//------------------------------// // The Hermit // Story: The Last King // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// It had taken three days’ hard flying north to reach the Straight of Gaius, which the Equestrians called the Straight 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.