Day 397 9:00 AM
“For every minute spent organizing, an hour is earned”
— Benjamin Franklin
Planning and logistics without means of near-instantaneous communication is extremely difficult for someone who was exposed to the internet, or even beepers, phones, and telegraphs, but we somehow made it.
We have already decided to march on Garagord using the same path the crown prince had taken and prepared our troops to move days ago, waiting only for news from Vatten. The messenger arrived yesterday afternoon, five hours before sundown, so Manny and I agreed we would spend one more evening in Eaglegord before we set off on our path of conquest.
I need to make some means of swift long-distance communication. I already considered lighthouse-style towers with our own morse code, mimicking what I remember of the regular morse code, but griffons might find easy meals inside. Smoke signals were also nearly impossible, given the height of trees in the forest. That only option left is a Pony Express equivalent, but that can only function in a relatively safe and stable country, not in a mess which is Garacia today.
“You are frowning again.” I turn my head and look at my beautiful wife.
Manny is beaming. Hormones, her natural beauty, the bright smile, those eyes brimming with intelligence, the stylish emerald-green dress, all these make her a perfect woman.
I’d ravage her here and now, if not for Victory and the wet nurse. Mostly the wet nurse. Victory is two months old, she doesn’t give a damn about what we do.
Manny stares at me. She blushes, recognizing my look, and my heart races even faster, then I choke on spit and start coughing.
The carriage chooses that moment to lurch into motion, and we’re off.
I look outside and wave as we leave the citadel at the heart of Eaglegord and clatter onto the cleared street. People cheer and scream from the sidewalks, once it was Manny’s name they chanted, but now they are all shouting two words.
“Blackstaff Griffonrider,” that’s what everyone started calling me after routing an army of over five thousand all by my lonesome. The fact that Grif mangled me must either be something the general public expected, or they are politely pretending it never happened.
Unlike the household servants, the citizens don’t shy away from the featureless half-oval covering the right side of my face. They keep cheering and staring at me with an emotion I can only describe as fanatical faith.
I glance back and I can see Doc Thunderwax’s carriage followed by a long line of troops trailing behind it. We reduced the city’s garrison by another three hundred, and with seven hundred Bastian Hassle’s soldiers, we have an even thousand. Enough to weather any hypothetical skirmishes before we meet up with Vatten in front of Garagord.
We don’t have nearly enough troops to breach the capital’s walls, but we can camp outside and wait for them to surrender after starving enough. Considering we have eliminated their elites and dealt a heavy blow to the royal army’s morale, we have enough men to win in an open confrontation, should they abandon their one tactical advantage. That will be especially true once the anti-royal nobles join our cause and swell our ranks.
The army exits the city and enters the forest, away from the commoners’ eyes. I open the door and jump outside, landing without stumbling.
“Sorry about that, boys!” I turn around, my voice carrying enough for everyone to hear. “I fear potential assassinations and have to stay by my beautiful wife’s side when there are crowds around us.”
My explanation starts an avalanche of shouting and laughs. Men scream thank-you-sir-s, general-s, and oorah-s, accompanied by salutes and fervent gazes as even the cavalry dismounts to walk with me.
I nod and walk beside the carriage until late in the afternoon. It’s yet another boring day of marching until I hear a clapping sound. I take a moment to realize it’s a cantering horse and spot the rider a few seconds later.
The horse slows down, and the lone messenger wearing purple and black livery stares at me in terror. The carriage and the army behind it slowly draw to a stop, while I keep walking.
“General Blackstaff,” the rider stutters, but the horse beneath him relaxes at the sight of me.
I don’t even need to woah them anymore.
“Yes?” I say, gripping the confiscated black war hammer instead of Batsy, which I’ve unfortunately left with Vatten.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The royal servant looks at the wooden scroll case he’s carrying, then back at me.
“I bring a message,” he stutters. “King Basson Garash passed away two weeks ago. Prince Yatten has taken the throne.”
I’m silent for a moment. Intellect spinning multiple scenarios of what happened.
“Did Yatten kill his father?” I ask, as if a messenger would know.
Surprisingly, the man shakes his head, still stuttering in fear.
“The late king clutched his chest when he received news of crown prince Corvein’s demise and the royal army’s crushing defeat. Overwhelmed by sadness, he passed away of a broken heart.”
I glance back at the carriage, Manny’s peaking outside, and I can’t help but recall her saying Basson would die of a heart attack if we are lucky. I never considered myself lucky.
She looks at me, and after a moment of stunned silence, she winks.
I barely hold back a laugh before turning back towards the messenger. “Is that all the message says?”
The man gulps and shakes his head. “The prin—king asks for a truce until he buries his father and elder brother.”
“Well, that ain’t happening,” I mutter before speaking louder. “Unfortunately, the late crown prince was torn to pieces by a griffon. I wanted to do the deed myself, but my mount beat me to it. As for the truce, Yatten can bury his father a hundred times over before we reach Garagord.”
That’s when my amusement disappears and I realize I’m arguing with a messenger. A man with zero decision making power, and probably zero influence in the court, since they have sent him on what he obviously believes is a suicide mission.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Just give me the scroll and leave. You are free to go wherever you wish, but I wouldn’t return to the capital if I were you.”
The soldiers behind me are already whispering, giving rise to an indistinct mob murmur. The rider gulps again, but approaches and hands me the letter.
“Here you go, Sir.”
I nod, and he turns around, slowly trotting off. The trot abruptly turns into a gallop some twenty yards away, as if the man is worried I would change my mind. I ignore the jittery mook and instead read the message.
It said more or less what the messenger told me, albeit in considerably more pompous words.
“Boys,” I shout, “the king heard we were coming, and decided to leave first.”
“Oorah,” the men shout and laugh.
I hope this one is the less competent son.
A day later, I discover Yatten really was the less competent son.
“His royal highness, king Corvein the seventh, has executed the traitor, who tried to usurp the throne through unlawful succession…” The second messenger is bolder, and neither trembles nor stutters as he speaks with me.
Apparently crown prince Corvein’s eldest son’s right of succession trumps the second prince’s, or he had ministers or the military backing him up into committing a coup and uncle-cide, whatever royal dictionary called the act.
The messenger gives me the scroll, and I’m surprised that the wording is less pompous. My eye goes wide, and I pass the scroll to Manny, who’s waiting in the carriage.
The messenger is gone, and I wait patiently for Manny to finish reading the message.
“They seek peace?” she hisses.
Yeah, that’s more or less how I reacted. I just didn’t say it aloud.
“They will restore the house Eagleeye and pardon their crimes.” Manny’s voice turns shriller and she loses control of her rage for the second time since I met her, I think.
Considering what she had gone through, her father, her missing brother, I already knew peace with the Garashes was never an option. She’s in for the kill, and I’m with her.
The new king is rather casual about the fact that we shredded his father into ribbons. He probably thought he would never ascend to the throne, given his grandfather and everything.
I hear grunts and the dull sounds of Manny trying to rip vellum, but she’s not strong enough. A sudden rip catches me by surprise, and I look inside to find my wife shredding the message with her dagger.
Wow, the offer pissed her off completely. The wet nurse is trying to sink into the carriage seat, her baby and Victory sleeping side by side in their comfy travel cribs.
I take a moment before I realize Manny just had a baby two months ago, now she’s pregnant again, her hormones must be off the charts, acting like psychoactive drugs. There’s no other way to explain her behavior.
I want to stay quiet. There’s nothing I can say that will soothe her, but that’s the trouble with emotionally unstable people, especially pregnant women. If I stay quiet, she will think I’m heartless. She doesn’t want me to talk, she doesn’t want to talk either, but she would resent me for staying quiet. Her mood and altered state of mind will pass in a year, but the resentment will stay and gnaw at her, no matter how rational she is.
I sigh and steel myself before opening the door and entering the carriage. Manny looks at me with tears of rage and humiliation. Little Ferom stirs in his sleep and starts crying. I look at his mother. I want to smile to reassure her everything is fine, but it would be a faux pas in front of Manny now.
“I think he’s hungry.” I use the calmest voice I can muster. “You should feed him in the other carriage. I’m certain Master Thunderwax and the midwives won’t mind.”
Caria nods, lifts her son, and takes him out of the carriage a little too quickly, almost stumbling.
Fortunately, nothing happens, and she closes the door.
“I am here for you.” I wanted to say something fancier, about supporting her, killing the royals, it would have helped her some nine-ten months ago, but right now I’m walking a minefield, and the vaguer I am in my support, the better.
Manny falls into my embrace, torn scroll in one hand, dagger in the other. I feel a phantom pain in my upper arm, and I gently disarm her of her emergency weapon.
“Sorry,” she sobs, “I’m so, so…”
She doesn’t know what she is, trailing off into tears.
“I’m here.
“I will always be here.”