Chapter 31: 3.2 War of the Four Legs

3.2 War of the Four Legs

The general was in his office. That was most inconvenient, because it was a Moonday afternoon, and Moonday afternoons were roast turnip time. It was the finest of Southcastle turnips these days, and the distraction would not do.

But, it was the general, and it would have to do. Silven sighed and wondered if the trouble thing had some truth to it after all. He had hoped to force some common sense into that Mooncerer boy before he went, but there was no time now. He ushered him over to the wagon yards with Olgy, and whispered a word in Trashbag’s ever-waxy ear. He would see the boy home safe, but the traditional way this time, and with a rather inquisitive escort in his ever-present companion. “Just to make sure,” he assured himself as the pair set off on the road for the capital. It was rather a coincidence that someone capable of conjuring a world from bare stone should just happen to pop up after the factories closed their doors around the Doll Sequence. A pretty big coincidence indeed.

He turned his attention to the matter in hand. Hastily, he donned his finest jerkin, and glided into the office like someone who cared. The general was taller than he recalled, stern of face and frowny of eyes, and the unmistakable aura of turnips left uneaten clung to his shaved head like a halo. “Lord Treken, a welcome surprise,” he managed, horribly unconvincingly.

“Report on your position, please.” The general had given no acknowledgement of Silven’s coldness; today’s manner was of but an average level of obnoxiousness.

Like a golem, the merchant lumbered over to his war cabinet and drew out the usual maps. “Apologies, general. I’ve been driven to lunacy by my footrest obsession.”

The grim warrior did not get the joke. Silven thought it best to move on with all haste. “The tide is turning, sir. With Wallace and the witch removed, the minor rebel groups in the Greenholme area have dissipated. The north-west is fully under the king’s control once more.”

The general grunted.

Silven pressed on. “As you know, renegades and alcoholics have been raiding the vineyards of the Capital Foothills. However, with a birds-eye view of the attacks from our infinitely foolish catapult volunteers, we recently discovered a startling fact: they use the exact same route every time. That continued after we raised a molehill north of Waltersfarm to forty feet and put the crossbow watchtower on top. Sheep to the slaughter, as... no-one says. Another loyalist victory.”

The general grimaced. “And what of the other rebellions? The east and south are restless still.”

“Yet not as before.” Silven was getting into his stride. “While your siege of Chucklecurrent Keep holds the host of Terry the Traitor at bay, the PR cottage has been busy feeding the undefeated chieftain Carlax the Fearsome unprecedented praise for his Farscript woad tutorials. He’s bringing out one a day now; for every gauntlet up, another tribesman leaves.”

Treken gave one stiff nod. “And Silverlink?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Silverlink,” repeated the commander. He moved stiffly to the maps and pointed with rapid flicks of his gloved fingers. “Heavily fortified capitals in two well-supplied regions – Overwall and Limetop. Strong support in Solmond City. The thriving trade centres of Greenholme and Desert Marsh under de facto control. Pledges of allegiance from Gigglewick, Thornyhedge and Stonepeak to the ‘Hero of the Realm’. Seemingly infinite resources, unbreakable communication lines, and seven hundred well-equipped mercenaries. The largest threat of them all.”

For once, Silven was lost for wit. “But we’re loyal citizens all!”

“This is war, son,” blustered the general, “and that means any beneficial alliances the crown has with reliable tax-paying economic powerhouses are temporary. Everyone knows there has to be a winner in the end. And everyone knows the way to instant surrender is the removal of the one man who obviously controls everything with his giant omnipotent mind.” Treken drew his sword, an immense razor-sharp beast of a sword glittering with diamonds, and heaved it high above his head. “For the King!”

“Excuse me,” protested Silven. The general blinked and focused on the piece of parchment waggling under his nose. His adversary had found no sword hanging at his belt, and had reached for a desperate shield instead. “See here,” he urged, pointing to the top of a long list of names. “I’m not in control, nor, sadly, omnipotent.” The three heavy doors leading into the office burst open as one, and a dozen mercenaries in gleaming plate barged across the soft rugs with swords drawn.

The general squinted and let loose a shuddering snort of rage. “Herbie...Sootroller. The head of the viper.”

Silven smiled. “And here am I, just a very smug parotid salivary gland behind it.”

Treken eyed the advancing soldiers warily. “Then my sacrifice would surely be in vain.”

Silven nodded cheerfully. “Now let’s discuss this disappointing declaration of yours. Guards, escort my guest to the conference room.”

The men hurried on and froze ten feet from their target. The general chuckled. “As I said, this is war. As the attacker, the crown reserves the right to make the first move.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Silven frowned, turned, and caught a weapon from the nearest mercenary. “Go ahead.”

The first move was made. The general turned tail and fled from the room.

“By the way, it’s pronounced Yiggle-wike-a!” called Silven at the empty doorway.

“Your turn,” came the distant reply.

The turn did not come for some time. Silven needed to make sure Olgred got back unmolested first as the royal troops stalked his lone wagon. Then, the war council was convened once more. Of course, it was time for Herbie and the heads of more important departments to be whisked away to undisclosed barns around the country, so once more, Silven bravely stepped in to take the lead. The conference room was a far more sullen place this time around.

“Just as victory was in our grasp!” exclaimed Simitest incredulously. “The King turns loyalist against loyalist. The disgruntled will all be up in arms again before we know it.”

“Please, let’s concentrate on our own survival first,” urged Dasat, the only mercenary captain capable of a modicum of insight. “We’ve got seven hundred men, maybe fifteen hundred counting the town militias, against maybe three times that number. Treken’s forces are disciplined and battle-hardened, and our fortresses are scattered. We’re not prepared for a true war on this scale.”

“Fifteen hundred?” scoffed Olgred. “Have you listened to the scrollcasts recently? The kingdom has been forced to its knees by pestilence. The plague spreads every day, and the worst of it has hit the north-west. Some are blaming our caravans. No, the majority will defend their families at most. We can hope for a thousand, no more.”

Silven sat forward and peered into the row of gloomy eyes. “The Fellowship is losing? What about our donations?”

“Buying weapons for the quest for your head,” replied Olgred with a knowing smile. “It’s their last hope, or so it is told. Most brothers have withdrawn to their base to prepare for battle. There’s a good chance that they could pledge open support to the crown against us.”

A groan swept the room. Anger flashed in Silven’s eyes. “Nonsense!” he bellowed. “We’ve had nothing to do with this, as you well know. Cease official aid. I want every brother our scouts find deputised and forced into mandatory healing. Provide whatever technology they need. This plague could be the real threat here.”

“Not the endless armies poised to sweep down on our very livelihoods? What if they reach Limetop? What if they discover the sequence?” boomed Simitest. Cold silence pervaded. It was a matter Silven was not ready to face.

“Meow,” said Sir Meow-a-lot. He meowed a lot.

The silence warmed. The meow was perfect. The meow was inspirational. The meow was the highlight of the security head’s career.

“Well spoken, Mousecatcher,” managed Simitest, suddenly humbled. “An opening turn to remember....”

“We’ll bring doomy revenge upon those who insult us!” roared Dasat. The modicum of insight was wavering. “We’ll bash them! Bash them all!”

“Bash them all!” came the chorus around the table.

“And we have the footrest,” observed Ulf Venstoke quietly from the corner.

Silven visibly brightened at the word. “Ah yes, we have many great treasures, and yet it is the jewel of the collection.” He indicated the artifact beneath his legs. At Olgy’s gentle counsel, he had finally given up the others. But not this one. Never this. This one would travel with him to the end of his days. “Such boldness....”

Ulf rose.

“Such beauty....”

He crossed the room.

“Such elegant legs....”

Ulf yanked the footrest from beneath him and prised one of the aforementioned elegant legs from the wood. Silven screamed. The newly elected Restguard moved to execute the traitor.

Ulf held the severed limb aloft, the stone glinting intriguingly in the morning light. “Such power,” he finished for his leader. “Don’t you see?” He pointed the marble at the startled audience. “It’s from the moon!”

“Ahhh,” came the cry of realisation.

“Oh?” roared Silven, cradling the carcass of his beloved.

Ulf turned. “A token from the latest realm the creator gods have graced us with. Its power is second to nothing of this original world. One swing of a leg could dash through that general’s sword as if it were... um... a stool leg.”

Simitest rose proudly. “And what’s more... we have three others.”

Silven ushered away his Restguard as the engineer butchered his treasure. With every sickening snap, his moment of clarity beneath the wreckage of the Noclip swam ever closer. It was only a footrest. Daffodils were so much prettier.

“With one leg, a mere rabble becomes an army,” insisted Ulf. “There’s not even any need to share it.”

Silven stepped forth and took hold of the proffered legs. “Four legs,” he murmured. “And four great generals shall rise.” He looked up at his loyal, loving men. Each one had rose, sensing something magical. He held out a leg to Ulf. “Ulf Venstoke, I name you-”

“Not a bloody chance,” shouted the recoiling man. “I’m an accountant. I’m precious.”

Silven sighed. “Oh well, way to ruin the mood. Olgy, Dasat, Simitest, and my fine self, we shall have to do.” He distributed the remains of his furniture. “Together, we shall be the Generals of the Four Legs. And now, today, for the glory of our corporation, we ride to battle!”

Olgred’s appalled voice cut through the thunderous applause like a whip.

“Sorry. Teleport. Yeah, I did mean teleport,” his master assured him.