NOVEL WEB Chapter 3: The Bones Who Ride
The Horde grows
It took three days for me to look human—gaunt, yes, but human nonetheless. The cave where I had woken up was filled with bodies, and from what the missionary read to me in the book, magic exists in this world. I had performed many rituals from my own world, yet I didn't feel stronger or different. Instead, horses feared me now. It was almost funny. When I walked past children, they cried. Something had changed, though what exactly, I didn't know.
Finally, I found a horse that didn't run from me—a black mustang. I marked it with white paint, and under the moonlight, it looked like an undead horse. As I finished the markings, a Dothraki scout galloped into the camp, yelling, "We're under attack! Riders from the west!"
Jogo and my other blood riders had been watching me paint the horse. At the sound of the scout's voice, Jogo was the first to ask, "How many?"
"Three hundred riders!" the scout replied.
Jogo turned to me. "My Khal, we need to intercept them before they reach our camp."
It was midday, with no chance to hide. I mounted the black stallion, which reared dramatically on its hind legs. While it looked impressive, it was also terrifying—especially since I had accidentally empowered the horse during one of my rituals. "We ride," I commanded.
Jogo and the other three blood riders quickly assembled 150 warriors. As we rode west, Jogo asked, "What is the plan?"
"Ride fast. Ride hard. Kill their Khal and anyone who challenges me," I said, snapping my reins.
A few kilometers out, the ground began to rumble with the sound of approaching riders. I signaled Jogo. "Hail them. Let us see if their Khal is a man."
Jogo galloped forward, spinning his arakh over his head in a show of challenge. From the opposing group, a massive man resembling a gorilla stepped forward.
"I am Khal Borro! Are you the Khal?" he bellowed.
I rode forward to meet him, past Jogo, and looked him in the eye. "I am Rohan Sunak, the Undead Khal."
Borro laughed, his belly shaking, before his expression hardened. "Face me, boy, and die with honor."
As his horse moved closer, I realized something—his longer weapon gave him a reach advantage. My horse reared again and charged forward. At the last moment, Borro's horse froze, throwing him to the ground at my stallion's hooves. Dullahan, my horse, reared up and trampled him. For a horse lord to lose control of his horse was the ultimate disgrace. His blood riders immediately charged, but Jogo, Kota, and the twins intercepted them.
Two riders broke through the melee, heading straight for me. I clashed arakhs with them, leaning far back in the saddle to avoid their blows. With a quick motion, I hooked one rider's neck with my arakh, dragging him off his horse and tearing his throat open. My other arakh hooked the second rider, pulling him down, where Dullahan promptly stomped on him.
Cheers erupted as Jogo decapitated his opponent. The twins toyed with their victims, one using a whip to drag his screaming opponent before his brother decapitated the man in a single, brutal swing. The remaining enemy khalasar panicked without their leader.
A middle-aged man attempted to flee with a group. I raised my arakh, yelling for my riders to follow. The hunt was swift and brutal. Dullahan bit and kicked at the fleeing horses, scattering the group. When I found the fleeing man, Bejan used his whip to drag him off his horse. Braga and I charged him simultaneously, slicing him into three pieces with our arakhs.
The remaining enemy riders either surrendered or were cut down. Jogo ordered the survivors to cut their braids as a sign of submission. They led us to their camp, which was larger than ours, with more livestock, slaves, and spoils from a recent raid. I rode into the camp holding Borro's severed head, along with ten others fashioned into a gruesome necklace for Dullahan. The sight of it terrified the captives, especially the dark-skinned ones who shared my features.
Heading straight for the largest tent, I was met by three women with children, an older woman standing nearby. She introduced herself as Mirri Maz Duur. Her gaze lingered on my bloodied appearance, and she asked, "Are you a shaman or a Khal?"
Braga answered for me, his voice firm. "This is Rohan Sunak, the Undead Khal. Your khalasar belongs to him now."
Mirri muttered something in a language I didn't understand, but Dullahan stomped the ground, letting out a piercing scream. Mirri clutched her chest in pain. Ignoring her, I addressed the women. "We will leave for Vaes Dothrak soon. Those with children, find a tent with the elders. You," I pointed to a girl without a child, "will stay with me."
The girl, likely no older than seventeen, had olive skin, long black hair, and snake-like brown eyes. She nodded silently.
Entering the tent, I found slaves—merchants, fighters, and pale-skinned women who clearly didn't belong in this climate. They sat on pillows, eating and drinking, but froze in fear when they saw me. Covered in blood and war paint, I must have looked like death incarnate.
One of the merchants, his Dothraki broken and clumsy, pleaded, "Please, free me. I have gold and riches back home. I will pay."
I looked him over, speaking slowly. "Everything here is now mine. Your gold? Also mine. You will follow me to Vaes Dothrak, and then we will retrieve it."
Turning to the slaves, I ordered, "Bring me clean water." Then, addressing the girl, "What is your name?"
"Sharee," she replied.
"Good name. Stay with me until my khalasar arrives," I said, walking toward the pillows. The other slaves parted as I lounged, placing my headdress beside me. Flicking my wrist, I signaled for everyone to continue their activities as I closed my eyes, letting the chaos of the day settle into silence.