//------------------------------//
// The Lost Idol 
// Story: The Last King 
// by Antiquarian 
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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?”