//------------------------------// // Chapter 20 - Services Rendered // Story: Bad Mondays // by Handyman //------------------------------// "Klipwing?" "Yes, milord?" the nasally voice of the young griffon responded. He lightly wrapped his talons across the wooden clipboard he clutched in his claws. "What exactly am I looking at here?" Handy asked. Both of them were in a barn on Haywatch farms. He had been impressed to see the fields ready for the harvest, and farm griffons already were tending to the work. It was the first time he ever personally met any of his farmworkers and was pleased to learn they were a hardworking bunch. Surprisingly friendly too. However, none of them could adequately explain what Handy now saw before him, nor how it came to be where it now lay. He looked behind them at the barnyard door where a pair of farmer griffons were having an argument over the proper placement of tools when they were not being used. There were distinct marks along the ground where the large object had apparently been dragged into the barn, which only raised more questions. Klipwing cleared his throat. "I-it appears to be a-uh, a hull," he said. Handy turned to look at the young griffon. He had brown, almost red feathers with a darker brown shadow framing his blue eyes, a typical yellowish brown pelt and wings to match his eye shadow. The object before them could be best described as a ship of sorts. It had a typically shaped hull if not for the fact that there was no 'deck' to speak of. Instead, the sloping wooden frame merely stopped and levelled off, leaving a massive hullspace. The barn they were currently in was a particularly sizeable one used to store vast amounts of crops and supplies during harsh weather and was ordinarily filled to the brim with vats, tanks, crates, ploughs, and other necessary goods a farm needed. All of that had been put outside, however, to make room for this ship which took up virtually all of the space within, and if the farmers were to be believed, it had all happened overnight. Not a single one of them had seen the delivery take place. Handy didn't believe that for a minute. However, he'd leave plans for the Haywatch Inquisition aside as soon as he decided how he felt about a ship being dumped on his property. Handy walked over to its side and pulled on a loop of strong rope. It held fast. There was an awful lot of rope hanging down its sides, but there was no mast to speak of. Looking to the side of the barn, there were several piles of shaped iron fastenings and several sacks filled with bolts. "What the hell am I going to do with a ship?" he asked, still half awake. Klipwing had stumbled into the room he owned in the castle early that morning. "Well its not really uh-a ship, milord," Klipwing said, flapping his wings and alighting on the prow of the shape. He lifted up what appeared to be a rather large sheet of thick, dark, purple cloth. However, it had the wrong texture to be cloth. "What is that?" Handy asked. "It’s the balloon," Klipwing replied. "Balloon?" Handy asked, brow furrowing as the gears turned in his head. Eventually it clicked, and his eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me..." It had been considerably longer than a week since he arrived back from Canterlot, and Fancy Pant's promised payment had not materialized. Handy had scoffed and put the silver chains he had been tasked with aside. Now, however, Klipwing landed in front of him and handed him a sheet of paper. 'Sincerest apologies, but it was ever so much trouble trying to find a way to deliver this without raising eyebrows. I do hope you enjoy it. F.P.' "Found it on top," Klipwing explained. "Do you know what it means?" he asked. Handy decided to just nod and roll the sheet up. Well, he had been complaining about having to walk everywhere before. Now it looked like he wouldn't need to. However, a thought interrupted him, and his happy grin faltered for a moment. Exactly what in the hell was he carrying that was worth a goddamn airship? Crimson Shade couldn't tell what kind of enchantment was placed upon the chains but confirmed Handy's suspicion that they were obviously magical in nature. It had not been the only reason he had visited her, having decided it wise to regularly check on the pony he had bitten in order to see if his bite had any adverse effects. He discovered it did not, thankfully, for she grew no fangs and had no new taste for the sanguine. Though if she hadn't been turned, Handy failed to come up with a reason why the alchemists suddenly treated the pony with the fear and respect ordinarily reserved for drill sergeants. Although he did hear it had something to do with buckets... A thought struck him. "Klipwing, how much does it cost to run an airship?" "Oh well, first there's the fuel, then there's the registration fee, insurance, landing fees..." Klipwing rattled off the various first time expenses and likely payments Handy would have to make in the course of running the ship. Handy frowned. --=-- She stalked down the corridors of the castle, only the sound of the rain pelting the windows and the clink of her mail accompanying her as she went. It had been over a month since she had been set free but even so... It still felt unreal. She shuddered, sometimes she could still imagine seeing that hateful sneer and his clammy talons. But then she'd wake up, and she'd be in her bed again and he'd still be dead. She was safe, she reminded herself. He could no longer get to her anymore. No longer would he use what she held dearest against her. She stopped and gazed out a window, the nightlights of the city shining so far below like a patch of Luna's stars that had fallen from the heavens and alighted upon the ground. Perhaps she should take the night off and go to the healer she left her with. Hirsild stayed with her most days, but it sometimes pained her to be away. She was doing well, or so she had been told. Thankfully, Geoffrey hadn't harmed her further. He didn’t need to - the threat had been enough. She shuffled her wings; the very thought summoned forth a rage in her so fierce that it threatened to overtake her completely. She was brought back to reality by the sharp sound of metal scraping against stone. Looking down, she saw three claw marks in the floor and raised her armoured claw to her face. She had unconsciously clenched her claw in her anger, cutting into the floor. She shook her head and continued walking. The few guards she passed stiffened to attention. Eventually, the sound of clashing metal drew her attention, and she took a left turn, following the echoing noise. She came to the indoor training room. Smaller than the courtyards the knights and the guards normally used but still fully equipped. It was there she saw the human, flailing wildly at a training dummy with a glaive. He was clumsy, swinging the polearm haphazardly and inefficiently, his face contorted with the effort. She stood there, a light smile crossing her avian features as she watched the human struggle. Credit where credit was due, he was trying his best, but the glaive, she thought, just wasn't his weapon. Neither was the hammer, she considered. Admittedly, he wielded it with some skill, but his flailing left himself open way too often than would be survivable in a real fight against somegriffon like her. Her smile shrank a bit as she recalled her last conversation with him. He knew she threw the fight and was insulted. She had to do it for the good of the kingdom and for her own concerns. To redeem herself for siding, wrongly, with Geoffrey in the first place... and to save her from his clutches. She supposed he was right. She did owe him. She cocked her head, thinking as she watched him, his chainmail glittering in what streams of moonlight pierced the rain clouds to shine through the windows. "You know, that glaive is a bit too short for you," she said, smiling lightly. The human stumbled mid swing, turning and looking up at her in surprise. His look of confusion settled more into the passive, perpetually near-frowning face he always wore when he wasn’t hiding behind that helmet of his. "Shortbeak," he said by way of greeting. She took a few steps forward, a thought forming in her mind as she spied a small, sharp sliver of metal at the human's belt. It looked familiar, and she slowly drew the connections in her mind. "A bit late to be practicing, don't you think?" she commented as she continued approaching the human and the griffon-shaped dummy. The human rested the glaive against the dummy. "Couldn't sleep. And I need the practice if I'm going to be keeping this," he said. The glaive really was a bit too short for him. It was designed to be used by a griffon the haft of which, when at ease and sitting on their haunches, reached their forehead from the ground. From there, the blade extended nearly another foot in height. It was designed for mid-air combat rather than fighting on the ground. Handy, however, stood at six foot, give or take a few centimetres. The glaive was only five feet when you counted the blade. It was a very different beast from what a human glaive would be, but Handy was not going to argue with the new reach the weapon afforded him. "How may I help thee?" he asked impassively. Funny how defensive he got sometimes. "Nervous?" she asked. He looked confused. "About the tournament," she said, rolling her eyes. He snorted. "Of course not." “Oh? Then why can’t you sleep?” she asked, circling around the dummy. “Just… a bad night,” Handy said, picking up his glaive again. In truth, Handy had been having difficulty sleeping for a while now ever since the duel. Sure, not having dreams is wont to make a man cranky over time, but if he wasn’t dreaming, then why did he find himself waking up in cold sweats every other night? Shortbeak looked at him sceptically before inspecting the dummy further. “You know you’re going to need to step up your game a little,” she said casually. “You’ll be the only participating knight from Gethrenia there.” Handy raised an eyebrow at that. “No one else?” he asked. She nodded. “Shame, but I am really only in it to seek someone out in particular .” “Heh,” Shortbeak said. The dummy had received a few prominent nicks from the human’s blows, but nothing serious. “I meant what I said before. You may have talent, but you’re rough around the edges. You’ll have to participate in the whole tournament, not just fight that ponce of a prince.” “I can handle myself.” “Oh I’m sure,” she teased, smiling at the irritated look on the human’s face. “I am not one to boast,” Handy said sternly, “but I did not make it this far by being weak.” “I never implied you were,” Shortbeak said, raising a claw to placate him, “only that you need to be better.” “What doth thou care?” he snapped at her. “Not as if thou were honest with me before, why the concern now?” She looked hard at him for a moment before responding. “You’ll be representing Gethrenia. You may not boast, but your reputation precedes you. There are going to be a lot of eyes on that tournament.” “I carest not.” “I care about you making a poor show in front of the king,” she said quickly. “There’s going to be a lot of participants eager to face down the ‘dragon slayer’,” she warned. Handy kept silent and looked to the side. She glanced down at the sharp dagger by his belt once more. It was a crude thing, clearly home-made, sharpened out of spare metal. Quite like another she had seen. She smiled. “And more to the point, I do owe you an apology after all,” she said. That got his attention, and he looked at her warily. “Prepared to finally admit, then?” he pressed. “If thou were concerned I’d spread the word, thou wouldst need not worry. I have no intention of undermining Johan’s authority by implying the fight was thrown.” She shook her head simply, and her smile was replaced with the cold indifferent look he was greeted to when he first met her. “Only if you admit to your own misdeeds first,” she said. He cocked an eyebrow. “And what misdeeds are those? I have committed no crime.” “Perhaps…” she mused, thinking of all the others she had looked into surrounding the death. All of them checked out, all of them had alibis including the human, who had the convincing story of having been stabbed at the time. Still… “Perhaps not.” She walked over to the far wall and picked out a spear from the wall. “Still, I’ll not stand for you acting like an amateur out on the field.” “I am far from an-” His eyes widened, and he hurriedly raised his glaive above his head to block an overhead strike by the griffon. He had forgotten how fast she was. She whipped the spear up, drew it back, and stabbed it forward. The human had to dodge to the side, leaving his midsection open. She tapped his chest lightly, and he stood there, gawking down at the spear tip hovering a centimetre from his mail. “Anygriffon can kill a monster,” she said. “You’ll be fighting against trained warriors.” “I’ve done that before.” “Without any magic,” she said, the human frowning at her in return. “I have none,” he protested, swinging his glaive down, one handed to swat her spear away. “No, but you’re like those night ponies aren’t you? Not as if you bother to hide it much,” she pointed out, silence her only answer. “You won’t get that opportunity there, not with Johan watching you, I should think,” she warned. His gaze narrowed, and he took a defence posture, gripping his glaive in both hands. She waited for him to move next, which eventually he did when it became obvious she wasn’t budging. The dummy, long forgotten about as the target of the exercise, soon became an obstacle as the pair lunged and parried with their polearms. He was slowly becoming more and more infuriated. As lightly encumbered as she was in a half suit of mail and a light cuirass, she was much, much faster than she was last time. Her large wings, far from being a hindrance, allowed her to almost glide an inch above the floor when she moved. With a twitch, she moved a metre to the side, and he was forced to completely reset his footing to keep up with her. After the third or fourth time, she managed to score a point. By then, Handy eventually decided to stop playing by the rules. After another unsuccessful lunge, she glided to his right, behind the dummy. He knew what she was going to do now. She was going to wait for him to swing around and come around the far side of the dummy wherein she would either just leap over the dummy or come around his flank and score yet another point. So he gave the dummy a tremendous kick, sending it flying backwards and catching the griffon completely off guard. She stumbled, wings flapping to regain her balance. It was too late. He was already upon her and swung his glaive down, stopping it just at her neck. “Like I said…” Handy breathed, “I can handle myself.” He scowled at her as he withdrew the glaive. She merely flapped her wings once in response before setting them at her side, leaning on her spear. “Well, at least you have sense enough to use your surroundings, but I believe I’ve proven my point. You need proper preparation,” she commented, “Nice dagger,” she said, looking pointedly at the knife at Handy’s waist. His hand absently crossed over it. “It’s… more for utility than anything else,” he said. “I’ll bet,” she said, “I saw one just like it not too long ago.” She smiled wryly before turning and walking to the door. “What? That’s it?” Handy said, not catching the bird’s implications “Thou just walk in here, spout some nonsense, attack me, and then walk off?” “You’re tired and not at your best,” she said without turning back. “Get some sleep. You’ll need the energy.” “For what?” he asked. She turned back to him, her own eyebrow raised. “For training of course,” she said. “You don’t think I’m letting you off this easy, do you? We’ll begin properly tomorrow.” Handy boggled at her. “Wait,” he said sternly. She stopped at the door to look back at him. “If I accept thine training, wilt thou then be honest with me?” There was silence for a few moments as she stood there, studying his face. The human had to be, by far, the single most stubborn and isolated person she knew. And angry, which seemed more and more to be his default mood setting. He had hidden depths, however. She had been impressed by his actions in Ifrendare, worthy of any knight of the king. He always seemed resolutely determined to do whatever he was required to do, never backing down from anything even if it seemed unlikely he would prevail. A trait she noticed about him back in the kitchens. ’If he were only a griffon…’ “In time,” she said, looking away. She had been very, very careful to limit anygriffon’s knowledge of her. She knew she was being paranoid, but she couldn’t help it. Handy, if she was right, was responsible for ensuring that beast would never lay a talon on her ever again. She could trust him, right? “But not yet. Goodnight, Handy,” she said as she left the human in the training room. --=-- Blueblood gasped for breath as his head broke the water level. He was being dragged down by his armour, and it was a struggle to avoid sinking let alone resisting the torrent of water threatening to drag him and the other recruits away. “MOVE MOVE MOVE! I DON’T THINK ANY OF YOU WANT TO GRADUATE!” “I-I d-don-” “AIR IS FOR BREATHING, NOT TALKING! MOVE IT!” The abuse, his near constant companion these past two months, spurred him on, fearing the wrath of Bright Lance and the instructors he subcontracted into training him. Let us briefly recount the sufferings of the good prince for a short while, shall we? The first thing Blueblood had to learn, and by far the hardest, was humility. Well, at least as far as taking orders rather than giving them for once. Ever since Bright Lance had been placed in charge of training the colt, he had suffered numerous lacerations, bruises, and the occasional broken bone. Elder guardsmen were only too eager to help train him in the finer points of defensive weapon practice and armour use much to the prince’s own personal torment. When he wasn’t having sense beaten into him the hard way, Blueblood had been forced to wake up at least three hours earlier then he was accustomed and hurtled into a world of rigorous exercise and training. Hours long hikes, drills, and the drudgery of ‘make work’ with the intention of instilling in ponies an iron bound sense of discipline became his new routine. Now, normally such training was reserved for ponies who already had some soldiery experience under their saddlebags. Veterans of militia service or the princesses’ own gold-cloak standing levies who, through promotion or volunteerism, were brought here to ‘the camp’ to be forged into the royal guards. Blueblood was no such pony. His lungs burned as he went off at a gallop. Now finally out of the water, there was now the six mile trek to the waystation through the long and winding stallion-bane incline. Endurance training such as this was intended to equalize and extend pony stamina. Pegasi and earth ponies had an advantage in this regard, both naturally more athletic than their unicorn cousins, but even pegasi had to have their wings tied and forced to march through the dangerous terrain. Unicorns had a harder time, of course, and for once, Blueblood cursed the large frame he had been blessed with since Bright Lance saw fit to weigh him down with heavier armour complete with saddlebags filled with sand. Had it been merely just a six mile run, it’d be more bearable. He let out a girlish shriek and jumped to the side as a long pole swung out from under nearby bushes, triggered by an unknown mechanism and intended to trip recruits. He had fallen for that trap many times before and was not keen on doing so again. When he finally made the six mile run, he was all but ready to collapse on the spot. Most ponies would to be, but there was to be no rest for the wicked. “ON YOUR FEET!” He flinched at the sound of the voice and struggled back to his hooves, looking up at the unforgiving visage of Bright Lance. “DUELING RING! CLAW PRACTICE! NOW!” Bright Lance shouted. Blueblood hesitated, matted down with dirt and freezing from the early morning soak in the river. How did Bright Lance even get here so fast? A hoof cupped him over the ear with more force than the prince had been expecting, and he complied with the order, his face a fearful mask as he ran across the muddy expanse to the barracks. He hurriedly entered and put on the combat boots, clenching his hoof in the way he had been thought to bring the blades down. He heard more shouting. “Please…” he muttered to himself, his eye twitching, “Please let this all be a nightmare… Luna will walk in any second now, yeah, and then-” “DID YOU GET LOST YOU SACK OF FERTILIZER? GET OUT HERE!” “Uwahaaa!” he yelped, as he stumbled out from the barracks, a loud crash behind him as he knocked over something. Bright Lance grimaced, watching the unicorn kick up mud as he galloped over to the ring for his bout of hoof to hoof combat, passing by the pony recruits firing crossbows at targets. He was doing surprisingly well, all things considered, for his walk through Tartarus. He had, however, been reduced to a snivelling mess early in the training, but Bright Lance had dealt with ponies who broke easily before and managed to keep the prince moving in spite of it. “I don’t know why you’re going so easy on him.” His ear flicked at the voice, and he turned to regard the stark white mare, with the severely cut grey mane and the silver shield cutie mark. Her azure eyes did nothing to soften the expression she wore upon her aged face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his own expression not changing from his dispassionate countenance. “He’ll never reach his potential if you continue mollycoddling him,” she said as the stallion in question was thrown to the ground by the veteran Thestral guard he was duelling with, light lacerations across his flank. They heard him whinnying pathetically in pain. “After a month and a half of steady training, I’ve now had him up for five days now with barely more than four hours sleep, and I’ve been running him ragged,” Bright Lance said, harrumphing. “Considering the wretch he was beforehand, I think I’ve done right by him.” “Like I said, mollycoddling,” Iron Shield replied. Another flurry of slashes and Blueblood was on the ground again, a shoulder guard ripped from his armour and cast aside. The Thestral wasn’t even of the winged variety this time yet he was still struggling to keep up. “He’ll never learn what he needs to here; everything’s too controlled.” “What would you suggest? His training is nearly over. He’ll pass with marginal marks as it stands.” A small smile cracked the stony face of the elder mare. --=-- He groaned and turned over, his body aching. He had a nice long sleep after the rigors of the previous day, peaceful even. He was grateful for the rest; the previous week had been absolutely awful. So when he got the chance to finally lay his head down, his body went straight to sleep, eager to catch as much rest as equinely possible. He slept soundly, not even dreaming, only vaguely aware of the familiar chill as the wind brushed his fur. He frowned in his sleep. That was strange. Ah well, perhaps a board fell out of place and was letting a draft in. He didn’t really care. He just lay there as his mind slowly woke up in the half-asleep state where one is only vaguely aware of their body and the world around him. The rustling of the trees was peaceful and lulled him back to sleep. He guess his trial must be over, seeing as he got more than a half hour’s rest that night. Indeed, strange as it was, he was sleeping a lot longer than he normally would have even before his walk through Tartarus. Perhaps Bright Lance was finally giving him a break? He snorted in his rest. That was a fat chance; he probably got distracted by something. Blueblood intended to capitalise on that as he lay there, enjoying the relaxing sound of the tree rustling over his head and warm kiss of sunlight upon his- Wait a minute. His eyes shot open and he looked about. He was outside, lying on a gravel path. He didn’t recognise these trees. He got to his hooves and noted he was no longer wearing his padded armour. He looked around in a panic. He was on some kind of trail overlooking a dried up ravine, mountains soaring upwards all around him. “Whe- What…” He breathed heavily as he struggled to rationalize where he was, trying to prevent himself from panicking. He backed up away from the ravine edge which he had been lying dangerously close to, squealing like a filly when his rear bumped into a particularly sharp branch of a small tree. He bucked instinctively with all his might, causing a satisfying cracking sound. He turned on the poor tree he had struck and discovered a small, tan bag at its base. He opened it and discovered a pair of bladed combat boots, a small canister that appeared to be filled with water, and a note. He hurriedly unfolded it. Private Blueblood. As of reading this letter, you have now begun your graduation examination. Your orders are to use all of your training to survive in this wilderness and find your way back to civilization. The nearest settlement is within thirty miles of your current location due north west. You are to make it there before nightfall on the third day or else you face remedial training. You have been supplied with all you require. Good luck. Blueblood stared at the page for a long moment, reading it again and again as if the words would change from the constant scrutiny. “What?” he asked nopony in particular. “You can’t be…” Just then, carried on the wind was a distant, earthy growl and the sound of stomping. The forceful hooffalls causing the gravel of the path to jump with each movement. Prince Blueblood blanched, his jaw hanging open as realization hit him of just exactly what kind of excrement he had been landed with. More stomping, another tremendous growl closer now, and Blueblood scrambled. He gripped the bag between his teeth as he rushed off down the path in the opposite direction of the noise, whimpering and cursing himself for thinking that the nightmare would be over so soon. He rounded the path and came across a rockslide that blocked his way. He thought quickly as the stomping from before grew louder, and he eyed the gravel path behind him fearfully. He dropped the bag and hurriedly pulled the claw boots from them. Magic would take too long to clear the path. He’d have to climb. The blades of most royal guard boots tended to be much more utilitarian than most would suspect, useful for cutting and slashing in combat, yes, but useful in situations outside battle too. The blades on his boots weren’t quite suited to aid him in climbing but were serviceable as he threw himself on the rocks and clambered over the pile, hooking the blades and pulling himself up. He got to the top and promptly stumbled, losing his footing and sliding down the otherside. He let out a terrified whinny when he stopped just short of falling straight into the ravine. His eyes widened at that. ’I could actually die out here!’ ”Oh sweet Celestia, I could actually die out here!” he shouted, echoing his thoughts. The growl from before became a roar and the stomping became louder and quicker. He yelped and leapt back to his hooves, scrambling down the path. --=-- He placed the quill down and rubbed the bridge of his beak, leaning back in his chair, sighing. The white-headed griffon groaned as he moved the scrolls away from him. He thought he had sorted out most of Geoffrey’s damage soon after becoming king, and in truth, Joachim had. Then came the debt problems. The Republic of the Greycoast was charging additional interest, concerned with the recent change of leadership in Gethrenia. What that really meant was that now Joachim had fixed the country enough to finally have gold coming into the treasury at a steady pace once again, Greycoast was concerned it’d lose one of its debtors since Joachim began paying it back and sought to keep Gethrenia within their clammy grasp. The Ironclaws of Northern Griffonia, a different sect than the Ironclaws of Old Height, ruled over a poor and isolated breakaway kingdom of griffons and were one of the few kingdoms free from the yoke of the Central Toll, the other being the Black Isles and their secluded Princess. Oh yes, they suffered from a lack of affluence that practically all of its neighbours indulged in, but at the same time, they didn’t have to have their internal policies bent to suit the needs of the drunkards in Havenscroft. It was a funny thing. Greycoast was a notoriously anarchic state. Bandits and wild beasts roamed its highways, revolts were commonplace, and most merchants with any sense steered their ships away from the state. Yet its burgher elite somehow always came out on top of whatever disaster beset that blighted northern nation, and its banks still remained stable. Technically, the Tolls of Greycoast were separate institutions from its government, but considering the same families that bickered in the shambles of the national Ting that formed its parliament also ran its banks, the division was laughable. All-Maker alone knew how they managed to dominate international finance while the country was practically on fire all the time. At the meeting in Canterlot, in private of course, King Goldtooth had brought up the matter of simply invading the republic to get rid of the debt that had gripped them for the past three and a half centuries. There had been a murmur of assent, but no commitment. It was a popular idea, and the griffons were not the only ones to entertain it. Every time a kingdom seemed to undergo a boom in prosperity, all of a sudden something would happen that would require an extension of a loan. Or a new one altogether, an increase in interest, or even a ban on future loans so that when the inevitable occurred, that kingdom would suffer and would even find banks not centred in Greycoast unwilling to deal with them until they came crawling back on their bellies. However, the last time such an occurrence had taken place was when King Gryphus III’s ancestor, Cyphus II in Northern Griffonia, then known as the Kingdom of Borinthia, invaded the Republic on the justifiable grounds of the Toll of Ferth extorting his daughter’s claw in marriage with some minor burgher house in order to pay back his Kingdom’s debts. The war went well for the griffons before the Central Toll started using the crisis to devalue key currencies, destabilising the economies of Equestria and Henosis and the nearby confederation of minotaurs that have since become a part of the republic. The princesses, reluctantly, declared war on the northern griffons to force Cyphus out of the Republic, which in turn brought the rest of the High Kingdom into the war to prevent pony encroachment. The then High King, Jorith, negotiated a peaceful settlement to bring the fruitless war to a conclusion before they all had become committed too far. The ponies retreated and surrendered what territory they had managed to win, Griffonia surrendered control of the vital crossroads town of Densborough, the terms increased the debt of Borinthia, and Cyphus lost his daughter in the end anyway. That in turn caused the aggrieved king to break his oath to the High King and secede from the High Kingdom, weakening the griffons’ international image. Not only had they lost a kingdom, but the ruling Ironclaw Clan had been torn asunder by the event. Borinthia claimed the title of Griffonia to spite their southern brothers. Greycoast forbade any and all loans or aid to the new kingdom, making the kingdom’s neighbours reluctant to trade with them, leaving the kingdom to its own, isolated destitution. The entire debacle only served to cost everygriffon dearly with nothing to show for it. The rest of the continent quickly got the message. So now Joachim was struggling to find ways of making additional income to compensate for the new demands of Greycoast without having to raise taxes and rustling the feathers of the nobility and the people. It was not an easy task. The silver gifted by Equestria was distributed by the High King to his vassals, and it would help for a time, but it would only stave off the pain for so long. He pushed away from his writing desk and stretched before walking to the door. The guards stood to attention as he left his quarters. Briefly, Handy’s words about his soldiers’ fitness came to his mind. If war came again, would they be ready for it? He foresaw no such conflict in the near future, but as king, it was his duty to make this a concern of his. He chewed on the thought as he made his way to the library. As he opened the door he was surprised to meet Geralt Stormglare as the venerable griffon was making his way out. “Ah, good evening, your Majesty,” The Lord Spiritual said, bowing his aged head. The old bird wore a simple blue robe, the trim embroidered with holy scripture in grey thread. Joachim smiled up at the priest. “Good evening, High-Feather,” Joachim said respectfully. He stepped into the library, the older griffon holding the door open for him. A short servant griffon hurried over to the king. Joachim raised a claw to dismiss him, and he bowed as he walked off back among the book shelves. “How are you this evening?” “Oh, doing well, my king,” Stormglare said as he closed the door. He frowned as he saw the look on the young king’s face. “Are you well, Majesty?” “Hmm?” Joachim replied, breaking out into a yawn and rubbing his eyes with a claw. “Just tired. No need to concern yourself, High-Feather.” “The welfare of all the All-Maker’s children are my concern, Majesty,” the Lord Spiritual said, smiling. “Is all well?” “Yes, yes,” Joachim said, waving his wing lightly as he approached a shelf, drifting his claw across the various spines of the tomes. ’Mercantilism… Merchant Machinations… Marine Enterprises… I really need to extend this collection.’ He eventually settled on a book focusing on the use of toll roads and the pros and cons thereof. “Just… been very busy lately,” he said. The old griffon nodded. “I understand. Your diligence has done this kingdom well, Majesty,” he said, Joachim smiled wryly. Flattery was something one just had to grow accustomed to as king. He tuned most of it out. It got nogriffon anywhere with him, but it didn’t hurt to acknowledge it once in a while. “Thanks, Geralt,” he said. The old griffon chuckled as he followed the king to a table. “I do not mean that as a mindless platitude, my lord Johan.” He sat across from Joachim, who looked up at him. “Your reforms have done a lot to ease the burden on the griffons of Gethrenia.” “I was just repealing some of Geoffrey’s foolish laws and ridding the world of that tiresome bureaucracy he set up. I had never seen such a mess in my life.” Joachim sighed. “It had its talons in everything. Nothing ever got done.” Stormglare nodded. “Indeed. It took all of my clout to prevent it from interfering in the temple’s affairs,” he said “So what appears to be the problem now? One would think you’d have earned a rest.” “Greycoast,” Joachim breathed. Ordinarily, Joachim wouldn’t allow himself to appear stressed in front of his councillors and ministers, but helping the king deal with his troubles was, quite literally, in the Lord Spiritual’s job description. Joachim snorted. “Don’t suppose you could ask the All-Maker for a miracle, could you?” he said jokingly. The Lord Spiritual frowned slightly at his casual blasphemy but his smile quickly returned, deciding to deal with that matter at his next penitence. “I can certainly try, of course, Majesty,” Stormglare said. “Although sometimes the answer is no.” “You know I meant well, Geralt,” Joachim said reassuringly. “I can pay back the debt eventually of course, in say, ten years. But then some nonsense crisis or other is going to require me to come back, cap in hand, begging ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’” Joachim clasped his claws together and made a gesture reminiscent of an urchin begging for more soup. Stormglare chuckled. “Perhaps you are being pessimistic, my lord.” “I like to pay attention to history,” Joachim responded. The priest merely nodded. “In any case, you will not solve the matter here tonight. Perhaps you should get some rest, my lord,” Stormglare suggested. “And you have the tournament to look forward to. I trust that will at least cheer you up?” Joachim opened his mouth to respond before closing it again. Come to think about it, he had this ominous feeling regarding the festival in Firthengart. Logically, he knew he was just being paranoid. There really wasn’t any reason for him to worry about with the tournament. The worst that could happen, the absolute worst? Handy ended up forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to kill the prince. Or somegriffon else ended up taking care of that before he got around to it. In which case, as regrettable as it may be, it was a tournament. After all, injuries and death, while uncommon, did happen. It would be better if it happened there rather than in the middle of Canterlot, however. There had been a few precedents for that sort of thing. “I suppose you are right,” he relented, closing over the book and yawning once more as his stomach growled. “I’ll table this for later. Care to join me for some late night supper?” “Oh no.” Stormglare held up a white claw. “I had my fill earlier, but I thank you for the offer, my lord,” he said as he got up from the table. He chuckled as he left the room, “You know, my lord. That human has a way of settling affairs. You could throw him at Greycoast to see what happens.” “I don’t have the heart if I am honest,” Joachim said in response, grimacing. “Well I suppose it would be cruel to the knight…” the priest responded before continuing on his way out. ‘It’d be cruel to somegriffon alright, but it wouldn’t be Handy…’ Joachim thought as he got up and headed to the kitchens, sure a servant would bring the food to his room, but he always preferred fetching it for himself. That and at least the ritual of preparing a sandwich would help clear his mind, at least for a few minutes. --=-- Crimson stirred, flicking her ears in agitation. Her hooves kicked out at her covers unconsciously. She gasped for breath as her eyes shot open, her horn lit up, illuminating the room she was in. Wide, terrified eyes scanned the room, jumping at the shadows cast by the light of her magic. Stark black on grey stone, tattered tapestries upon the wall, deep, wooden brown where the window would have once been. Her heart rate increased as comprehension dawned on her. She felt pressure on her barrel as she looked at the heavy wooden door and the rags she laid in. She was back in her old room, but… how was that possible? “No…” she breathed. Mistress would be along soon; she would be so mad with her. She placed her hooves over her head and closed her eyes. “It can’t… I can’t… I’m sorry,” she whispered. She heard soft hooffalls coming down the corridor, the tell-tale creak of wood as weight pressed down upon it. She forced herself to calm down, to regulate her breathing. Mistress hated weakness, and she would punish her more for it if she saw it. Taking slow, steady breaths she got back to her hooves, her closed eyes twitched as she summoned the courage to open them once more. And just like that, she was still in Skymount, still in the office of the guildhall. Still safe. Her breathing quickened once again as she tried to come to terms with what she was seeing. Blinking rapidly, she saw that the window was merely covered with curtains, not overgrown tree bark. The shadows on the walls were softer, and the walls a sandstone colour. The door, far from the heavy oak she had known, was simpler, squared, and possessed no bars to which to view through. The rags she lay in were actually blankets, thrown upon a small cot she had put together in the corner of the room. She could’ve requisitioned one of the bedrooms in the guildhall, but she didn’t feel comfortable there. The beds were too soft, she simply couldn’t get to sleep, and she habitually slept where she worked. So it only seemed natural to stay in the guildmaster’s office. She rubbed the side of her neck idly as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes. It’d take her at least an hour to get back to sleep after that nightmare. At least she had the consolation that the princess of the night wouldn’t be able to trace it to her thanks to the old magic. Master didn’t like the princesses from what she could gather. She’d hate to be a liability. She shook her head and got up from the covers and walked over to her desk, pulling out the book he had given her. It was… strange. He had been hoping there was magic in here she could use, rightly concluding that it was similar to what she practiced. He was right, but it consisted of simple spells, interspersed with the occasional high level conjurations and was nothing new to her. What was new however, was the book itself. All the texts she had seen concerning the old magic were ancient, dusty, oftentimes falling apart or penned anew by Mistress. She had gone to great lengths to impress upon Crimson that all knowledge of the old magic was concentrated in her hooves, and those she entrusted it too. Crimson had no reason to doubt her, yet her she had an entirely new tome at her hooves. She glanced at the cover. The strange spiral pattern at its front was not unfamiliar to her, but as far as she knew had no real meaning, and certainly didn’t appear again in any of the spells. The ink that formed the incantations and descriptions was new, fresh, applied well within the current century if not that very same year. The parchment crisp and strong, the leather binding sturdy, the illustrations bright and vibrant. Master was not terribly specific about where he found it, and she didn’t press the matter. She closed the book over and sighed, replacing it in the drawer beneath her. She really needed to find a new way to occupy her time. She had already cleaned and re-cleaned the office and the alchemists now behaved themselves much better thanks to her efforts although there was still the occasional accident that couldn’t be avoided. Or at least that was what they told her at any rate. Perhaps she should take a walk? None of the griffons were currently staying at the guild this week. Perhaps walking the corridors would help clear her head. If nothing else, it might help tire her out a bit mo- Her ear swivelled as she picked up on a noise. The creaking of wooden floorboards from down the corridor outside the office. She froze. She had thought that was only in her dream. She waited to see if it came again. It did, this time with several notable hoofsteps, and she tensed. The magic of her horn flared an orange-red as she hopped down from her seat and approached the door carefully. Whoever dared trespass on the guild was in for a rude surprise. She forcefully opened the door. “Alright!” she shouted down the corridor, letting off a blast of harmless magic up and down the corridor to illuminate them. “Whoever you are, come out now!” she continued. “It’ll be worse for you if you don’t!” She heard her voice echo back at her from somewhere down to her right, and she scowled. She carefully advanced down the corridor, sending blasts of magic to her left down the stairs. Nopony was there either. “Who-” she began but quickly stopped as she turned into one of the rooms. She was caught off guard as she looked into a mirror, and two images of herself stared back at her, both with the same expression. While her reflection was standing at the doorway she had just came through, the other was to the reflection’s right, beside the wall. “Uncanny, isn’t it?” one of the reflections said in her voice. However, the source of the voice came from beside her. She turned to see that she was standing right next to herself, the doppelganger smiling slyly at her. “Sorry, but we need to borrow him for a bit. We’ll give him back. Promise.” Her horn lit up as the realization hit her, but it was too late. Something large and heavy hit her over the back of the head and she collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The window opened and two more dark forms climbed through it and walked over to the unconscious pony. “To the outpost?” one of them asked. ‘Crimson’ shook her head. “Better not. Take her somewhere to keep for a few days, I don’t care where. Just long enough until the Heartless leaves the city. Make sure none of the griffons see you on your way out.” “This is not our first job,” the second changeling snapped. She glared at her for a moment. “Just get it done,” she ordered. “Shall we inform the queen?” the other one replied as he lifted the unicorn up and helped his partner carry her out the window as she was hovering outside, ready to hold up Crimson’s weight long enough for him to get out and help lower her down quietly. “It’d take too long. The human has a way to communicate with her. I just need to get close to it,” she said as she closed the window after them. She stopped for a moment. “Be sure to keep her sedated. We don’t have any spare pods.” “For the last time, we know what we’re doing,” the female changeling shot back, hissing so as to not raise her voice. “I’m sure,” Crimson shot back, closing the window and walking down the corridor. She wasn’t quite sure what the queen wanted, but she wasn’t prepared to disobey her orders. She’d know once she got a hold of the amulet. If the queen was right, he still had it. It would’ve been so much easier to just impersonate a serving griffon and infiltrate the castle directly, but the griffon kings, wisely, followed Equestria’s example and had changeling detection systems installed in their homes. It wasn’t completely foolproof. Chrysalis had been quite pleased to learn that when the human didn’t set off half the alarms of Canterlot. Still, it wouldn’t do to lack caution and so they chose to impersonate the only pony the human had regular contact with. They could’ve chosen the griffon that oversaw his businesses, but pony forms were easier for them to maintain. Getting him to hand over the amulet might be a bit of a problem. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it however.