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The Thirty-second Incident

Day 12, 1:00 PM

“War is sweet to those who have never experienced it. But the experienced man trembles exceedingly in his heart at its approach.”

— Pindar

“How much of this kingdom are forests?” My musing escapes my lips in the form of a question. I have seen no grasslands or mountains so far. The only thing which could remotely pass for flatlands were the fields and meadows surrounding Amplegord.

“The whole continent of Arborea is almost entirely forests,” Manuella says. “And we keep to the fringes of the old forests because going into their depths is dangerous. If we cut a straight line from the capital to Eaglegord, it would take some two weeks to reach, but all our roads follow roundabout routes because of griffons nesting in the deep parts.”

“Griffons?” I gulp, my heart beating faster.

So, this really is a fantasy world, not just a medieval one?

“Griffons, yes. They are fierce beasts who look like a cross between a tiger and an eagle. Fortunately, they cannot fly for long. Males stay within twenty miles of their nest, each sharing their territory with several females, who have much smaller hunting grounds. I recall reading theories citing anywhere between five and twelve miles.”

Griffons? Really? What about dragons?

“How big are they?”

“I have never seen one. The books mentioned they were as tall as donkeys, twelve to fifteen feet long disregarding their tail.”

For the first time, I regret investing heavily into mental attributes. I can imagine with crystal clarity just how terrifying giant flying felines can be.

“Are there any other monsters as dangerous as griffons? Or more dangerous?”

“Bears are dangerous, wolves too, but they steer away from griffon territories, since they are weaker. However, few beasts are dangerous, unless they are hungry or you draw too close to their den or cubs. Just refrain from poking at them with that big stick of yours and they will leave you alone.”

“Unless they are hungry?”

“Well, naturally. They are predators while we are omnivores. I believe we are merely bipedal boars in their eyes.”

That’s oddly specific. You sound like you spent time reaching that conclusion at some point in your life?

“Thanks. So, when you said we would take the forest path, you meant the outer parts? We can’t take a shortcut?”

She nods. “Shortcuts passing through the heart of the forest mean gambling with your life.”

What are the odds of a griffon attacking us out here? I almost asked that, but I’m afraid the damn thing would appear next to me, starving, its eyes wide open at the sight of a bipedal boar with a big stick in its hands.

“So, do you have any expectations regarding the number of supporters we might gather once we reach your former domain?”

Her lips twist, and she shrugs.

“I cannot guess. I do not believe the king executed too many loyal men. He probably enslaved the most influential ones and executed Father’s staunchest supporters to scare the rest, but I have no information. But even if we cannot immediately start a rebellion, I am certain we can gather a company of experienced, combat capable men, at the least.”

Heh. The way you spoke last time, when I was dying, you made it sound like we could raise an army of ten thousand just by popping over and saying hello.

“What does company mean? How many is that?” I don’t mention her brother, the hypothetical army of loyalists under him, or anything else. A slave who lost his memories and only learned of her by chance would have no idea she has a younger brother. Let alone that the torture she suffered was to force the indignant, impulsive youth into saving her.

“Company is one hundred strong. It may have more, but generally when someone says company they mean a hundred soldiers.”

“And how do you feed a hundred soldiers? How do you carry supplies and cooking utensils?”

“In general, they each carry dry goods with them, jerky, dry fruits, nuts, grain. Enough to sustain themselves for five to ten days.” She pauses. “You would need a bigger sack.”

That’s the first time she mentions I eat too much, this time.

“As for cookware, camp followers carry that. When an army moves, a crowd follows behind it. Campaigns are expensive and require a lot of planning. A regular soldier earns two copper plows a day, or a silver shield a week, and they eat just as much. Meaning a company’s weekly upkeep is roughly ten gold crowns; five for their pay and another five for the supplies.”

I frown, but she flashes me a reassuring smile. “Do not worry. War will feed on itself, as the proverb says. Or at least it will once we capture our first enemy fortification. We can pillage the lord’s mansion, and ransom anyone worth anything, but we should avoid straining the populace. In fact, when my father campaigned, he often abolished local taxes until the end of the campaign and purchased supplies from the locals at fair market prices. This stratagem allowed him to expand our duchy into the neighboring kingdom of Elisia and grow strong enough to threaten the king.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I nod. “What about the doctors, the disabled, and the wounded?”

She continued to explain the intricacy of supply trains, and for the first time the reality of what I’m about to do strikes me. I don’t care too much that people will die, not yet. My comfortable life back home was bought with the blood and sacrifice of those willing to enlist. They conquered fortifications, pillaged local lords, and brought wealth with them.

A part of me hopes we showed greater compassion for the maimed back home than what Manuella is describing happens here, but I know it’s a lie. I have ignored men sitting on the street with cardboard scribbles. I told myself most of them lied, and I was right. But, deep down, I also knew that most of them meant that some of them had written the truth. Yet, I ignored them. And now, now I plan to lead their replicas, to stand in front of them and risk even more than those behind me.

I gulp. I must do better.

“Are you all right?” she asks, and I backhand the beads of sweat off my brow.

“I’m all right.” I have Redo.

I repeat the thought several times and calm down. Having high mental attributes is sometimes a problem. I can clearly foresee the consequences of my actions. And the man leading an army will have a whole lot more people gunning for his head than regular soldiers.

“The fact that you are nervous means you understand what we will face. My father said that true warriors shudder when enlistment starts. Only fools jump around like excited puppies, eager to take up arms.”

I feel like I need to sit, but we should walk as long as we can to make use of daylight.

“He sounds like a wise man,” I say. I’m not sure whether it was Blunt or my wandering mind, but by the time I said it, it was too late.

She doesn’t cry. Instead, she gives me a sharp nod. “He was.”

Then there is silence, and we walk, each imprisoned by our own thoughts for hours. We don’t say a word before the sun is already low in the west.

“We should stop and light a fire,” she says, and I oblige.

In my mind, lighting a roadside fire seems like calling bandits over, but I trust she knows what she’s doing. Five minutes later, a small fire crackles.

“I’ll go gather some sticks, and if I find something edible, I’ll pick it up as well. You could fill the pot with water and some meat?”

She nods and I set off, carrying a burning branch and the massive knife I bought for digging roots out of the ground. I gather an armful of branches, enjoying some unknown bird’s melodious song when I almost step onto a hedgehog.

I extend my step a bit and land in an awkward split. The little guy hisses and scurries away from under my wide stance.

I’m about to curse the ingrate when I look closer and smile. I scared it away from some bird’s nest, and five shiny eggs are right there, ready for the taking.

“I won’t take everything,” I mumble, and squat, dropping the branches before I gather three eggs for our evening stew. The eggs are half the size of chicken eggs, and I slip them into an empty belt sack one by one, then I pick up my sticks again.

I have to get a tailor to make me some clothes with pockets. I’ll ask them to sew them all over my shirt and pants when I become a rebel general. They’ll call me General Pockets.

Lost in making jokes for my own benefit, I notice too late that the fire spread down my branch while I was collecting the eggs. I throw it onto the ground and stomp it several times, heroically stopping a potential forest fire, but now I’m stuck in the dark.

Mental note for next time, branches make poor torches. I should have bought some flammable oil and rags.

“And how do I carry all that junk?” I grumble, then beam a smile. Just ask the tailor to make you a backpack. A big one, with lots of side pockets.

I sigh. I should’ve waited longer in Amplegord before picking up Manuella.

The stupid thought and its implications make me shudder. I can live just fine with sacks.

I head back towards the fire with an armful of firewood, three eggs, and no veggies.

“Look boys, this wild colt reckons himself Leon bleedin’ Theogurd, campin’ alone in the middle of the wilds.” I don’t recognize the voice, but I recognize the intention. I hurry the last ten odd steps through the bushes, drawing my heavy-duty forester’s knife from its sheath.

I take in the scene in an instant, like taking a snapshot. Seven large, bearded men with axes hanging off their belts stand in half-darkness, campfire’s faint light illuminating their ominous grins. Manuella is shaking, staring at them like a fawn at a pack of wolves.

I sigh in relief. Nothing happened yet.

I’m about to throw my knife at the one closest one when a tiny worm squirms in the back of my brain. They haven’t attacked yet. Their arms are crossed, they aren’t holding their weapons, and they are laughing.

Good point! I tell my wisdom or intellect or whoever bought me the moment of clarity.

“Good evening, boys!” I step into the roadside clearing. “Are you lost?”

The men all snap their heads towards me, and I point down the road. “Namir is that way.”

“We’re not lost, boy,” their leader says. “But you sure as heck look lost. You reckon it’s better to sleep here than pay two copper plows at the inn half a mile down the road?”

So, there was an inn nearby. Well, we don’t want to sleep in inns, anyway.

“He was tired,” I point at Manuella without skipping a beat. “Said he can’t walk another step. What was I to do? Carry him half a mile? Thank you for your kind intentions. Did you see our fire from the inn?”

The leader nods, and I realize his menacing orange beard is actually gray.

“There are bandits around these parts. We’re woodcutters, and we still sleep in the inn. We’re not rich to sleep in beds, but we can afford sleepin’ in the safety of the stable’s loft. Better that, than have two of us stay awake every night keepin’ watch.”

“You hear that?” I turn towards Manuella. “How are your legs? Can you walk?”

“I’m too tired.” She shakes her head, looking down at the ground. “I sprained my ankle yesterday. I can’t walk anymore.”

I turn back towards the lumberjacks, shrugging and gesturing towards Manuella, giving them the ‘see what I have to deal with every day?’ look.

“Says he can’t walk. I’m not carrying his ass anymore. He’s got to man up.”

The old man folds his arms and speaks in a preachy tone, “Son, you gotta pull your own weight. Nobody’s gonna carry it for you.

“Good luck, you two. Let’s go boys, we warned them.”

I wave the seven woodcutters goodbye, and shift my attention to Snow White.

“You know, I’ve done something stupid,” I say. “I told you to point out when I’m doing something stupid and suicidal, but when you did it I thought you knew what you were doing, so I stayed quiet. Sorry. My bad.”

She nods, and I keep talking.

“Lighting a fire in plain view is dumb. People can see us from afar. We were lucky these guys had kind intentions. Otherwise, you could have suffered a beating or worse before I returned.”

She nods again, grim and guilty. “Let us not repeat this mistake.”

Five minutes later, we pack up and head for the inn.