A chill descends among the three of us at the thought of the sharks attacking the wagons.

“You think they know about the others?” the king asks me. “Even with our two groups so far apart?”

“They found your wagons, didn’t they?” I reply. “No reason they couldn’t find the others.”

The chill becomes a wind as a sudden gust of air blows across my face and through the field around us. The grass reeds are bending, and their shimmering reminds me of waves rippling on the ocean.

With sharks swimming underneath.

“We have to get back,” I say. “Warn the other before it’s too late.”

Charles looks down, clears his throat, and appears hesitant to continue speaking.

“Out with it, Charles,” the king commands. "Now's no time for squeamishness."

“Very well, Majesty. If Ethan and I return to the wagon, who will guard you here?”

The king grunts, leans down to the barrel and pulls out a jeweled scabbard. “You will protect me still, Charles. Because I'm coming with you, and we will ride together.”

“Your majesty,” says Charles. “I can’t allow you to place yourself in such danger.”

The king steps forward. His stray, white hairs wave wildly in the wind and make him look more like a mad scientist than a noble king. “If my whole court dies then I will be left alone on these plains, bereft of my castle, my lands, my court, and subject to whatever shark happens to pass my way. In which case I will only be king of my own ass, and at my age there isn’t much of that left to rule. So with or without your company I intend to fight for what few people the sorceress hasn't yet taken from me.”

The king stomps off toward Charles’s horse and I send up a whoop of my own.

Charles gives me a surprised look. “You’re feeling enthusiastic I see.”

I grin back as I mount Dauntless. “The king may not have an ass but at least he still has his balls.”

We race as fast as our horses will go. The grass is high, but it bends before our will. What a sight we must be: two men too old, and one too young, racing through the field. But each of us is ready for combat, and prepared for what lies ahead.

Not like last time I tried to fight.

Charles’s description of the bandits makes them sound like bullies, and I know something about bullies. They’re aggressive but they don’t have real training; they’re not the kids who take Brazilian jujitsu at the dojo. Of course neither did I, so I did a fair amount of running from my childhood terrors back in the day. But I’ve got some skills now and should be able to leave a mark.

My horse neighs into the wind. “Bless the Maker, it feels good to be back in the fight!”

“You ready for battle, horsey?”

“Of course! That is my training, my purpose, to carry a rider to battle. Except I am not called ‘horsey’.”

I smile. “Gluestick, then.”

“I am Dauntless!”

“Then onward my Dauntless Gluestick!”

The horse bucks me, but I hold tight and barely keep my saddle.

“I hate the name Gluestick,” he says.

“Do you know what a gluestick is?”

The horse shakes his head. “No, but it sounds messy and child-like.”

I think back to my elementary school art projects and realize my steed has remarkable intuition.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Alright,” I concede, “Dauntless it is, but you better earn it.”

“Huzzah,” neighs my horse, “Onward to victory!”

I tuck my knees and lower my back as we charge forward. Twenty years have fallen from the king’s face as we race back to his friends. It’s like he’s back in his prime again, joining his loyal men in combat.

It must be energizing to take action instead of just ordering others to succeed in your name.

“Your majesty,” I call out. “Look.” I point ahead to four innocent wagons, just trundling along the road together. But they aren't alone. There are strange ripples in the grass. Not the normal shifts caused by the wind, but a concerted wave of activity headed toward the wagons.

“Rats,” Dauntless seeths. “They hide their bodies but I recognize their trail. The bandits ride them into battle.”

“Draw your swords,” I say, not considering that I am commanding my elders, just doing what needs to be done. “We can cut them off.”

“I don’t see anything,” Charles responds.

“Look at the ripples,” I shout as I charge toward the enemy.

They are puzzled at first, perhaps surprised that I would take command, but then comply and follow me close behind.

“There they are,” I shout while pointing at the incoming foes. I boldly take point and charge toward them, waving my sword about my head and screaming at my foes. “For Astria! For the King!”

I sweep down with my weapon, slashing at a foe I cannot see but know is there. I hear a WHOOSH and cut nothing but grass.

Dammit!

A shark suddenly appears out of nowhere, like it just popped out of the ground. The bandit hugs his giant rat as it leaps at me through the air.

Hell, those creatures can jump.

Both animal and rider are mangy and unkept, covered with a dirt and grime that indicate hard work and few baths. The shark shows sharp, jagged teeth that curve into a vicious grin as he locks eyes with me. He wields a bronze axe that is bruised, chipped, and still wet from the blood of its victims.

Could Darren be among them?

I grit my teeth and swing my broadsword, the two weapons clashing in mid-air. The axe nearly wrenches my weapon away, but I keep my hold on the grip and push it down along the length of his arm. The bandit howls in pain as he passes me by and lands with a thud behind me. I turn with Dauntless to pursue but a second enemy leaps at me as I do.

This one has a club and swings for my head. I duck and swipe at its back but am too slow and hit nothing but air. The shark escapes my blow and submerges safely back into the field.

Damn these things might as well be dolphins.

“Below you, sire!” Dauntless calls.

I look down and see it. At close range the grass blades don’t completely conceal the rat’s brown, and I can make out the furry creature’s disgusting visage. Its rider is about to slash Dauntless’s legs with a crooked knife. I swing downwards, striking the rider across his skull and cleaving it with my sword.

“Thank you, sire!”

I hear a snarl on my left and turn quickly – not quickly enough though. A riderless rat smashes into Dauntless. The impact sends my horse sprawling and me tumbling into the grass. “Dauntless,” I yell as the rat leaps onto Dauntless and claws at his chest. The horse bites at the smaller creature and snaps a leg in two with his jar.

A war horse indeed!

“Charles!” I shout. “Majesty!” I don’t want to be separated, both for my sake and for theres, but there's no response. Instead I hear more snarls.

I turn in time to greet a rat as it leaps at me through the air. Its sharp, crooked teeth daring me to fight.

Challenge accepted.

I stab the creature through its open mouth. The creature wails and bucks as its rider plunges to the ground. I wrench my blade free and smite the shark before he can stand against me.

My sword drips with blood now and I swivel from side-to-side as I hear noises all around and can’t tell where the next attack will come from. A ratless bandit charges me from behind and smashes my back with his club.

I fall to the ground, losing my weapon and concentration. Flipping over I see him coming for the finishing blow. The club strikes at my head but I roll left, dodging the weapon by just a hair. The shark charges again but I kick him in the gut and he staggers for a moment, but just a moment, as he leaps on me when I try to stand.

We roll on the ground together, each grasping at the other’s throat. Over and over we go. Then he pins me against the dirt, his fingers clawing at my neck. Desperately grasping a rock I smash it against the side of his head. He groans and releases me. Snatching the dagger off his belt I thrust up and into his gut. The shark’s body goes limp and I stagger up. My head screams with pain.

“Dauntless!” “Charles!”. Nothing. I am alone.

Three sharks approach, each atop a rat. They creep slowly toward me, their cavalier charges replaced by a deliberate approach that cuts off any easy retreat or sudden attack.

It seems I’ve earned some respect at least.

But respect is no use in the grave, and that’s exactly where I’ll be if I don’t come-up with something. The sharks grin with glee at me. They look like earthen cavemen, these primitive bandits: ripped tunics and ill-fitting trousers, make-shift weapons and dirtied faces. I might feel sorry for them if they weren’t trying to kill me. Might.

They raise their weapons and fear wells within me.

Am I strong enough for this? Can I really take all three?