Day 447 8:20 AM
“Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.”
— Mark Twain
I feel like I’m back at uni, playing D&D with my old crew when we were all gassed. I still remember those silly situations, when I rolled a twenty, and the DM cackled madly, too much beer in him, saying, “Keep going.”
My best open roll was ninety-three on a check to make a snowman, and that ice golem encounter was as much of a disaster as what I’m hearing from the scouts.
“So, you’re saying the stampede trampled around seven thousand people, eliminating ALL enemy leadership, including the king, the minister of war, the heir to the throne, the nobles, and even the knights.” I know I shouldn’t doubt my soldiers’ reports, but what they came to tell me is ridiculous. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, Sir, err, Sire,” Halek said. I don’t have time to be impressed with knowing the names of most of my soldiers before he continues speaking. “The peasants were confused, milled about, shouting at each other about what they should do, then they turned around and left.”
I scratch at my stubble furiously. Seven thousand casualties means thirteen thousand survivors, plus the followers. They are leaderless, clueless, and soon to be hungry. My presence is twenty, my charisma twenty-three, and I have access to food. It doesn’t take a genius to see what I should do. But going in person, with barely two hundred men, to face a force of thirteen thousand enemies is insane, even by my standards.
“We’ll catch up to them.”
Halek and seven others within earshot stare at me, their jaws slack.
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” I lie through my teeth, but my presence and charisma force them to nod. Whoever made these rules was on coke when thinking how humans and stats should work.
The boys move fast, and even though they are all tired, we quickly cross a mile of rough forest terrain before arriving at the bend in the road. I’m about to lead a march down the road to chase after the enemy, when an idea strikes me.
Why not? If Gundalf could do it, why can’t I?
I whistle, putting my grandmaster rider to use. The sound is sharp and carries a great distance away, and as if in a bad parody, a horse whines in the distance.
A few moments later, the ground starts shaking, and my soldiers stare at me with wide eyes.
“I’m good with horses,” Blunt explains, and they nod without making a sound as the rumbling draws closer.
The sound becomes deafening, and I can see some of the lighter guys struggling to maintain balance. Thousands of horses flock towards us, a few come from the forest, but the vast majority is galloping down the road towards us.
Broken. Absolutely broken. I almost shake my head, when I realize something. You can also mount bulls, cows, even sheep, but they aren’t coming. Only the horses.
I file the thought away for later consideration. A veritable horde of horses has congregated before me, seventeen destriers coming to the front, the other beasts making way for them as if they were royalty.
A giant white horse is leading them, its hooves plated gold, and even though I can tell it’s trying to suck up to me, it’s still looking down on me with a regal bearing. The king’s horse. It’s a beautiful beast, and riding it would further cow the Dolacian soldiers, but a white horse? Me? Not happening.
A black stallion, no less regal, catches my attention. The beast is similar in build, but the difference in attitude is like day and night. Fitting, considering the colors. Where the king’s former horse is haughty and proud, this beast is savage and filled with rage.
I touch my half-mask. He reminds me of Grif.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
I’m not sure which part of me thought that, but those big eyes tell me it’s true. This horse would kick its rider in the nuts the moment they dismounted.
The black stallion pulls back its lips, revealing white teeth. I don’t know whether it’s threatening me, or trying to show that it’s healthy and a perfect mount for me. The slight air of frustrated confusion hints at the former.
I bet it’s wondering why the hell did it come galloping at a random dude’s whistle.
“Woah boy.” I try the surefire method of calming horses, and it works like a charm. The horse woahs, the frustrated confusion in his eyes shifting to absolute puzzlement.
I bet he’s thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing?’
Great, now I’m not just speaking randomly, but I’m forming lines for the horse as well.
“You look like just the kind of horse I should ride,” I tell the horse, “the one which doesn’t want me to ride it.
“I’ll call you…” Blackie? Midnight? Shadow? Grim? Except the flaky Blackie, others are fine names for the stallion, but I like the last one the best. “Grim. I’ll call you Grim.”
Epic stallions neigh or rear or thunder booms when you name them, but Grim rolls his eyes.
“You want me to call you Blackie?” Grim rears in horror. “Then, you’re Grim. Get used to it.”
I hop onto Grim’s back, I have no idea where his saddle is. Don’t really care either, his hair is countless times softer than the plastic cutlery I sat on when riding Grif.
From Grim’s back, I can see a sea of horses. There’s got to be thousands of them. Another nightmare, heh, mare. Wait.
“Grim, do you like Nightmare better?” Grim neighs and a thunder rolls in the distance.
“I guess Nightmare it is,” I mumble.
Grim, now Nightmare, shakes his head from side to side, seemingly happy. Apparently, the rules of drama exist for a reason. That, or he was a girl.
With that out of the way, what the hell should I do with all these horses? Luckily, wisdom or intellect has a solution.
“Who here can ride a horse bareback?” I ask the soldiers, and get silence as a response. “Yeah, figured. Listen up! You will escort these horses back to Solgord.
“You,” I tell the horses, “You will escort these humans to Solgord. They will give you food, shelter, and water there.”
The horses neigh, and a moment later, the confused soldiers oorah.
“You.” I look at the royal equine. “You will come with me.”
My crazy plan of leading two hundred men to meet thirteen-odd thousand enemy soldiers has just gone crazier, replacing two hundred with three, two of them horses. Caligula would’ve been proud of me.
Nightmare turns and starts cantering at a mere thought from me, and Whitey follows. We catch up with the retreating Dolacians around noon, after hours of riding through the same monotonous Garacian roads.
The host of people trudges forward listlessly, hungry and defeated without even seeing their enemies. I wanted to give them time to notice me on their own, but even after ten minutes, nobody even bothered to turn and look back. No survival instincts whatsoever.
Finally, I clear my throat.
“Dolacian guests,” I bellow loud enough for all of them to hear. The forest birds shoot into the air, startled by the sudden noise. They added a fine ominous air to my appearance. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
The mix of soldiers and civilians turn back, some of them screaming, but I drown their shouts of, ‘Sorcerer,’ with the deepest, most commanding voice I can muster.
“If you keep going as you are, most of you will die before you reach our border. The few of you who survive, where will you return to? With your king and heir dead, your country will fall into a chaos of succession, your neighbors will invade and enslave you. I bet you already know what will happen to you and your families, but it need not be like that.”
The vast majority of the people before me are giving me blank stares, not understanding a word of what I said, but around a quarter of them seem to have understood my speech. “Explain what I have said to your fellows.”
I look down at them from the stolen horses, the very picture of regal terror. Thunder would have helped, but naming Nightmare seems to have spent my daily allotment of ominous signs.
The sea of people murmurs and mumbles, but none of them have even reached for a weapon. A good sign.
The murmurs grow into whispered arguments and die out. Eventually, all eyes are back on me again.
“I propose the following. I will feed you, provide leadership, and we will conquer Dolacia. I will be king, but all other nobles will come from the ranks of Dolacian soldiers and followers based on merit. Some nobles may remain if they join me, but the rest will rise from amongst your ranks.”
What the hell will I do about Elisia? While worthwhile, the question is moot at this point. I have to solve the problem in front of me before I move on to solving the ones which have yet to fall into my lap.
No hint of my thoughts seeps into my face or voice as I continue my confident speech.
“What do you say?” I ask finally. “Will you follow me and prosper or oppose me and end up trampled? Like your king.”
The Dolacians stare at me, even those that don’t understand me are impressed by my voice. Finally, the spell ends, and they start mumbling back and forth, but I already know what they are going to decide.