Walking with five legs when used to having the more normal four is difficult and Thunderhooves the Mightiest Warhorse was doing worse than most. In a little over four weeks he hadn't progressed beyond stumbling from the shade of the tree to the nearby water trough.
His days consisted of waking up and immediately launching into a bracing gallop around the boundaries of the tree and trough containing field in which he lived. Inevitably the launch was succeeded by a complex and irregular series of hoof beats in turn followed by a combined rib-bruising thud and disheartened equine groan.
Occasionally he would attempt a conversation with the horse whose field he shared, but this happened less and less often as time passed, mostly because they always came back to same old subject.
"Ah 'member when I were foal," his father said, "we didn' 'ave no 'orse wi' five leg then. No! we 'ad 'em trampled at birth we did. No trouble to no-one they weren't.".
"It's not my (one, two) fault dad. (three) I wasn't born like (four) this you know. (five)", said the younger of the two getting up and starting toward the other, "it was that (one) Wizard that did it. (two, three)". Thunder was a horse of the world and had completely lost his accent and more recently his job, his dignity and the ability to walk without thinking about it. "(four, five.)"
"Born like real 'orse yer were. Ah know me. Me an' yer mother were there, like."
It happened in The Great Bubbling Firepits, a thankfully remote place constructed entirely of black craggy rocks and evil red glowing lava streams; far too uncomfortable for anyone who could possibly avoid it to go to. Exceptions are participants in activities that really do need the dramatic background - world shattering satanic rituals for example or great heroic deeds.
The mighty warrior Gorrem had just completed such a deed: an afternoon of rape and pillage in the temple of Slobble (the god of great bubbling firepits everywhere). With the good sense granted by being a natural looter rather than possessing an operative brain, he was getting on with vanishing over the nearest horizon when a black robed priest stepped sideways from the chaos and pointed a magical device.
It looked like something a raving madman would produce if presented with half an abacus, two pounds of bananas and a length of heavy duty hosepipe. Death by this would undoubtedly be very sticky indeed probably in more than just a physical way, but before the occult equivalent of a trigger could be pulled a second figure appeared, raised his hand and commanded: "No, I want him taken alive. Shoot the horse."
Mumble, mumble. Sizzle. Whoosh. Bang. Thump.
The fate of Gorrem is uncertain but he may well be scrubbing the temple steps.
"Yer could deadify dwarves. Them little buggers woun'n be s' quick t' keep dry under yer in t' rain wi' extra leg in middle."
"No! I mean really something, something useful, something no other horse can do."
"Fall o'er wi' out try'n'?"
"Thank you father."
The city. One 'n' two. Three 'n' four 'n' five. Again. One 'n' two. Three 'n' four 'n' five. Again. This is years later and trotting. One 'n' two. Three 'n' four 'n' five.
There are people who spend their entire lives striving towards greatness; they listen carefully at every door for the gentle rap of opportunity, or more often they force the lock and leap through into an existence of spectacular obscurity. A life of being peered at, prodded and patronized didn't appeal to Thunderhooves, he just wanted to step (four times) back into normality. For many years he hunted the key until eventually his search took him to a dark corner of the great metropolis Urbasnide.
The horse stepped slowly and carefully through the crowded streets, eyes and ears flicking from face to face and voice to voice. From between a vegetable seller's rickety stall and a cheap false-fortune tent a figure in a deep blue robe came cutting. Through the throng with the easy confidence of a man sure he would not be robbed, mugged, sold anything or otherwise molested.
For the best part of the day Thunderhooves followed at a discrete distance until the evening took them West to a quieter part of the city. By this time his anticipation was almost insuppressible, it was all he could do not to perform a solo stampede. Instead he approached trembling, gently nuzzled the wizard and swayed the erroneous leg at him.
"Oh my goodness!", exclaimed the mage as soon as he realized why the horse in front of him looked a little odd. This stunned Thunderhooves who had become accustomed to laughter as an initial response and he had barely recovered when he heard what he had waited for for so long: "You poor, poor horse, but fret not, I'll help you. Hold that stance!"
The magic user mumbled, waved a hand then mumbled some more. A sound like liquid gunshot rang through the Thunder's head, clearing just in time for him to hear the Wizard assure: "There, there fine beast, you'll find it easier to walk from this time on."
Thunderhooves turned and left. One, two, three, four, five, six.
