillian had to shout to be heard over the driving wind. “I think I see a light in the distance!”

Guto looked to where the young griffon was pointing and squinted, willing his eyes to pierce the veil. At first, he saw nothing but driving snow. Gillian’s eyes were far younger and sharper, after all. But as the griffons drew closer, he saw, faintly at first, a distant, gleaming light at the heart of the storm.

Magic, it was. Great and powerful.

The Fan! thought Guto. We’re so close!

Grinning, the king twisted his head to face his followers and shouted, “Our prize is in sight! Redouble your efforts, and watch for any trickery—”

A double blur of pale blue and white flashed across his vision and struck two of the vanguard, sending them sailing backwards with cries of pain. Guto snapped his gaze around to follow the blurs, but even as he did a second pair zipped past and smote another two soldiers.

“Ambush!” he bellowed, loosing his sword from its scabbard. “Formation! Watch for harriers!”

Cursing and swearing the griffons drew themselves into lines of battle, scanning the skies for additional threats.

They found none.

Guto turned to see what had become of his vanguard and saw, to his surprise, that the griffons were not slain or even bloodied – merely battered. A warning, then?

“What struck you?” he demanded.

“M- my liege, I don’t know!” stammered one griffon. “It felt like I got punched, but I’ve never seen anything move like—”

A horrified gasp rippled down the line. Guto realized, to his dismay, that all eyes were fixed upon something behind him. Snapping his gaze around, he saw their attackers.

There were four of them. Pegasi they were, or rather would have been if pegasi were ethereal creatures of pale blue and white – air taking the form of solidity in faintly gleaming constructs that hovered between them and the Fan, unmoved by the elements. The lines that etched their false flesh and faux armor were living strands of breeze and blizzard, and white light shone from their implacable, unliving eyes.

The four wind warriors made no sound, at least none that could be heard over the blizzard, but their message was clear.

Come no further.

“Grover’s eyes, the stories were true!” cried Gillian.

All too true, thought the king.

“They’re… they’re magnificent!” exclaimed Guillemin. “Soldiers, springing from the air itself!”

Gilbear grinned in agreement. “Soldiers who cannot be bribed or disobey orders!”

Guillemin laughed, his mirth tinged with madness. “What more could a king ever need?”

“A way past them?” suggested Gillian sardonically.

“Bah!” sneered Guillemin. “There are only four!”

“Four that we see!” countered one of the older soldiers. “Those things came out of nowhere!”

Guto stroked his beak and studied the wind warriors. They showed no desire to attack, but neither were they moving. They are indeed only four to our twenty-one, but that advantage may not last. We shall have to be crafty about this if we are to reach the Fan and take control before we are overwhelmed.

His soldiers had fallen to bickering over the danger this new threat posed, with the princes trusting in griffon steel and strength to win the day, Gillian advising that they scout the enemy, and the rest of the griffons backing one party or the other. Guto ignored them and continued pondering.

It would be wisest if we probe their strengths first. Perhaps make multiple sorties. Such a course of action will take time, perhaps enough time that we must descend the mountain and reprovision, but it may be necessary. He frowned. Then again, that may only give them time to learn our own strengths. Ah, if only Ashmane had told us more of the defenses!

The bickering of the griffons grew increasingly heated. Guto tuned them out.

But I think he would not have told us even if we asked, admitted the king. And if we were to ask now, and he refused, I doubt I could prevent my sons murdering him. No, we shall have to—

“You cowards think these warriors invincible?” challenged Guillemin.

Guto turned and, to his horror, saw the prince brandish his spear at the wind warriors.

“Here!” cried Guillemin, hefting his spear to fling. “I will show you!”

“NO!” roared Guto, lunging for his son.

For a moment, time slowed to a crawl. Guto beat his wings harder than he ever had in his life, flying like an arrow to prevent what was about to happen. He was fast.

Not fast enough.

The spear sailed through the air and struck one of the wind warriors in the head. It passed through the construct and vanished into the storm. In its wake, the warrior dissolved into the ether, becoming one with the wind that had birthed it.

No griffon spoke. The wind howled. Guto watched with baited breath.

Laughter cut through the storm, mad with relief and power. “See?” cackled Guillemin. “They are not invincible! Forward, warriors! Let us claim what is ours!” Roaring his battlecry, he surged forward. Not waiting for the word of the king, the others followed, leaving Guto and loyal Gillian alone at the rear.

“Your majesty?” asked Gillian uncertainly.

Guto watched the charge, seeing nineteen griffons ready to sweep three warriors away. It ought to be a rout. But it won’t be.

“After them!” he ordered, not knowing what else to do.

The king and his retainer followed the triumphant charge as they fell upon the three wind warriors. Rather than facing their superior numbers, the three fell back, zipping to and fro and fouling the griffons’ charge while staying just out of reach.

“Look how they run!” mocked Gilbear.

They’re not running, Guto knew. They’re drawing us in! This is… out of the corner of his eye he saw the first flashes diving for the disorganized griffons. “Left flank! Left flank!” he shouted desperately.

The wind warriors struck like lightning, slashing across the griffon lines with such speed that Guto could barely track them. This time they did not strike with blunted hooves, but with wind-forged blades. Griffons cried in agony as blood sprayed into the storm. Two griffons nursed wounds. Two more tumbled to the ground with shredded wings, their cries lost in the blizzard.

Before the line could recover, another attack slashed across from the right. This time, some of the veteran soldiers managed to block and counterattack, and Guto saw one wind warrior vaporized by a lucky strike, but another griffon fell lifeless from the sky as two others were gravely injured.

Prince Guillemin, realizing his blunder, attempted to reform the line. He shouted commands to the griffon fighters, attempting to scream them back into formation. So intent was he on the task that he had no hope of avoiding the warrior who slipped in behind him.

“Guillemin! Behind you!” roared Guto desperately as he and Gillian reached the formation.

The prince turned just in time to see the warrior swing its blade. For an instant, he hung in the air.

Then his body plummeted earthward, his head following after.

Guto’s anguished wail echoed in the storm.

But there was no time for grief, as more warriors joined the fray. Dozens. Scores. Hundreds. They pressed on the griffons from all sides and, though they were easily dispatched, they were not easily seen. One by one the griffons fell to their harrying strikes. Guto smote warrior after warrior, but there seemed to be no end to them.

Gilbear, at his side, split a warrior in half with his axe and pointed up the mountain. “We’ll have to break through and seize the Fan now if we’re to do it at all!”

“If we do that, we’re dead for sure!” shouted Gillian. “My liege, we must withdraw, it’s our only hope!”

Guto’s heart, the heart of an aggrieved father, would hear no word of retreat. But Ashmane’s warning rang in his mind. So the king put aside his grief. “We’ll dive for the ground and slip out along the lower edge of the pass!” he ordered.

“Are you mad?!” shouted Gilbear. “We can’t leave now! We’re so close!”

Another griffon died in a spray of blood and feathers. Guto ground his beak. “It’s our only chance!” Raising his voice to be heard above the wind, he cried, “Retreat! Make for the bottom of the pass! Retreat!”

The king dove groundward, and the remaining seven griffons followed behind. Two did not survive more than a second, being cut down as they twisted in the air to dive.

And they were not the last to die. The wind warriors pursued them, hacking down any griffon who wasn’t quick enough to dodge or parry. Soon, Guto’s seven were whittled down to three, then two – Gillian on his right, and Gilbear on his left. “Just get out of the pass!” he shouted over the wind. “Just get out of the pass and they’ll stop chasing us!”

Guto heard a shout of affirmation from Gillian, but not from the prince. He soon found out why. Twisting his neck, he saw that Gilbear’s flight had turned to a plummet. His son had died without a sound.

Mute with pain, Guto could not but stare in anguish, all thoughts of safety banished from his mind.

“My king look out—aaurgh!”

Gillian’s cry snapped Guto to action. The young griffon had been watching when he had not, and intercepted the blade of a wind warrior with his own body. Now he was falling, his wing and back ravaged by the strike. Acting on instinct, the king slew the warrior that had struck his last follower and dove for Gillian. He caught the griffon and twisted, banking hard away from the largest group of pursuers.

“Flee, your majesty!” begged Gillian. “Leave me!”

“Never!” snarled the king. “Never fear, boy, I’ll get you out of this yet!” He looked at Gillian’s damaged wing and blanched. “Can you still fly?” demanded Guto.

Gillian flinched. “I’ll just slow you down—”

“Can you still fly?!”

“Y- yes,” stammered Gillian. “I believe I can.”

A wind warrior blocked their path and Guto slashed it in twain with his sword. But there were more coming from every angle. No escape! he thought. I could perhaps cut my way through if I was alone, but with Gillian—

More warriors gathered.

—I’ll never make it. I’ll never make it, and without the Fan, Griffonstone is doomed!

He cut down two warriors and ducked under a third.

I have doomed my kingdom! There is not hope, unless…

Guto’s eyes drifted to Gillian, and the prophet’s words echoed in his mind.

The king made his decision.

“Give me your sword, Gillian.” Wordlessly, the soldier obeyed. The wind warriors now swirled around them, seeking to pen them in. “Listen well. I want you to dive straight for the ground. Stick as close as you can to the mountainside and slip out. Crawl if you have to. Make your way to Ashmane’s – I have a feeling the old relic will heal you.”

“What about you?” demanded Gillian, watching the enemy fearfully.

The heavy talons of fate rested on Guto’s shoulders. “I will keep them occupied.”

Gillian’s eyes widened in horror. “But—"

“Do as I command!” roared Guto. Then, with a fatherly smile, he said, “Remember the prophet’s words. The hope of our kingdom rests with you.”

Tears welled in the young griffon’s eyes, and he saluted.

King Guto nodded approvingly. “Live for us, Gillian, son of Gideon.” Then he flew forth, spreading himself as large as he could to draw the wind warriors’ attention. “Come to me you mindless monsters!” He flapped mightily, drawing away from the injured griffon. “I am going to claim your Fan! Stop me if you dare!”

The wind warriors accepted his challenge, charging straight for him and him alone. Guto laughed triumphantly and shouted, “Fly, Gillian, fly!” Without a backwards glance, he soared back toward the Fan.

Escape no longer entered Guto’s thoughts. Now, his only mission was to buy time. He dove, ducked, and slashed, pouring every ounce of energy remaining into cutting a path to the Fan. Wind warriors that rose to stop him he either dodged or destroyed. Three, ten, a dozen, a score. The mighty king fought as he had never fought before, wielding two swords as easily as one. His foes died in a silent parade of annihilation.

But they did not die impotently. They sliced and cut the king, bleeding him as they evaporated. His blood wicked away in the driving snowstorm, and he felt his strength failing. His swings became sluggish, his vision dim. As he clove two warriors in half with a double stroke of his blades, he missed the third driving in from the right.

The spear bit deep into his flesh, and he tasted blood. One sword fell limply from his claws. Marshalling his dwindling strength, he smote his foe with the remaining blade, grinning in grim satisfaction as the warrior vanished. There was a sharp impact in his back, and suddenly he couldn’t feel his wings. He looked down to see red staining his chest. Then he started to fall.

As the wind whistled in his ears and his vision grew dark, Guto found his thoughts drifting with the currents of the wind. Grief, regret, and fear were snatched away by the rush of air around him.

All of this, and I never even saw the Fan, he mused absently. Heh. It’s almost funny.

His eyes had grown so dim that he could not even see the ground. Guto wasn’t certain he would live long enough to feel the impact. But he couldn’t be bothered to care about that. Instead, he just prayed that, if Ashmane was right about all the races coming from the same Source, there’d still be a Harmonious place for fools like him. I pray that… and that Gillian might live.

As the king closed his eyes, he chose to believe that the young griffon had escaped. King Guto wanted his last thoughts to be of hope.

Ashmane mopped a hoof across his sweating brow and rested against his shovel. He’d been hard at work for hours and was only now starting the second grave. It would take time to dig twenty of them. Longer yet if the number proved to be twenty-one.

Please, Guto, be wiser than that! he begged.

Setting once more to task, he thrust with his shovel. The blade bit deeply into the earth, and the grave became one step closer to readiness. Celestia’s scorching sun beat down upon the ancient stallion, but he did not slacken his work. He had a long way to go before he slept.

Then, abruptly, he stopped and turned his eyes to the Heights. Miles away as he was, his mortal eyes could not see what transpired in the pass between the mountains. Yet he bore witness all the same. To pride, to tragedy, to a final act of true heroism and kingship, and to a long fall.

With solemn voice, the prophet intoned:

“So perishes Guto Gildedclaw, son of Grettir, fifth of his name, the Last King of Griffonstone.”