The Scramble for Equestria (A Pre-EAW Story)

by Radical Centrist

The Brits roll a nat20... Again

(("*")) Double bracketted dialogue means it is in a foreign language.

"...India is a subcontinent of many political entities, in which every village is a republic..."
-British colonial administrators after only a year in Bengal, soon to establish the 'Raj' thanks to the treachery of the autnomous vassals in the Mughal Empire.

"...China's power is but an illusion, for just beyond the veil, all was rotten, soon to collapse." "Give me a frigate! -And I will decimate their junks!"
-George Macartney after spending less than a year in the Qing dynasty that would soon spiral into disastrous ruin.

The British weren't strong. But they had an inconceivable amount of luck. The very luck that would fortuitously make their enemies weak, just at the moment when they fought them.

The Port of Jaffmare had seen a lot. It was one of the first few major settlements swept under the colossal tide, that was the Sa'adle family. Its denizens would serve the subsequent Saddle Arabia well, producing great commanders, heroes and generals who would assist in the subjugation of the entire sub-continent.

But evidently, they hadn't seen enough.

The dockworkers of Jaffmare had already been on alert, anxiously scanning the distant sea for a lost trading vessel. Allegedly, it had gotten lost from its sister ship in a nightly flash storm while hopping along the 'Arabian coast', not referring to the confusingly named sea, but their actual coastline.

The worst was already being circulated among the labourers, no doubt being discussed by the harbourmaster's council as well. The sister ship that managed to return had lost nearly a quarter of its crew by the ferocity of the storm alone, the other quarter being swept under the waves. The traumatic accounts of those who survived had shaken the very citizens of Jaffmare as they quickly dispersed into the nearest taverns, and soon the news had spread to the beylerbey of Jaffmare.

Normally, no sane creature in all of Saddle Arabia, especially any outside it, has any sympathy for the Kingdom's beylerbeys. If they had thought the Sa'adle Grand Princes to be hedonistic leaches, the beylerbeys were the entire colonies. Undoubtedly far more dangerous than the thoughtless royalty in Trotgiers. These so-called 'appointed servants' of the Prince were nothing but that title, milking his subjects dry to fund their own interests.

Everycreature knew that the tribute these beylerbeys sent to Trotgiers was tenfold less than what they extracted from the populace. So why were they feeling sorry?

The lost ship had a very valuable cargo. One, if lost, would probably not raise the ire of the Grand Prince, but would definitely make the nearby beylerbeys hound onto to the Jaffmare governor and promptly deliver his severed head to Trotgiers as 'righteous retribution'. Or, simply, as a punishment carried out on behalf of the state, therefore, a service deserving a handsome reward. Or perhaps killing a rival governor was reward enough, and the expected gift from the Grand Prince a nice bonus.

Any excuse was good enough to sever any governor's head. But this? It was almost too good to be true.

Was it the gold? No, it was comparably worthless. The 'cargo' was a nephew of the Sa'adle Grand Prince.

Yep.

Their governor was fucked.

It didn't help that they were transporting supposed treasoners. The Grand Prince was spoiled a good public quartering.

The denizens of Jaffmare just hoped that the beylerbey would simply be replaced, but it was most likely a fool's dream. It was tough to admit, but they would probably be absorbed by the ravenous Gallarb eyalet, that stretched from Mareakech to Awal, governed by an ambitious distant relative to the current Grand Prince.

Their crippling tax was soon to be replaced with an unlivable one. Soon, like many others before, they would need to migrate east, across the Arabian Sea to escape into the comparably bearable peripheral eyalets. Apparently to many in Saddle Arabia, living with constant Zebra raids was preferable to paying more taxes.

But these contemplations would be relievingly dispelled from the sight of a speck atop the ocean, approaching Jaffmare quickly. The dockworkers would've cheered, if not for the sighting of several other specks swiftly joining the initial subject.

Confusion replaced jubilation. For sparse among them literate in marine navigation, balked. The ships were impossibly fast!

Now, Jaffmare wasn't some minor port city.

Actually, it was the second-largest port city, behind only the Kingdom's capital of Trotgiers itself. Coveted by all, especially by the aforementioned ambitious relative ruling over the Gallarb eyalet, Mir Jal-far Saddle, who had subsumed every territory of the western heartlands except for the crown jewel, Jaffmare, and obviously, not Trotgiers, the capital. It didn't mean he didn't covet it any less.

Home to 180,000 souls, 20,000 shy of the royal capital, Jaffmare was as modern, but not as frivolous as Trogiers. The paved roads were not engraved with gold, nor were the buildings decorated with rich gems, but there were definitely more of them in Jaffmare, and subsequently, the 'second-largest city' strangely covered more ground than the capital did.

So why did they feel so small?

Every onlooker began to sputter, some slack-jawed as the unmistakable sign of iron or sanely, perhaps a shining type of metallic wood-laden ships approached them casually. Billowing great heaps of smoke from what they recognised as massive twin chimneys in the centre, the mighty vessels, definitely double the size of their own, effortlessly pushed aside the great waters despite the lack of sail.

Quite immediately, the rumours of 'giant metal smokers' elicited a flashmob, as the denizens of Jaffmare poured into the port to bear witness to this mysterious, and somewhat ridiculous claim. Meanwhile, those residing in properties facing the Sea cracked their windows, the dockmaster following from his petite office, accompanied by his counsellors who momentarily wrestled for a clearer view.

The governor? He was still missing ever since the news of the missing vessel. He had probably fled, escaping the death penalty for failing to prevent a natural disaster. The empty treasury sure proved that.

The harbourmaster's expressions would suddenly harden. He would see Jaffmare through this.

"...So." The howling winds, bombarding rain and crashing waves barely made the voice of the speaker audible, much less, recognisable.

The ship's bow crashed down thunderously, displacing the ocean and spilling its contents in a hiss all across the deck, soaking the personnel still remaining precariously on it... Plus four notables.

The rising bow gave enough reprieve for the same prior voice to speak, "-Pray tell, why are we exposing ourselves to the elements?"

"Why? -For the dramatic scene, of course, sir Flash!" Seymour cheered, who was quickly laundered with a blast of seawater as the bow sunk. He coughed dignifiedly, sipping the salty, diluted tea which he held quaintly with both hooves.

Flashman, or Flash for short, squinted. "...Huh?"

"Hah! -I jest, sir Flash! I merely intended to dispel any homesickness." Seymour's tricorne flew off, landing wetly on Albert's face.

"Most splendid." The Prince agreed neutrally, extracting the hat from his eyes with a pinch which flapped violently from his loose 'grip'. "Although I regret the treatment of our precious tea." He made a show by lifting his teacup, whose contents presumptively emptied on his face as the deck lifted.

Kitchener witnessed the tricorne in the Prince's claws escaping and hurtling towards a screaming sailor who desperately held onto the railing. It impressively struck the terrified sailor's beak, causing him to spin and disappear into the dark abyss.

"CATCH HIM!"

He should be fine. "Choppy weather this is." He sipped his tea, cringing when he only tasted salty seawater.

"Quite." The table finally gave away, the wind making it flightworthy to ultimately smash itself against two sailors who were carrying the previous griffon swallowed into the abyss. They too, hurtled into the dark with a painful cry.

"Hmm... Peculiar how that hadn't happened sooner." Seymour stared into the abyss, and the overused quote didn't repeat itself.

"Most fascinating." Albert chorused.

"An accurate assessment." Kitchener echoed.

Flash blinked. "Mhm." He finally decided.

"MEN OVERBOARD! BRING OUT THE HALE!*"

Short for Hale rockets, it was essentially just a glorified rescue rope tied to a rocket that was more reliable than the Congreve ones.

Seymour calmly set down his tea on the non-existent table, launching it with the wind. "Well, this was a most entertaining convention. -I believe a thanks is owed to the Prince for allowing us to gather on his vessel." He called into attention the prince, by the waving of his hoof. The target of everyone's attention then gracefully stood.

Predictably, the chair beneath him became airborne.

"The thanks are underserved, sir Seymour. All Brits are welcome on my flagship." He curtly leaned in a half-bow.

The fellow officers of the empire took this opportunity to rise, sending the rest of the furniture on deck into the air.

A painful hiss and a red glare in the distance signified the firing of a rescue rope.

"Oh dear."

"Hm?" Seymour turned to the Prince, who seemed a foot higher.

"It seems I've entered involuntary flight." Albert stared at the gradually distancing deck.

"How unfortunate." Kitchener quipped, catching Flash rising as well in his peripheries.

"Do call the men." Albert hugged his wings close, but Flash seemed ignorant of aerodynamics, as he most unwisely unfurled his wings.

"That we shall, your highness." Kitchener watched Albert spiral into the dark. But Flash though? -He had improvised a space program.

The acclaimed hero's cry of terror fortuitously became muffled by the very same violent storm that had snatched him from the decks. He frailed aimlessly, numb to the sensation of his wings catching the winds and further spiralling him into the dark unknown.

FUCK YOUUUUUUU-, GLADSTONE!

Sir William Ewert Gladstone sneezed into his claws. "Accursed cold..." Growling, he wished he could've been part of the expedition, but he was too important to leave Britain.

He had to squalor beneath the London climate while Flash presumably enjoyed a tropical adventure."...He better thank me later for sending him on that vacation!" Gladstone angrily returned to his work.

"CAPTAIN! SHE CANNOT HOLD!"

"SILENCE, DAMN YOU! THIS ISN'T HER FIRST STORM! SHE'LL PUSH THROUGH!"

The middling oak of the ship creaked dreadfully as it was abused by the giant waves that forcefully bent the ship to and back. Sporadically, the entire ship would be submerged into the ocean, carried under by the waves but quickly reemerge thanks to the ship's buoyancy.

For now, the accumulated damages manifested themselves with the sudden snap of mast and its spar holding it, eliciting cries from the crew, who, some among them, got crushed under the beams, adding to the chaos of noise.

"WE'VE LOST THE SAIL!"

"I'M NOT BLIND! -LESS TALK! MORE BAILING!"

The crew continued their futile fight, despite knowing that without their sails they were extirpated from the option to escape the storm. Now, they had no choice but to outlast the storm, an invariable death sentence, even in a deep-sea dhow.

The conditions were truly miserable. Some horses that dared approach the railings too close had even been thrown aboard, swallowed by the unforgiving ocean in a comparably peaceful 'plunk'. Any inexperienced crew, except five, on the ship by now were all submerged, having long ago lost their balance on the twisting and turning ship.

Their mouths, always busy either shouting commands or pulling miscellaneous ropes would prove susceptible to the seawater that repetitively splashed onto the deck or momentarily submerged them, entering their throats and scorching their innards. The poor sailors would've succumbed to their pains too, if it weren't for the rain. Proving to be a fickle mistress, the freshwater flushed their mouths, ridding them of the salt that panged their tongues.

Their efforts were noble, even inspirational.

Which made it more depressing that their work proved ultimately futile.

The ocean roared, no longer amused by the puny mortal's romantic struggle. Omnipotent nature would soon again prove their superiority against desperate wills.

"Great Asura... WHAT IS THAT?!"

'That' proved to be a titanic wave, easily equal, if not taller than their dhow that was now without its spar. What was most terrifying was that their bow was pointing downwards, having bounced and climbed the recent wave.

"Over a hundred feet." The captain internally murmured, hushedly wishing for a favourable afterlife.

"HOLD ON! -FOR DEAR LIFE!"

The head of the ship dove straight down into the depression of the wave, tilting the dhow abruptly upright.

As it were, horses proved ineffectual in the air. Even less so in water. So it proved devastating when their ground disappeared and the unstoppable water ahead of them threatened to temper them like an iron on an anvil.

The wave's crest crashed into the quarter-deck first, violently pushing the wheel and the captain who dearly held onto it against the roof of the officer's quarter, soon breaking through the stretched, stressed oak and snapping the mighty vessel in half.

The horses on the main deck would suffer mixed fates, but most were not afforded the same mercy granted to their captain, who fleeted swiftly.

When the wave finally crashed, the snapped dhow suddenly found itself 15 meters deep inside the ocean, sinking quickly, its buoyancy lost by innumerable damages to the hull, especially to its middle.

It was then, perhaps a work of fate that the navigation room survived with relative integrity, launched by the same force that pressed the 'Clichés' captain to his death.

So who had the Great Asura Mazda spared from the crew of 200?

12 horses. 5 greatly distressed, and 7 uninvited.

The British had caught a great prize.

Dettached Navigation Room
"THE PRISONERS ARE LOOSE!"

Four guards, who had all evidently ditched their armours, immediately braced themselves around a sobbing individual, covering him from view.

The atmosphere was tense, especially so by the darkness which was barely staved off by the illuminating glow of the guard's horns levitating their respective elaborate scimitars. Ditching one's armour was prudent, especially in the interest of survival. Ditching their swords, though? They could forget about being an imperial guard. Even the lowliest levy knew not to forfeit their means of murder.

"Peace." A unicorn among them emerged from the darkness, awkwardly so, as he poorly manoeuvred himself in the shaky compartment. "We don't murder children like those you serve." He hatefully spat.

"Bold claims from a shackled stallion!" The furthest guard facing away from the emergent horse snapped back.

Said horse raised a brow in amusement. "We earned these shackles for resisting the decadent Sa'adles' and his retinues." He shook the remaining chains on his cuffs as a point, "But I suppose it's pointless discussing philosophy with you brainwashed nails." His expressions immediately became darker.

The guards swished their swords about, causing some of the prisoners who had been approaching too close, back.

An earth horse among those circling the guards would soon clarify their intentions, renewing the guard's resolves. "We know you, nails, aren't much for talk, but we're pretty familiar in your 'language' too!"

The prisoners suddenly produced various weaponry, ranging from daggers used by the sailors and even some blunt hatchets of mysterious sources.

The guards went wide-eyed at this unforeseen development. Sure, it would've been a laughable scene with their qualitative lamellar armour, but as mentioned before, they had all ditched it for the fear of its weight dragging them to a watery death.

While they were definitely far more rigorously trained than these mere bandits, the unstable ground, their cold, soaked coats, exhaustion and insufferable noise of the stormy ocean made their collective years in the academy worthless. One lucky wave and a flimsy jab were all these prisoners needed to kill one of them.

Speak of the devil, all the horses were about to kiss the ceiling.

"Hold the Princeling!" A guard narrowly shouted, sparing the subject colt from being skewered by a hovered scimitar or tossed violently around the room, of which either scenario if transpired, would've been fatal.

The foreseen wave had its dreaded effects, rolling everything that had not been bolted through across its opposite end as the detached section of the dhow flipped violently from the ocean's force.

As the guards suspected with sunken stomachs, their scimitars escaped their magical grasps, lost to the darkness around them, hopefully not lodged in their comrade's skull when they next illuminated the room.

Unknown to them, the prisoners had also lost their grips on their 'weapons', similarly being lost into the darkness as wet teeth and even more malnourished bodies proved poor at holding anything still.

Water entered the room with greater vigour, submerging those within completely when the room turned vertical, but just as quickly sank to cover only their barrel as it turned horizontal. This brief, but vicious cycle forced all to breathe quickly and exhale just as fast, if they didn't want to swallow water that is. But for some, it wasn't even a choice, as their body, in all its stress and lack of energy, could not adapt to keep away water from their guts or their lungs. So instead of being forced into hyper-ventilating, they choked and chugged painfully with coughs and wheezes in between.

One unlucky enough to be in both worlds was the Princeling, who, while spared the impalement of the sword, would face the much worse wrath of the ocean. Held tight against a guard's barrel. The same barrel that was either entirely submerged or barely out of water when horizontal.

Not that the Princeling could tell though, as drowning and furiously fighting the hoof that held him from breathing the precious life-giving air distracted him from noticing his orientation. Or his view. Or his olfaction, audition or anything else for that matter.

No thoughts except his primary drives occupied his mind. NEED. TO BREATH.

Then it was all over.

Stallions limply crashed into the walls, loud groans escaping from their poisoned muzzles, each louder than the other as they wetly crashed on top of eachother, creating a dog-pile until it too collapsed from their tilting room, splaying them all across what had been their ceiling just a minute ago.

"Ugh... My ears burn."

From the mass of hooves, manes and barrels a single one of the former rose to signify that they were the owner of the previous voice, which also happened to be the eldest among the guards, senior to the rest. Not that it mattered or seemed like it. His armour with his appropriate rank insignia was gone.

Still groaning, the bruised stallions stumbled around, crawling, and the eccentric ones even rolling to distance themselves from everyhorse, lest they regret it later when they were revealed to be the enemy.

Many at the edges of the initial pile who were confident there were nohorse close began limply swiping their hooves around the oaken floor, inadvertently lodging some splinters into their battered hooves. Thier objective? Find a loose weapon from the darkness and stick it into the nearest horse's eye.

"...Just, stop." A pained slur came choking out.

Several stallions rose their heads to see who it came from. In doing so, It would turn out only 4 among them had done so. The only guards there.

It turned out it was the same unicorn that had first announced peace, before provoking the guards as being slight improvements to glue.

It also turned out, the same unicorn who had supposedly rebelled against the Sa'adle regime was holding one of its members, the Princeling, against his barrel, pressing against his midriff.

"We're all dead anyways... Let's try not to worsen our chance in the afterlife by making bloodshed our last." He tiredly slurred. "-There." The Princeling expelled the last of the liquid in his lungs, finally desperately gasping for the air that continually eluded him. The stallion allowed the colt to slip away from him, who presumptively rolled on the floor in the pain that he had been repressing.

The senior guard took this scene in, a brow involuntarily rising from his surprise at it. He promptly dropped his head down limply in a distinct 'thud'. "He's right..." He sighed, "Stand down. There's no point."

This seemed to do the trick, as the atmosphere of the room immediately cooled into one of abject despair, marginally better than the previous mad bloodlust. "Wait... Then why'd you save the Princeling? -Aren't you just prolonging his suffering?" A guard suddenly pointed out,

"..." The unicorn blanked in silent realisation. Too bad the guards couldn't enjoy it because of the dark. "It seemed right at the moment..." He admitted defensively. His guilt compounded as the Princeling continued to thrash and wheeze violently on the ground next to his hind hooves.

"Well, rebel. Mind sharing your name before we get shipped to Tartarus?" The senior guard groaned out, the pain having caught up to him as well.

The unicorn lazily eyed the guard. Why not amuse him? "Tall-at Pasha. Leader of the 'Young Saddles'." He revealed.

The senior guard rashly choked in a manic chuckle, "Y-you?! Leader of that sorry group?! -And you call us brainwashed!" He roared a hearty laugh, much to the annoyed groans of the 7 other stallions still on the floor. "Oh, that's rich. You lot justify banditry like all the others, the Maregyptian for 'freedom', those cats for 'prosperity' and you? For some abstract idea of 'reform'."

"Better than sucking on some gout-ridden hoof." Pasha snapped venomously.

The senior guard bit his tongue. "...Anyways, momma always told me to repay favours, so here's mine," He limply slapped his head with his hoof in a weak, wet salute. "Captain Adni Mahmud, at your disservice, -and the Princeling," He pointed at the now-quietly sobbing colt, "-Is Pedrollah ibn Saddle." He majestically declared.

Pasha allowed himself a grin. "Nicely met." He said, limping as he did, sliding down the wall he leaned on, "Shame that we'll part so soon." He fell with a similar 'thud'.

"Worry none, we'll soon see eachother again." Mahmud grinned knowingly.

Fate, it seemed, was determined to make him look a fool.

(("FUCK YOUUUUUUU GLADSTONE!"))

Who Fate's victim was, no one was sure.

Everyhorse blinked. What was-

Then all Tartarus broke loose.

An unknown projectile, added furious voice, smashed into the centre of the room, causing all stallions inside to seemingly 'bounce', which in reality, was their floor displacing downwards from the aforementioned applied force.

The Princeling, plus all passengers suddenly found themselves rolling towards the epicentre of the projectile's damage, their floor suddenly becoming a great decline towards the hole that was punched through.

Perhaps due to his low weight or weakness or both, Pedrollah, or just Pedro was the first to roll down the makeshift slide.

Surprisingly, instead of plunking into the water, he would roughly crash into the very same foreign projectile that had caused the violent upheaval. More shockingly, it elicited an unmistakable 'oof' from the alien apparatus, the universal reaction to pain.

(("DAMN! Damn, that hurts! -If I ever get a hand over you Gladstone, I promise you a world of-!"))

The remaining horses following the Princeling, smashed into the projectile, removing their privilege of hearing out the foreign sentence.

Unlike the guards or prisoners whose backs were now pressed either against eachother or the foreign projectile, Pedro had the unique opportunity to witness the outline of a spindly limb, dripping wetly, jittering either in pain or cold above him. Probably both.

Too shocked and now exhausted to shout in alarm, the Princeling could only note that the evidently clothed, albeit soaking-wet stranger was in inconceivable pain.

But it did not impede his ability to speak, it would seem.

(("W-what the devil is this?!"))

The prince shivered violently as he felt a soaked limb swipe across his barrel, resting coldly just beside his flank. He tried to yelp, but his torn throat could only produce squeaks.

"What in Tartarus just happened?!" A voice among a sea of groans cried that seemed to belong to Pasha.

(("WHO WAS THAT?!")) A muffled voice spinelessly squeaked. That might've been literal.

"Is that a shark?! I CAN'T SEE! -Get your flank off my face!" A voice belonging to Mahmud panickly insisted.

(("OH DEAR DIETY, GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!"))

The pile stirred from its center, unknowingly gappening the hole that had been initially made by the forced entry. The hole, plugged by the booties of the aforementioned projectile shook wildly as it became panicked, causing it to crack loudly.

After a forestalled wave? It finally caved.

The orchestra of screams began its second verse, added one high-pitched songstress.

HMS Alexandra
"Heave!"

Prince Albert's head peaked over the edge, indomitable calm splayed over his face. Beneath him, hidden from the view of the men pulling him was a brave marine who had dived into the treacherous waters to rescue him. The fact that Albert was wrapped in his entirety, making him immobile wasn't important. He had been saved.

As the Prince was pulled onto the deck, he was at least spared some dignity as he was not dragged beak-first on the wet, hard floor. Instead, he was fortuitously twisted on his back, revealing his bored face to all the sailors who pretended there was something deathly interesting ahead of them at that time.

Kitchener, in his great pinkness, was by his Prince's side as two sailors converged beside Albert to hastily free him.

"Fresh clothes have been prepared in your quarters, your majesty."

Albert twisted his neck ever-so-slightly to face the major. "Forward my gratitude to the arangee."

Seymour appeared from Kitchener's back, bipedal in-stance. "Already done, sir! -And you're most welcome." He idly looked around, "Have you perchance spotted sir Flash?"

"OVER HEREEE YOU MONGOLOIDS!"

Albert's brow fluttered. "I have been recently informed of his location."

Kitchener sighed. "I'll go direct the men..." he trotted leisurely towards the exhausted men who were already preparing to launch a rocket into the general vicinity of their hero's voice.

"...You need me, sir?" Seymour asked.

Albert stared down at the rope that encased him, shook a bit, and then looked back at Seymour. "Freeing me would be a prudent start."

"At once." Seymour knelt and raised a sharp digit.

...

...

...

"Missed again, sir."

Kitchener rubbed his eyes, only to be clopped by a hoof to his eyes. The men resisted a chuckle. He growled. "Peal your eyes and aim again!"

"Yes, sir!"

A nasty hiss and a red glare of a hale rocket followed, carrying a thick rope for Flash, wherever he was, to hopefully grab onto.

The bright glare of the rocket also worked as an improvised flare, illuminating the surface of the dark seas with a violent red tint. Occasionally, the men aboard would spot a speck above the irregular waters which they attributed to Flash, allowing them to aim their rockets without sound alone.

"It's a hit!"

"Splendid! Pull him in!" Kitchener barked,

"Objection, sir!"

Kitchener groaned, "What could possibly be wrong now?!"

"We hit sir Flash, sir!"

Kitchener viciously appraised the soldier.

"We uh-, might've knocked him unconscious." The in question neevously stammered, "SIR!" He reminded finished.

Kitchener pouted and resisted bruising his face anymore with his hoof. "Bloody hell..."

"No... Wait! He's grabbed on!"

Kitchener brightened only slightly.

"It takes more than that to kill the Great Flash!" The men cheered exuberantly, some even tossing their hats in the air, -only for it to disappear forever in the strong winds. Oops "His grip is strong too! Like the strength of 6 men almost!"

The men cheered once more.

"WE MAY HAVE HALF OUR STRENGTHS, BUT WE'RE 11 STRONG!" Mahmud yelled,

The desperate stallions cheered back, desperately holding the rope, which attached glaring projectile had knocked the previous projectile unconscious.

Said initial projectile, revealed to be an eccentrically dressed griffon, had clasped onto the Princeling dearly before being knocked out, as Mahmud quickly realised as he failed to pry off Pedro from the heavy griffon frozen in a surprised expression. He was now forced, alongside his unlikely companions to hold him and themselves on the rope that was being pulled in a mysterious destination, fighting desperately against the water that tried slipping them off.

"NOT A STALLION LEFT BEHIND!" Pasha yelled, coincidentally grabbing onto a guard that had slipped from the rope. With unknown strength, said leader of the delusional bandits valiantly pulled the guard over him with one hoof with a great grunt, pressing the grasped hoof on the section of rope unoccupied.

A soft "Thanks," went unheard amid the noise.

Suddenly, what was once a gentle pull turned into a wild yank, as unbeknownst to them, they were meant to tie themselves to the rope by now. Due to this, the water even fiercly crashed against them, immediately pushing everyhorse off the rope.

Faster than even one could think, all the briefly airborne stallions, bouncing on the waters while having held the rope, implicitly grabbed onto the nearest thing they could. Most grabbed onto the other's hindhooves. Those horses grabbed onto Mahmud or Pasha. Pasha held onto the griffon, and Mahmud had already been holding onto him.

So how had the rope still not eluded them? Remaining in their view, shaking violently in front of them?

The perspective turned, facing the griffon from the front.

It revealed the Princeling, Pedro ibn Saddle shakily leaning against the torso of the griffon while sitting on the waving rope.

The Princeling proved to be decisive, quick-thinking and extremely resourceful.

Because wrapping the griffon was the precious rope, the Princeling having tied its ends around the griffon's midriffs while the rest madly gripped the rope. He was unreasonably proud of his work. For a colt who had accidentally also invented a mechanism to periodically slam at a man's balls.

Flashman felt the rope either violently chafe or slam into his crotch as the rope was tied behind him, its extension reaching out from under him, waving fiercely as it bounced and was pulled through the waters.

Words could not describe the amount of pain. So Flashman scowled deeply instead, his brain short-circuiting with every slamming.

"THANK ASURA, FOR OUR PRINCE!" Mahmud cheered with unrepentant joy.

Two pairs among the 13 begged to differ.

The bow sinking and wave incoming made for a perfect opportunity for an awesome entrance.

"HERE HE COMES! Bouncing off that wave!"

"-Where?!"

"THERE!" A private pointed, where a silhouette seemingly greatly encumbered had gone airborne from the aforementioned waves to foreseeable land on their rapidly rising deck.

"HEADS UP, MEN!" Kitchener roared a warning, at first glaring in the general direction, before brightening at the sight of an ever-closening shadow in the darkness.

The warning would prove unnecessary, as the silhouette seemed to spin and head towards a section devoid of men.

"The rope's coiling us! Loosen it!" Mahmud yelled in pain, as the rope burned his hoof, chafing violently against the bare coat which the rope coiling around the griffon contacted.

Heeding his orders and fearing the same fate, Pasha gnawed painfully against the thick rope, which, already weakened from overuse and a healthy dose of luck having burnt it due to a foresight on coating, allowed the rope to loudly snap.

Pedro would finish off this effort by untieing the knot by reaching around, the various buttons and gaps within the griffon's bizarre dress assisting him in this endeavour.

This also occurred in quick succession, impressively so too since they were spinning wildly with the griffon, the drag of their total surface area barely acting as a substitute wing to slow their fall or stop their fierce twisting.

"HANG ON!" Pasha cried, shutting his eyes like many others around him, despairing the ground that quickly approached them.

(("HANG ON!"))
"INCOMING!"

Flash landed wetly and painfully, bupedally on the deck, before the quickly gathering crowd of sailors and soldiers alike. His wings by then had majestically unfurled, and his uniform, absolutely tattered by the abuse of the rope had been ripped, but not in a manner reminding of a beggar, but just in a convenient way that made it seem intentional. Like a noble knight who ripped a part of his rich silken cloth to dress another, or like a toiling labourer who wished to cool off.

The men gathered looked in awe, some even cooed as they met their gaze on his face. Flash had an expression of furious concentration, mixed with the best features of a determined face. It was soon obvious why! Because just behind that picturesque face that screamed brave desperation was the cowering, shivering mass of particularly large ponies, that looked starved, desperate for help, which the Great Flash seemed to have provided by a ride on his back.

The looks of what seemed to be the only colt among them, rested warmly on the body of Flash was enough to speak of the Hero's gallantry.

Seymour and Kitchener soon pushed their way into view, immediately gasping at the sight. Albert wasn't close behind.

"Is... -Is that... Blood? What did you do-? Fight a shark?" Seymour sputtered, first noticing the wretched condition of his uniform, which, underneath revealed red, rashed flesh that had chafed and subsequently bled due to the rope.

Kitchener though was more focused on the hero's 'cargo'. "Sir Flash. Did you... Abduct this adolescent...-" Kitchener looked down, "...-Colt?" Why it was naked could come later. The 11 other on top of him, he suddenly realised, COULD COME MUCH LATER.

Flash was unresponsive. If one was to be closer though, they could hear the silent hissing exhale of pain exuding from his slightly gapped beak and gritted teeth. Pedro sure could.

Albert didn't care much for Flash's stankface though, for he had already decided on what had transpired. "Isn't it obvious, sir Flash has rescued this poor colt, alongside 11 other men! Faint'ed only after besting some foreign beast of these strange seas', and rescuing a dozen lives!" He declared cheerfully. Probably having overindulged in seawater and underindulged in oxygen.

Before Kitchener could voice his doubts about this hastily contrived fantasy, the men that had gradually gathered around them cheered madly.

"Huzzah! All hail the brave rescuer, -sir Flash! Hip-Hip!"

"HURRAY!"

Seymour shrugged, and joined in, "Hip-Hip!"

"HURRAY!"

Flashman would rue the day he met Gladstone.

One and a half days later, HMS Victoria, Sick Bay
Pedro groggily opened his eyes. When did he fall asleep? Everything hurt all over, his mouth was dryer than all the deserts he had visited in his, albeit, short life.

His eyes stung greatly, despite its protective layers unknown to him. They were degraded due to malnutrition and the dissolved salt from the dried seawater pricked at his nerves.

He did not wish to know what he had done the previous day to be so afflicted with pain all over. But for now, he stared at the blurry ceiling.

...

Eventually, he resigned himself to lifting himself with a soft groan to at least alleviate the dryness of his throat from the cup of water his guard usually left him at his order.

(("Woah-oh, easy there, easy."))

Pedro immediately jolted at the strange noise closely beside him, recoiling from his slowly retracting hoof, clenching his blankets closer which chafed at his... Clothes? He finally noticed the unusual sensation of adorned clothes, now unforgettable as he glanced at the plain white fabric hugging loosely on his coat.

The sudden clear view of a unicorn became interpreted by his sore eyes. They seemed unperturbed by the Princeling's adverse reactions, considering he continued speaking in his foreign tongue, (("You were out a couple of days now, why don't you just relax a second, and get your bearings?."))

The Princeling visibly relaxed when the unicorn flashed a harmless smile, inching extremely slowly. This time, Pedro decided not to recoil further, not really because he felt safer, but because he felt the tell-tale sign of his back bracing against air, causing his heart to drop as he realised any further back, and he would probably fall. He could later decide if the fall was the better option anyway.

(("Let's see what the damage is. How about your name?")) The unicorn still spoke in what Pasha could only discern as garbles. (("Can you tell me your name?")) Pedro's brow rose in slight comprehension as he barely noticed the unicorn had repeated something. Probably a question, he wagered.

...

Silence.

Pedro refused to dignify anything with a response in the short-sighted expectation that he might get something wrong and possibly offend the unicorn before him. Further considering, now, that this unicorn seemed to be a pony, possibly those from the southern Pact, Pedro thought it to be wise to be silent.

The wide smile of the weirdly dressed unicorn began to judder.

...

Patience running out, the unicorn abruptly faced towards a curtain behind him, muttering something frustratedly, (("Of course, he can't speak English. All that rehearsal was for nothing!"))

Unexpectantly, a griffon that looked to be wearing some sort of lighter spectacles appeared from behind the curtains, seemingly entering a dialogue with the unicorn. (("Of course he can't speak English, Mitchell, you think we have child stowaways? -And those other ponies couldn't speak it either, so how would a colt know?"))

Pedro stared gape-jawed at the rare creatures. The accounts of their most adventurous merchants and travellers did not serve these 'griffons' justice, it seemed, as Pedro drank in the sight of these almost mythical beasts.

Half-feline and half-bird, as advertised, Pedro noted. However, while the accounts of the merchants embellished tales of these creatures' apparent savagery and zeal for battle, unmatched even by the Great Laker Zebras, the griffon right before him seemed to look as dignified, if not more than the same posh merchants that acclaimed such stories.

Pedro would be foolish though if he completely dismissed the Intercontinental merchants, as some did account for the 'civilised' griffons past what was known among local seafarers as 'Marauding Macawia'. It is allegedly a mountainous island, heaven to pirates who ravage any ships that dare approach too close, or even vaguely near their coasts. The sorry state Asterion is in proves this, and forewarns all of the brutal efficiency of griffon pirates.

Pedro's tutors would be so proud.

(("We do now, Frank. -And you'll be surprised, but that tale is for another day. For now, what's our orders again?")) The unicorn asked in a despondent manner.

(("Be the doctors we are...?")) The griffon replied awkwardly, Pasha noted.

(("I'm more of a surgeon, but sure.")) The unicorn briefly glanced towards Pasha before turning back at the griffon again. (("He needs a good meal, sleep and exercise."))

The griffon curtly nodded. (("Same opinion as the others. To the mess hall then."))

It was at that moment when Pasha's memories of the previous two nights finally decided to crash into him.

"Mahmud! -My guards! Where are they?!" Pedro blurted out.

Frank and Mitchell gave Pedro an indecipherable stare.

"Mahmud? ((Huh-? Where have I heard that before?")) The unicorn seemed to say to himself,

"Mahmud! You know where he is?!" Pedro sputtered

(("I think the ponies that woke up earlier were saying the same thing.")) The griffon spoke to the unicorn.))

Pedro sunk in resignation, hooves limply falling by his side as the pony and griffon before him did not even pretend to care about his current distress. He figured that wasting his already parched and abused throat to be futile.

(("Well, come on little colt, let's reunite you with your friends.)) The unicorn spoke to Pedro, his last word laced with scepticism, as it seemed by his expression when he said it.

Pedro flinched intensely when a claw suddenly grasped his comparably small hooves, but he did not resist it. Either because he was exhausted or resigned to whatever these caltives had in store for him, Pedro allowed himself to be dragged away. Just in case it was to his death, Pedro dragged his hooves. He couldn't make it too convenient for them.

3 Weeks Later
"How truly fascinating. Oh, -sir Flash, perhaps you can share one of many heroics with us while we're at it. I hear your death-defying charge in the light brigade is a capital story!" Seymour cheered in between the clattering of his silver cutleries, absently slicing away on his plate.

"Oh, I shouldn't. I wouldn't want to belittle any of your own good stories." Flash gently pushed away, evidently the only one not multi-tasking on the table.

Flash's recovery had been a miracle. Unknowingly the works of a cynical universe that granted abilities based on its comedic effects. The recovery was still only skin deep though, as the trauma would forever remain in Flash's mind.

"No offence shall be taken at this table. You should know as much, good Flash." Albert dapped his beak with a napkin. Still not looking at Flash, he continued, "Please, indulge us with a quality story."

Kitchener continued to passively appraise Flash, only momentarily snapping his gaze away towards his meal when someone was about to meet his eyes.

A knock would avert Flash's inner disaster.

Seymour seemed to have already turned towards the door, his usual sensitive ears, now enhanced, having picked up the noise of approaching hooves. "You may enter."

A pegasus colonel entered the room, his hat pressed tightly against his chest, his overall stance hesitant. "Is it a bad time, sir?"

Seymour's expression immediately brightened, "Colonel Francis! It's an absolute pleasure of ours to be graced with your presence. Why don't you sit down with us before you speak?" He flashed an irresistible smile.

It was fortunate, then, that Francis had been looking aside as Seymour offered a nearby seat, as he hastily informed him of his intent, "Perhaps another time, sir. But I'm here to pass on an urgent revelation about our... Rescued stowaway from a few weeks back." He revealed, nervously tracing the rims of his hat, poorly. Hooves didn't make for good twiddlers, so he instead soon opted to gently spin the hat.

"You mean 'Sandy'? -I still cannot believe our men decided on that silly name. 'Sahara' is a far superior choice! -Much cooler and, mysterious." Albert huffed.

Francis nodded, "Yes, the very same, favourite of the crew. While I do not regret the choice in names,-"

Albert squinted.

"-'Sandy's' vocabularies have greatly been expanded by our onboard lingual specialists, who before, had nothing to do." Francis continued regardless, "Despite being nine, he had a lot to reciprocate too it seems-,"

"Nine? He looked at least to be 15 or mid-adolescent age." Kitchener interrupted, having distinctively remembered the size of the pony.

"Well, maybe in size, sir."

"Whatever are you implying?" Kitchener impatiently dug,

Francis rubbed his neck with a vacant hoof, seamlessly balancing his leaned posture with his hindhooves alone. "Well, sirs... It turns out the 'pony' is actually a horse. They're all horses actually."

Malnutrition impedes growth. Read history and you will know that people before tbe great indistralisation were alot shorter then average due to the former's abundance in food.

For modern examples, just look at North Korea.

Silverware clattered throughout the table.

"Truly? -The very mounts which our cavalry cry each nights for their disappearance?" Albert cautiously breathed, absently looking around the room in hushed contemplation. "But they're all much too small!"

"No. Not the exact same. -I... Ugh. This is all too confusing for me too." Francis rubbed his face into his hat, before continuing, "We first thought he meant all of us to be horses. But apparently, we are ponies by his testim-,"

"Hang on, he's familiar with the races of this world-? At his alleged young age?" Flash finally interjected, voicing his own surprise. "Just who did we snatch?"

"You mean, you snatched, you lucky bastard!" Seymour called out joyfully, quickly filling the room with a jubilant atmosphere.

"Yes... He seems to be extremely bright. But others also testifed it to be the case. Perhaps his brightness is due to the non-stop attention our linguists give him." Francis shook his head, returning to the topic,

"Nevertheless, he is predicted by his tutors to be fully fluent in but a week's time. Amazing, I know, as the other horses with him could onlt eeach basic fluency. But no doubt, we will stand to benefit the most from this relationship, -by learning their language." Francis uneasily smiled, his hat's spin hastening ever-slightly.

Studies from Cambridge found that it takes at least 780 hours (low estimate) for primary school children to reach an 'advanced' level of language proficiency when starting from scratch with a generalist teacher (not an English teaching specialist.)

Now, Pasha had an entire team of lingual specialists, who all had great motivations to teach and learn back from him. Compound that with Pasha's willingness to learn and slave away like a university rat, I have cut down the total time by half. With an added dose of copium on my part, and magic bullshittery, I have cut the total time into a quarter of what it initially was.

So if Pasha had been slaving away studying 12 hours a day, 20 and half days straight, he would be proficient in English. Thank you for listening to my deranged Ted-talk.

Noticing this, Seymour reassuringly smiled, yet Francis's anxiety did not stop.

Frowning, Seymour asked exactly what Francis had been waiting for to break the bad news as smoothly as possible. "Is there something wrong with 'Sandy'?"

"No. At least, not in the way you think, sir." Francis swallowed. Now or never."-And his name is Pedrollah ibn Saddle. A nephew of a King fashioning himself as the 'Grand Prince' of the kingdom we are currently heading towards.-" Damn!
-Too abrupt! Francis silently cursed, chewing the bottom of the lips.

Somehow, the silverware around the table clattered thrice.

...

...

...

As always, Seymour broke the silence, "What the fuck Harry,"

Flash cursed Gladstone once more.

Jaffmare Port, Present Time
The harbourmaster had gathered all notables of the city, for some even going door by door to drag them to the berths. Many like Fareed Ample, leader of the richest Jaffmare merchant guild, coincidentally half-pony, were caught mid-way packing to predictably flee like their beylerbey. For the others, their homes were vacant, already at the port to view the commotion.

These included the associates of Fareed who were quickly directed to the harbourmaster's gathering place by the latter's workers. Theologian and High Priest of Jaffmare's Zoroastrian Temple, Jihaad Al Qasim was also there with his entourage, probably butting heads with the virtueless merchants, and especially the half-breed degenerate Fareed.

The head engineer of Jaffmare, which was supposed to be a heredity post, was the notable Urban El Hungari, who had swiftly presumed the office by right, as the chief apprentice when the predecessor fled with the beylerbey. He seemed to have the same idea as the harbourmaster, as they crossed paths on the streets, both overcumbered in exhaustion.

With Urban came the rest of the petite officials and city figures, including cultural figureheads like the famous feline artist Treble Nimblenail and the historian, orator and city rabblerouser organiser Shah Al Assad. As expected, they brought with them their respective followers, also probably fighting with the already gathered merchants and clergy.

The last group to gather was the military, however, there was a little hitch in that plan. There was no military.

It had turned out, or more accurately, they had always known that their beylerbey had not been using the vast riches he extracted from the populace for protection, in the form of a hired, professional army or even a civilian guard. Why?

Well, there was an entire deluge of reasons why, but for brevity, it was because of two major reasons:

One, The heartlands of Saddle Arabia, in which, Jaffmare was near the centre of, did not require protection, or at least from foreign threats. Like how Earth's Rome did not have a wall during its Republican golden ages, Jaffmare did not need a standing army, as unlike their eastern eyalets who were constantly in danger of raids or full-scale invasions, Jaffmare had an enormous buffer and enjoyed relative peace.

Domestic enemies would soon challenge this notion.

Two, corruption. Look up the Byzantine Empire. It's basically that word-for-word. Yep, the governors who paid for their positions melting down anchors, swords and armour for coin and using the taxes collected for hedonistic purposes. Yep. Yep. Yep. Ghost armies and navies only exist on paper so that they can siphon tax money via fake wages to be paid into the governor's pockets too.

Now, this was all made nakedly obvious to the citizens of Jaffmare, with all the rotten dhows and outnumbering outdated galleys littering the harbour and non-existent parades and marches of their lavishly paid soldiers. The harbourmaster too, had not been blind to this fact, but like the citizens, it was still better than what other beylerbeys were doing around them.

After all, they weren't being pressed into service, mothers need not be burdened by the choice of choosing their many foals to die on the march of war, and their taxation was still considered lenient, especially when considering they were the second largest port of the kingdom, generating a fortune's worth in gold each day.

But what was gold worth when facing the enemy without an army of your own?

An incentive for them to slay you and relinquish you of your property.

The harbourmaster had to consider the worst, and things were only becoming gloomier as he discovered the absence of either the admiral or general entrusted with the protection of the city. Their 'offices' in the lavish palace of the city's capital turned out to be the servant's quarters, said employees of the state within, busy gorging at the previous day's banquet as the harbourmaster abruptly barged in.

He promptly excused himself.

In light of this, the harbourmaster had no choice but to 'scrap the barrel', so to speak, as he scoured the palace's records of the wealthy residents, hoping that a scant few officers or even experienced soldiers had decided to vacation or retire in Jaffmare.

It would be needed though, as he would quickly receive word from Urban's courier, informing him that a 'replacement' had already been found.
He resigned to himself that it wouldn't make a difference anyway.

This collection of events would finally set the long-awaited scene at the harbour.

Like the start of a bad joke, the harbourmaster entered a berth where the clergy, merchants, petite bourgeoise (They're not called that yet, instead they're known as burghers) and military stood.

Just in time too, as the billowing vessels neared.

Port's Berth. Gathering Place
The harbourmaster galloped towards the uncanny group, having immediately determined that the rare concentration of felines, donkeys, and horses with either robes or avaricious attires could only mean one thing.

Jihaad immediately noticed the harbourmaster's approach, either due to his tall stature, even compared to the bipedal felines among them or by his astute hearing. "Here comes master Zubair El Bakar, how nice it is for you to finally join us." He warmly announced to the rest, first politely bowing at Bakar.

Bakar skidded to a halt, catching several breaths. "My apologies, I expected to find you all sooner from your noise." He slowly trotted into the improvised circle of officials, deciding to nestle himself among the clergy. "Sorry if you find this rude, but I really expected a shouting match by now."

Fareed cleared his throat pointedly, not amused by the petulant implication. "We're not foals, port lord. There is a time and place to argue, but here? Do you not see those iron monstrosities?" He waved pointlessly, his target already clear.

Jihaad surprisingly nodded along, a serene smile still splayed across his muzzle, even as he met the lead merchant's gaze head-on. "Right. This is no time for pointless conjecture. Only a colt would've thrown a tantrum or sabotaged a gathering of such an important nature. This is a foremost time for unity." Jihaad declared, further destroying a certain cliché overused in productions to artificially heighten tension.

"Right. This is no place for melodrama!" Treble added, followed by a round of agreeing murmurs around the circle.

"Yes, yes. Very good. We're all happy and united now, but it still won't stop the fact that we're royally screwed." Fareed shrugged with a lazed expression. "Why don't you all just take my advice and leave this place? -I mean, even if these mysterious ships turn out to be filled with peace-mongering angels, we'll still be driven out by Jal-far. Everyhorse knows he's been acting like a spiked charger ever since the Princeling died."

Assad glared at the merchanrhorse, "-And whose ship did he die in?"

"WOAH, woah! Let's not play the blame game now! That is all in the past! -And do you seriously think Jal-far even needed a reason to devour us?" Fareed rapidly fired out.

Urban sighed loudly, "We still don't know if Pedrollah is dead-,"

"-It's been a month, on open sea no less, sir. He's assuredly dead." An unknown, yet authoritative voice corrected, trotting past two forgettable(s). He wore what vaguely resembled a ship's captain, but from its tattered appearance, it seemed almost stolen, like a pirate having looted it.

"And you are-?" Fareed scrutinised the pony directly opposite to him.

"Baltog Al-Hue. Provisional admiral of our sorry fleet." He spat without even the courtesy of a salute. "This was the most presentable uniform left in the storerooms. Quite representative of the current status of our 'navy'."

"Your credentials?" Bakar braced for the worst,

Baltog faced Bakar with an incredulous stare, "The academies are a farcical ladder for the governor's foals and there hasn't been a major naval battle in over a century." He sneered, "Now, do I look like a beylerbey's foal to you, sir?"

"Easy Baltog." Urban pulled his selection back, "Bakar isn't a noble's sire either." The clergy among them shuffled impatiently. Urban faced the contemplative harbourmaster, and abruptly admitted, "There are no credentials."

Loud uncomfortable murmurs rang out, the subject of those mutterings, though, remained defiantly still.

Fareed decided he wasn't made for subtlety, instead, he rolled his eyes and drawled, "Perfect. I still have room on my carriage for 4 more, by the way, just ask me when you all regain your reason."

"-We're not leaving." Jihaad abruptly announced.

Fareed boredly stared at the high priest. "Cool, scratch that mares! There's a price for the ride now! -Now without preaching old horses."

Jihaad's expression barely changed from his serene calmness. Except for a slight twitch of the brow. "I meant all of us."

"-And why's that? Lemme guess, some grand delusion about fate? What, we will forever squallow in torture if we don't resist or something? Or if we try to escape? -What is it now?" Fareed babbled, much to little effect on the priest.

"...Asura has truly challenged me to condone a free spirit like yours Fareed." Jihaad broke a wide smile, "If you knew anything about our faith, free soul, you should know we do not follow such restrictive things as 'fate'."

Fareed yawned.

"...We are free to act however may our will directs us, but we will all be eventually judged for every act we've done, Fareed." Jihaad cracked an unworldly wise eye at the unscrupulous merchant. "If we flee, we are subjecting the citizens of Jaffmare to certain doom. A scenario, we can readily change, one not predetermined by some fickle fate-,"

"But our fickle, fallible minds. Gotcha." Fareed boredly blurted,

Jihaad continued with a slight irritation in his voice, "-But determined by our free will, therefore, responsible individually as murderers of hundreds of thousands of innocents." Jihaad suddenly stomped, eliciting the surprised yelps of several of the merchant leaders who were becoming drowsy, "LISTEN WELL! -For you still have time for redemption! We will only flee when the most of Jaffmare's citizenry is evacuated! Not now, when all are panicked are still unprepared!"

"I don't think those ships out there will give us much time." Fareed idly shifted through his mane, wholly unattentive. "-And even on the great off chance that they do, what makes you think the horses of Jaffmare will follow you?" He indignantly huffed,

"Because unlike you, they trust me to act in their best interests." Jihaad said matter-of-factly, "And I will not force anyhorse. If they decide to stay, they'll stay. Reaping whatever misfortune their free will wrought."

"-Annnd I will exercise that free will to leave now. And I shall reap whatever fortune that decision wrought." Fareed nodded wildly in mock understanding.

"You would regret it."

"But I won't" Fareed deadpanned, was this going anywhere?

Jihaad appraised the merchant before him. Does he know what regret means?

"Ahem..." Urban drew everycreature's attention back, but immediately awkwardly recoiled at the sudden attention. "Uh, I haven't yet introduced who will organise the city guard." He managed,

"What do you mean? We'll all familiar with Assad," Bakar squinted again, bracing himself for the pain of knowing.

A heavy hoof stomping on the ground redirected everycreature's attention again. This time, it was a naked donkey, which, while would be a pretty normal sight, seemed slightly awkward in the sea of elaborately clothed merchants and scant few clothed dignified cultural contributors.

This one gave a rigid salute. "Jass Canary, 47. Temporary general."

"Okay, now I know you're just fucking with me." Fareed glared at the so-called 'head engineer' of Jaffmare, now suspecting him to be some sort of unfunny circus pimp as he evaluated his unique entourage.

Jass correctly answered the provocative merchant. By not even acknowledging him. "I had previously served in 3 armies. 8 regiments and individually led 21 companies of around 120 soldiers each, as a mercenary captain." He apathetically muttered.

...

"Now we're talking!" Fareed cheered exuberantly, seemingly suffering from onset amnesia, "Donkeys have always been reliable, precious soldiers of the Kingdom! -At least we have some hope!"

Quiet murmurs of approval rung out. Bakar sighed a breath of relief. Finally, some reprieve.

"Problem." Jass barely vocalised,

"What's your problem, soldier?" Assad happily asked,

"Everything." Jass deadpanned. "We have no regulars, which could be substituted for militias easily if they only hold fortifications, but there are no outer walls here to speak of. Just a crumbling heap of bricks that had been expropriated by the poor to build their homes and is far too inside the city to be of any use." He monotonously murmured.

Fareed smiled knowingly, "There it is. See? We should just leave while we have the time." He briefly glanced at the approaching ships, counting 12 or 13 more following the initial 7. Huh.

Jass's frown deepened, "Well, it isn't entirely hopeless though. We could round up the citizenry with me and Assad there," He pointed at the infamous horse, who bowed majestically, "-And dig some rudimentary ditches around the outskirts of the city. We could even get some skilled lumberjacks to cut the nearby forests and make some spikes or palisades to complement the ditches."

Jihaad nodded sagely, absorbing the options, "We could do all of that. The temples will help organise the citizens in your efforts, Commander Jass."

Jass snorted. If it was in dismissal or acknowledgement was soon to be discovered, "It probably won't make a difference in the end," He rebuffed, "It all hinges on the rival governors to strike Jal-far while he sieges us anyways, as even if we hold, the enemy could just starve us out. Also, did I mention we have no siege weapons? -We won't be able to counter their artillery, we'll be just sitting ducks."

The group broke again into private discussions, weighing in on the experienced donkey's assessment.

"I mean, insufferable as the head merchant is, I also think retreating is the best course of action. Sure, some of the 'rearguards' will fall for our sake, but the alternative is to stay defending in a proverbial chamber pot, about to be shat on from both the seas and land." Jass articulated eloquently.

"So what? We leave thousands to die while we seize the luxuries of living?" Assad spat,

Jass frowned, "Well, if you're so determined to die you can board one of those galleys and turn fireship."

Furious private debates followed, many now discussing the possibility of escaping openly.

"SILENCE!" Bakar yelled desperately, "We should just begin digging those ditches Jass mentioned immediately. We have no time to lose!"

"Can't." Jass intoned.

"-Huh?" Bakar and Urban twisted,

"They're too close now morons." Fareed spat, "-I knew I should've just left! Why did I ever listen to you?!" He growled at the guiltless harbourmaster.

"Oh shut your trap, Ample, really. How far do you think you could've seriously gone while over-encumbered with your ducats?" Treble rolled her eyes, "Just scamper back to your mansion and kiss whoever's hoof that takes over. All you lot really care about is getting into Trotgier's little club anyways."

"So? Doesn't everycreature? Also, don't admonish me about kissing whoever's hoof! That's about all you do!" Fareed scoffed.

"Well, they're not firing." Jihaad decided to ignore the youths.

"No, they aren't," Jass joined in, blending the noise of Fareed's shout with the loud blares of the ironclads. "Assad, I owe you an apology. It wasn't a fireship you must board, but a frontal sortie into Jal-far's army."

Assad eyed the donkey. "Har-har. Let's just see what these newcomers want."

"20 more ships seems excessive for trade. Maybe they're nomads?" Urban tossed, barely escaping the merchant's quarrel. "Damn, are those ships tall! They're near triple our dhow's height!" Urban exclaimed, finally being able to gauge the ships with their own.

"...Nomads or not, our city would not stand a chance against them." Bakar gulped nervously, his eyes tracing the mighty streams of white the metal vessels effortlessly carved. "We should evacuate the citizens around the docks, just in case-,"

"OVER THERE! WHO'S THAT?!" A distant citizen cried out, one closest towards the ocean, watching from his balcony which estate lay in one of the many salients of the city.

Those who heard the shout looked around confusedly, until the unmistakable voice of a native of their lands came buzzedly from the iron-cladded ships, providing inconceivable relief to all on near the shore.

The various creatures Bakar gathered especially sagged in relief, many not even realising the tension they'd held on their limbs and muscles until they became relaxed, hearing their familiar language.

"THE PRINCELING LIVES!" It boomed, assisted by a megaphone.

"THE PRINCELING LIVES?!" The gathering repeated disbelievingly,

"THE PRINCELING LIVES!" The close citizens cheered,

"SPREAD THE WORD! THE PRINCELING IS ALIVE!"

The entire city rang. Mad few among them galloping the streets, echoing those words aimlessly into the sky.

The city was saved! They would be spared! They all collectively thought at that moment.

In Trotgiers, the most obese horse in the world sat furiously on a toilet, having dearly regretted his previous day's choice of food. When suddenly,

The ground before him loudly creaked, causing the main culprit to momentarily blink out of his fierce concentration to stare forward in anticlimax.

He caught the views of his servants also watching him, clearly aware and nervous of the sound, but they all seemed to look downwards.

So anxiously, the Grand Prince twisted about with his immobile body, moving his chunks of flesh out of the way to see the floor.

There he saw cracks. Cracks, that immediately worsened as he briefly glanced at his putrid reflection off the reflective, pristine marble.

He squeaked, "Help," yet the mares around him idly stood by. Staring with their soulless, wide empty eyes that seemed to chant for the immediate collapse of the floor, regardless if they ended up as matyres.

But Asura had decided that these mares had suffered enough, and would deliver on their wishes.

The Grand Prince felt his heart sink, but not in the same way it usually did, in a tangy sting or scorching burn. It was like he was on his carriage again, like the times when he was sometimes abruptly dropped by a daring or exhausted servant who would promptly face the executioner's scimitar. Except, the sensation didn't stop.

Darkness quickly surrounded him. Frailing in his nakedness, he would inadvertently test the aerodynamics of his flappy skin which would shamefully be counteracted by his weight.

The fall was unbearably long, both for the Grand Prince who would plummet in a flabby scream, and for the mares above, waiting near hysterically for the satisfying splat.

It would turn out that the slaves of the palace had been neglecting to clear out the cavernous cisterns of the Grand Prince's latrine, letting the various ghastly variants of feces pile up like a temple to pestilence.

Understandable really, preferring death to having to shovel the Grand Prince's wastes. But their bravery would produce something far greater; a fitting end to such an undesirable creature.

Because the Grand Prince would miraculously survive the freat plummet, his own wastes having cushioned his fall. However, his weight had caused him to plunge several metres down, completely submerging him in fecal matter.

So ended the pathetic existence of Sancho the fat, dying literally in his own shit. Never to be extracted, nor even thought to be buried alongside his ancestors.

He was a disgrace to his family, a perverted hedonist to his Kingdom and an anomaly to the theory of life and evolution.

The horse race to the capital had begun.