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.”