Lost in Glory

The funeral was no fun. Of course, General Roseduck didn't expect anything else, but it didn't change the fact that he was bored. He had nothing against the late Emperor, but now the man was dead. He should be buried and life should go on. But no, it couldn't be that simple. It was traditional to wait a month so that all High Lords and other important people could gather and get bored together. And here they all were in the Grand Hall of the Imperial Castle, watching the re-enactment of the most important scenes of the Emperor's life. Those were being performed by members of the Imperial Mime Guild. That also was traditional.

The Grand Hall was grand indeed. It was made that big so that a lot of people could witness important state events. Like this one. Indeed, a lot of people came to say farewell to the Emperor. In theory. The truth was that they came to see the mimes, or to look at the lords' expensive garments, or to admire how exquisitely the hall was decorated. Nobody cared about the Emperor himself. They'd get a new one soon enough.

The General was seated on a dais behind the scene along with the other High Lords, as well as the High Priest and the Archmage. From there they could see both the scene and the crowd. On the other side of the stage there were ten rows of seats for the lesser lords and other important people. Behind them there were a few rows of guards, separating them from the common townsfolk. There was quite a horde of those. As many as could reasonably fit in, and then some. A few thousands maybe, because the hall was really, really huge.

Many more were standing outside of the castle. Just because. They came too late, didn't get inside, but didn't feel like leaving for no good reason. They filled the courtyard, which was not an easy task to do, because it was rather spacious. For some strange reason they wanted to be there. Many of them were living in the capital city, so they only suffered an hour of walking up the hill just to see the outside of the castle. Others came from cities and villages further away to only see the outside of the castle as well. If they were lucky. Some could only see the backside of some tower, or maybe even just a stable. Somehow there was no complaining, at least not about not seeing anything of interest. There was general complaining about the weather and the harvest and the pig common cold that was spreading, just not about not being inside. They didn't mind. They were Participating, even if they ended up standing next to a heap of Imperial Manure behind the Imperial Gardening Shed.

The behaviour of the two groups was glaringly different. All of the lords were quiet and solemn, rarely speaking to each other and doing it discreetly. They all had their reputations to maintain. They also pretended that the crowd did not exist. The common people in the hall had no such worries. They pushed and shoved each other to get a better view. Fathers held up their children so they could see the mimes. People in the crowd cheered when they liked something and booed when they didn't. They laughed, cried, pointed fingers and discussed things loudly. People outside of the castle discussed anything and everything, only making pauses when there was particularly loud applause or cheering heard from the inside. Then they joined in. Nobody cared that it might have been slightly inappropriate during a funeral.

The General did his best not to show boredom and annoyance. The Imperial Mimes were very skilled, but it didn't help matters at all. A silent scene of a late Emperor's first word would still be boring, no matter how good the performer. Maybe a bad mime would do it fast and be done with it, but this was not a bad mime. He celebrated the moment. Roseduck groaned inwardly. Of course, he didn't show his frustration with the show. His pose and facial expression suggested polite interest. At least he hoped it did.

After the Birth of the Emperor, First Word of the Emperor and First Steps of the Emperor came the First Unaided Potty Use by the Emperor which was at least mildly amusing. Wasn't supposed to be, but it is tough to perform such a scene in an unfunny way. Yet no one laughed. No lord or lady, no priest or mage, no bureaucrat or official, no guard or servant. Ability to hide any signs of amusement was a prerequisite to any jobs involving frequent being in presence of people of higher station. Alternatively, a complete lack of sense of humour did well too. The more important the lord, the less chance he would find amusing anything that didn't involve peasants being mauled by llamas or something. Of course, a lot of the townsfolk laughed, but nobody cared about them. In any case, individual reactions were barely heard above the general ruckus.

Roseduck was extremely good at hiding signs of amusement. Not even a snigger got away from him during the re-enactment of That One Time When the Emperor Threw a Burning Cat at a Maid. He found the mime playing the cat particularly funny. Unfortunately, each scene that followed was connected to one of the Emperor's later and more official actions, such as the Grand Opening of the New Imperial Bakery, the Emperor Observing a Fine Breed of Ducks, or the Inspection of Crops by the Emperor, were unfailingly boring. The General used this time to discreetly observe the other High Lords. It was the first time in years that they were all in one place.

Duke and Duchess Thinoak looked like a pair of whales sitting in chairs. Big, fat whales draped in purple cloth. In custom-made chairs. Neither of them could use just any chair, because most chairs would quickly turn into firewood under such weight. Eneumerius felt disgusted just by looking at them. They got fatter every time he met them. Each time he had thought that it couldn't get any worse, and each time he was proven to be wrong. How could people be so fat? He had nothing against fat people in general, but the Thinoaks were pushing it. They couldn't use normal chairs, they couldn't ride horses, they had trouble with a flight of stairs. Some joked that they were assassination-immune, because no knife would get through that much fat. He was also known for disregarding possible problems and then blaming them on others. Reportedly, he once blamed his horse for breaking under his weight. Since then he pretended he simply didn't wish to ride anymore.

Raphaelius Blueparrot, the SemiViscount of Halfcastle, was a tall, bearded man with a bald head and a vulture-like face. His title was a joke made by some Emperor of the past. It was the lowest possible noble title he could have come up with at the time. Little he knew that the descendants of the first SemiViscount would over the years grow in wealth and power to finally take their place amongst the High Lords. Old wounds still hurt. The SemiViscount strongly insisted on being referred to simply as a Count. Every time his whole title was used he got upset, and the offenders usually experienced some violence directed at them. The Count loathed situations where he couldn't exact revenge, and this was one of them. Whacking the Master of Ceremony with his own staff wouldn't be good manners. Apart from being annoyed with his title, Blueparrot often got annoyed with many other things, and readily expressed it. It even seemed that getting annoyed was a hobby of his. He didn't bring his wife with him, probably because she was annoying him, or maybe because she was getting too annoyed by him being annoyed about everything.

Next to the SemiViscount sat Marquis Lodovique de Shaggysheep. The Marquis was an old man, the eldest of the High Lords by a wide margin. He outlived his wife and some of his children too. It was quite surprising that the he was still actively participating in Imperial politics. Many had expected him to retire, pass his title to one of his descendants or relatives and go sit quietly in some nice room until he died. Most of the lords who reached that age did just that. He didn't.

The Marquis possessed a remarkable ability. He didn't care. He trained not caring to perfection. Whenever anything bored him, he was able to phase out of reality. Just like now. He sat there, smiling politely, and seemed to be looking in the correct direction, but his mind just wasn't there. It was barely noticeable, and only those who knew him well were able to tell when he was conscious and when he was just pretending. Yet somehow he usually realised when presence of his mind was really needed. In such moments he returned to the land of the awake, did what he was supposed to, and went back to the dreamlands.

Baron and Baroness Oxrabbit were a curious couple. He was tall, wide and muscled. She was short, thin, and looked like she could die any second. Or did it yesterday. Yet it was she who did all the talking, scheming, backstabbing and other political activities. The reason for that was simple: the Baron was an idiot. Not in the way many people consider their superiors to be idiots, simply because of their stupidity or incompetence. This one was a real idiot. He simply couldn't, or didn't want to, wrap his mind around any complex concept. Only things he did well were physical exercises, horseback riding (once he was persuaded that hitting the horse with a mace to make it go faster wasn't a good idea) and hunting (provided he didn't forget which team he was on). In view of this, his wife suggested to the other lords that they should deal with her, instead of trying to communicate with that oaf. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the oaf was left alone. He was quite happy because of that. The only lordly thing he had to do was attending official ceremonies, such as this one.

Earl Gevenarius von Blazingtree was the only truly religious person in the company. Many said that he was more religious than the High Priest himself. They were right, mainly because the High Priest wasn't all that religious when nobody was watching. While all the other lords observed religious customs just because they knew they were expected to, Gevenarius was a true believer. He had even shaved the top of his head for some inscrutable religious reason. This, together with his robes, made him look somewhat like a monk. A richly dressed monk maybe, but much less richly than the other lords. After all, he believed in modesty. His overreligiousness also made it unlikely for him to ever marry and sire a heir. Nobody minded. It was evolution in action, or, as Marquis de Shaggysheep once eloquently put, the main requirement for an omelette was possession of some eggs. Anyway, the Earl had enough cousins who would gladly fight for his earldom after his death, or quite possibly even before that.

The last lord was Hiwelthadt Philigree Squarewheel. This one's title was an even bigger joke than the SemiViscount's. It had been created by one of more recent Emperors. Philigree's grandfather was a Baron. The Emperor was a bit annoyed by this, because there were two High Lords with the title of Baron. Confusing a bit. So he said "Hey, I Want Each Lord To Have A Different Title!" and there were no adequate titles to give, so he used the acronym. Obviously, he thought that he was being witty. Because of the long-dead ruler's peculiar sense of humour Philigree had to suffer an absurd title. His father apparently also had a peculiar sense of humour, both in choice of his name and of the wife for him. Philigree never took her to the capital with him. Reportedly, she was ugly and insane and tried to teach rocks advanced mathematics.

As the youngest son, Philigree was never supposed to become a High Lord. Fate declared otherwise when his father and both his older brothers died in an unlikely accident involving a well, some goats, an unfortunately misplaced rake and an upset wizard. To the surprise of many, he did quite well on the top. His childhood had taught him that the best defence was offence. However he looked at it, his name sounded silly, his surname was an oxymoron, and his title was barely pronounceable. What's more, he was short, looked sickly and lacked a front tooth. The perfect target to make fun of. Therefore instead of waiting for it, he always struck first and made fun of everyone and everything in his way. It didn't make him any friends, but he didn't really care. The High Lords hated each other anyway, so no loss there.

Apart from the lords, on the dais there were the High Priest, the Archmage and the Master of Ceremony. The High Priest was a middle-aged, large, fat man, although next to Duke Thinoak he didn't look all that fat. He made up for it in glitter. He was dressed in a long white gown encrusted with gold, silver, precious stones, rare feathers, and more or less everything he could find that was pretty and valuable. His dress was easily most expensive and over-the-top in the hall, and that said a lot, given that all of the most important people in the Empire were there.

The Archmage, on the other hand, wore a plain gray robe. He didn't care about looking rich. He also didn't care about looking respectable. If he did, he would have decided against having his robe adorned with pink butterflies. There was also a small stuffed purple unicorn hanging from the tip of his pointy wizard hat, and multicoloured ribbons were attached to his staff. All of this was looking very, very strange, especially that the Archmage was so old that he made the Marquis look young in comparison. Roseduck had no idea how old the Archmage might be. Some whispered about a century and a half. Whether it was true, nobody really knew. He certainly looked old enough. His hair and beard were snow white and his wrinkles innumerable, yet there were no signs of old age in the way he moved. Most remarkable. Even more remarkable was the fact that nobody ever commented on the peculiarities of his fashion sense. People were too afraid. Nobody really knew what he could do, and nobody wanted to find out.

The Master of Ceremony was an old man with a long, white beard. He was wearing his ceremonial robes. They were intensely yellow with purple dots, but it was traditional, so nobody minded. He also had a sickly green belt, and behind this belt his traditional ceremonial hammer was tucked. A long time ago it had been used to hit a traditional ceremonial gong on certain occasions. The sound of the gong annoyed one of the Emperors of yore, therefore its use was forbidden. Yet, it was still a part of the ceremonial outfit. And so the Master of Ceremony ended up with a completely useless miniature ornate hammer.

The General himself wore his dress uniform, which was purple and covered with medals. A General with no medals is not a General, so he had been given quite a lot of them. Too bad only a few meant something. The Eagle of Courage was nice, and the Vulture of Victory not so bad, but next to them were the Parrot of Nobody Really Knows What, the Shielded Shield of Shielding and the Tripod of the Red Rooster. It didn't really matter, as long as he had enough of these things to inspire confidence in lowly grunts. And not enough to make him fall down under the weight. The things were dreadfully heavy, which was yet another reason why he was having the opposite of fun at this funeral.

He wasn't accompanied by a spouse, because he didn't have one. His marital prospects were somewhat awkward: as a High Lord, he could only marry a woman from one of the major noble houses. Anything less would be considered a misalliance, and the late Emperor did not approve of that. On the other hand, all the major houses considered him lowborn and unworthy, so arranging a marriage was out of the question. Unless the girl was stupid, ugly, or they wanted to get rid of her for any other reason. He wasn't desperate enough to marry one of these.

-I-I-I-I-

The Imperial Mimes finally reached the last scene of their spectacle, the Death of the Emperor, or alternatively the Emperor Falling From His Horse into a Moat and Getting Mauled by Lions. Not an easy thing to perform, but the Guild was up to the task. The lions were almost lifelike. On the other hand, Roseduck once more wondered if the strict rules of the mime performances shouldn't be loosened a bit, because a horse just cannot be properly played by a mime. Especially a horse being ridden. It always came out somewhat awkward. Roseduck watched with little interest as the emperor-mime awkwardly riding the horse-mime fell down and got jumped on by a few lion-mimes. And the spectacle was over. Now it was speech time.

Just in case the mimes failed to bore the audience to death, each of the High Lords had to deliver a speech. To make matters worse, both the Archmage and the High Priest had to deliver one too. Nine boring, drawn out speeches about nothing. The High Priest started, by going on and on and on about how great the late Emperor was and how sad it was to see him go prematurely, but he also expressed the hope that his successor will be at least as good and maybe even better. Then the Archmage said more or less the same, but he kept confusing the late Cessorius the Thirteenth with at least two of his predecessors. He couldn't really be expected to keep track of all these short-lived, mundane Emperors. Especially if quite a few of them had the same name. The High Lords did their speeches next, apparently in random order, but each one of them knew why the order was such as it was. It reflected their current status in comparison to others. General Roseduck had to go last. He didn't mind. Nor did he mind the fact that he had to deliver a speech in the first place. It was just one of the stupid things that came with the job. A nice bonus was being the one to speak right after Baron Oxrabbit. After a very bad speech even a mediocre one would seem good.

The Baron's turn came. He didn't seem to be aware of that. His wife coughed. He didn't get the hint. She elbowed him. He failed to register that either. "Go make a speech!" she whispered angrily. Only then he moved to the podium. Philigree sniggered. The Baroness gave him a dirty look.

Those who had an opportunity to hear Baron Oxrabbit speak before knew what was about to happen. Those who didn't were in for a shock. After all, the Baron presented himself fabulously: a tall, handsome man, wearing a shiny ornamented breastplate on top of the finest clothes available. Strength and vitality seemed to radiate from him. He was like a young god. At least up to the point when he opened his mouth.

"Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today for the purpose of, uhm, departing our dearly beloved Emperor, into, well, the afterlife or such, because he's like dead a bit. But fear not, because in this hour of darkness, we can, well, wait for the next hour I guess. And hope! So it is less dark and more light. Well, that's the same I guess. But, you know, a great man he was! Awesome one even! But even the most awesomest of awesome sometimes die, because, well, it is hard to live when you are, like, being eaten by lions and stuff. So let it be a lesson for you! Don't try this at home! And if I find any of you swimming with lions I will go there and hit you with a mace, dearly beloved!"

"Ye gods," lady Oxrabbit groaned weakly. More or less repeating what seven other people had just said shouldn't be hard, but the Baron decided to add in some variety. As usual. This time it seemed like a mix of a wedding ceremony and scolding his children.

"The downfall of the great man might give rise to a greater one even, one that would be with the Empire in good times and in bad times, in sickness and in health, in famine and in... uhh, like... overeating..." Roseduck managed a quick glance at Duke Thinoak, whose face turned somewhat red. Perhaps he would be considering some physical violence, if not for the fact that any display of physical violence between the two would be Baron Oxrabbit throwing Duke Thinoak, marking where the Duke fell, and then repeating and trying to beat the record. "...in flood and in drought and in locusts, and who would bring home the strawberry jam. Until death does them apart. Like it did, well, sort of now. Maybe not just now, but a bit sometime before, you know. When those lions happened to him. So, like this, but maybe not exactly like this. A bit later and not that violent. Yes."

Lady Oxrabbit paradoxically was happier when her husband did really badly and started stuttering, because that usually made him realise that it wasn't going well and he would cut it short. Today she was out of luck, as well as everyone else in the hall, because the Baron recovered nicely.

"Yes indeed! We should choose one who will be strong and brave and most likely lion-resistant probably, cause this helps I guess. No more falling from horses for Emperors, you know! We should make him ride a llama or something. A llama. Yes. Very unlikely to drop a rider into a moat full of lions. Never heard about one that did. Not like them horse bastards! That horse should be tried as an accomplice to murder of the Emperor and punished appropriately! I suggest mincing it into a meat pie! And I volunteer to eat that pie, so that it serves as an example to all other Emperor-killing horses out there! We could mince all those pesky lions in there too!"

-I-I-I-I-

Kolmi was an Acolyte in the Damned Dark Druids of Doom cult. It was an evil cult, obviously, but Kolmi wasn't particularly evil, dark, or damned. Maybe a little bit doomed. He wasn't much of a druid either, it was simply the best employment offer that had come his way. The traditional career choice of his region was peasantry, but somehow he wasn't drawn towards that. He was too short and too scrawny to succeed as a warrior of any sort, therefore he tried for a more esoteric occupation. Unfortunately, a wandering mage said that he had no talent. A wandering priest didn't like his aura. A wandering shaman said that he wouldn't survive a fistfight against a bear. Kolmi didn't argue with that one. Finally, he got employed by the Dark Druids. Crappy job, but at least it didn't have any requirements. Sure beat being a peasant.

He started as a Chanter. Only thing he had to do was to turn up on time and chant. He quickly got promoted to Acolyte, mainly by virtue of being the worst Chanter in the group. Now he didn't have to chant anymore. Instead, he was assisting the Chief Druid with the ceremonies. This night they were attempting to sacrifice a virgin. Again.

Kolmi was the virgin handler. It meant that his job was to hold the end of the rope the virgin's hands were tied with until the Chief Druid was ready to sacrifice her. What could be easier?

The girl seemed sad and dejected. The perspective of being a sacrificial virgin often has that effect on people. She was supposed to be a beautiful virgin, but the cultists no longer cared about such details. It was hard enough to get anything halfway decent to sacrifice. This one was the best they had had for a long time. The cultist manual recommended a tall, stunning, blond-haired beauty, but a rather plain-looking, not too tall and dark-haired girl would have to do. At least she was young. And female. A certain unfortunate incident involving a transvestite was not to be spoken about. Ever.

The Chanters were standing in a large circle. Each one was wearing an exquisite black robe. Again, it was the theory. In practice, only the Chief Druid had an exquisite black robe. Lucky Chanters had to do with robes the Chief Druid didn't deem exquisite enough anymore. Unlucky Chanters had to do with whatever they could find that was dark and robey enough. Each of the twenty Chanters also had a burning torch. Torches weren't required by the cult itself, but the Chief Druid insisted on them. He had been insisting on them since he had lost half of his Chanters one time. Midnight ceremonies in the deep forest and people with a poor sense of direction just don't mix well.

There was a stone altar in the middle of the circle. In fact it was a large rock placed upon two smaller rocks, covered with a black cloth. Atop it there was a dish containing some menstrual blood of a female bear, which was in fact some regular blood of a male goat. Next to it there was a sacrificial knife, which, surprisingly enough, was really a knife, and not a sharpened stick. The Chief Druid was standing behind the altar. Kolmi the Acolyte was waiting respectfully on the side.

"Dear brothers in doom!" the Chief Druid started the ceremony.

"Dooooom!" the Chanters intoned.

"We have gathered here tonight to sacrifice this beautiful virgin to the Damned, Dark and Evil Gods of Doom!"

"Dooooom!"

"I'm not a virgin!" the virgin protested, but she was ignored by all but Kolmi.

"You are not that beautiful either, but we're doing the best we can," the Acolyte replied nastily, which wasn't his best idea ever. He didn't consider the fact that while the not-virgin's hands were tied, her legs weren't. She had nowhere to run, but she had a few other options. The one she chose was hitting Kolmi's manly parts with her knee. He screamed.

"Are you calling me ugly?" she shouted in anger and knee-hit his groin again. He bent in half. And continued to scream.

"Acolyte Kolmi! Behave!" the Chief Druid berated him.

"Dooooom!" the Chanters chanted tirelessly.

Kolmi tried to reduce damage to his genitals by bending in half and covering them with his hands, but that in turn left his face vulnerable. The girl stopped kicking him, and instead hit him right in the nose with her tied hands. The nose snapped. The Acolyte howled in pain. He dropped to the ground to protect himself, while she continued to kick him wherever she could. Finally, the Chief Druid realised that his helper wasn't going to do anything apart from lying on the ground and trying to shield his sensitive parts.

"Enough of this!" he shouted and stepped forward. And his head fell off.

"Halt, evildoer!" Arthaxiom the paladin shouted at the falling body. "Your days of darkness are over! I will cut your blasphemous head off! In fact, I seem to have done it just now!"

The Chanters scattered as soon as the Druid's head hit the ground. The girl was still kicking the Acolyte. Alexander the dwarf was staring at the paladin, who was still shouting at the corpse.

"Challenging him afterwards was not your best idea ever," Arthaxiom said. "It does not feel the same. Not so Heroic."

"Looks a bit silly too," Alexander agreed. "But you know, you gave him no time to kill the girl, or to cast a spell, or to do anything else. It has to be worth something."

"Yes. It does. But I am supposed to deliver Heroic speeches. It is a part of being a Hero, you know."

"You could deliver a speech to that girl we just saved," the dwarf suggested. "As soon as she stops kicking that loser, anyway."

"Now that is an idea!" the paladin said with enthusiasm and turned to the girl. "Greetings, fair princess! I am paladin Arthaxiom the Great, and this is my faithful companion Alexander the dwarf, or a dwarf-impersonating gnome possibly! We saved you from a gruesome fate at the hands of these misbegotten wretches!"

"I am not a princess, sorry," she replied, while still kicking Kolmi.

"Have no fear, princess, now you are safe from minions of evil!"

"I am not a princess!" she replied, a bit louder.

"I don't think you can break through his madness," the dwarf said, while Arthaxiom started his rant about Heroism and glory and the Rainbow Sturgeon. "By the way, perhaps you could stop kicking him? What did he do to you?"

"He deserves it! He said I'm ugly!" she said angrily.

"What?"

"I mean, he tried to sacrifice me!" she corrected herself, seeing that the dwarf's shock.

"Ah. That explains it. Isn't that quite enough though? He seems well-kicked."

"I was getting tired anyway," she said, delivering one last kick to the Acolyte's kidneys.

"...and may the Joyous Beige Dragon protect you and your children, and your children's children, and..." the paladin droned on.

"What's your name by the way?" Alexander asked. "At least I'd like to know. I guess to him you'll be a princess no matter how many times you say otherwise."

"My dumb, stupid and retarded father named me Gaduria, may the owls defecate on his grave!" she replied. "And what is wrong with this paladin guy?"

"He's a Hero."

"...and their horses, dogs, cats, mules, sheep, anteaters..."

"This will be fun."

-I-I-I-I-

General Roseduck was sitting behind a desk in his chamber in the Commander's Tower. He was listening to Vannard ramble about what he had found out. And about who he had met on the way and what terrible things befell them. Roseduck never knew how much of what Vannard was saying was real and how much was exaggerated or simply untrue. He hoped for the latter, for the sake of some random people who were in the wrong place at the Vannard-time.

The news weren't good. That paladin was a Hero indeed. Roseduck was pretty sure of that. He also was pretty sure that appearance of a Hero at this particular time was no coincidence. This spelled trouble, and he was in enough trouble even without that.

"Vannard, I'll be completely honest with you now."

"Now that will be interesting," Vannard replied without much interest.

"To put it short, I will be in some trouble quite soon. While I'm more or less safe right now, as soon as the new Emperor is chosen, some High Lords will most likely try to get me killed. I'm not much liked in the lordly circles, you know."

"Well, that's no secret, even to me. I've heard you being called a bastard, a fraud, an upstart, a skunking commoner, a misbegotten whelp..."

"Yes, yes, I know!" Vannard was having way too much fun with listing all the insults. "What is a misbegotten whelp anyway?"

The assassin just shrugged. "How would I know? Sound quite rude though."

"Nevermind that. As I said, the other lords don't like me too much. Especially Thinoak. I already got a rather nasty message from him."

"What did it contain?"

"Some insults and a promise of a painful death, obviously. What did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something more original. Five fish heads on a stick and a piece of coal, for example. That would totally freak me out."

"Now would it, really?"

"No. But it would totally freak you out."

Roseduck considered that for a moment. "Well, I guess it would. Definitely more than the death threats. Anyway, in reply I sent him a potato. That should at least make him uneasy."

"Not if he eats it. Which he will."

"It should make him uneasy even in that case, because it was spoiled a bit."

"How devious of you, Ducky."

"I'd thank you if you weren't mocking me. Anyway, as I said, my current situation is rather unenviable and I could really use your help. If you choose to be helpful, of course."

"Of course. So why should I help you? As opposed to, let's say, killing you and delivering your head to one of those lords who like you so much in exchange for a nice reward?" Vannard leaned over the desk, looked the General straight in the eyes and smiled nastily. Roseduck returned the stare.

"Nothing. Apart from the fact that they most likely wouldn't appreciate an unruly homicidal maniac as much as I do."

"And I enjoy being appreciated so much, don't I?"

"You enjoy being allowed to move around the castle. You enjoy having a room to sleep and to keep your stuff in without a need to threaten anyone. You enjoy having access to the finest knives our blacksmiths can produce. You also enjoy the fact that you're not being searched for too diligently after you murder some shady individual. Or fifteen of them, as it happens sometimes." Vannard didn't even blink. "Such a long-term agreement would be out of the question with any other High Lord, I'm pretty sure of that. Also, they are not known for their generosity."

"I see. Is there any chance that you are telling me this because you want me to help you and you don't want me to kill you?"

"Obviously. It doesn't invalidate anything I said."

"I'm aware of that. It is the reason I didn't kill you yet. I just wanted to make you squirm a bit, but you disappointed me, as usual."

"So sorry. Well then, are you in or not?"

"I'm in, I guess. Until I get bored, at least. Or annoyed. Or I stumble upon a black cat with white spots. Or..."

"All right, all right, I get it. So, back to the matter at hand. A good metaphor would be that I am in a tree and a lot of angry dogs are waiting below. I am safe, but there will be a moment when I have to leave this tree. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. My master once told me: if you fall from a tree, don't fall on the ground, because it is hard and unforgiving and you might break some bones. Don't fall on a king, because he might have a crown with pointy bits which may stab you in delicate body parts, and also some knights might be accompanying him, and they might object to you falling on their king. Object by using their swords. Don't fall on a knight either, because an armour is a really uncomfortable thing to fall on, and the bit about the swords still applies, especially if he has friends around. Also try not to fall on a peasant, who, while better than the other choices, might be rather skinny and wouldn't cushion the fall too much. Such a peasant might be also carrying some fun farming implement, a pitchfork for example, falling on which might be extremely unpleasant. Instead, try falling on a fat merchant. They are unlikely to have pointy bits, and cushion falls quite well. Also, their guards are less likely to attack you afterwards. Especially if you share the merchant's goods with them. Or just pretend to share, and kill them afterwards, but backstabbing isn't the topic of today's lesson."

"I have some questions regarding your story," the General said. "And I will ask them, despite well knowing that it is not a good idea."

"Ask away. I am more than happy to share my wisdom with you."

Roseduck groaned inwardly at the mention of Vannard's 'wisdom', but he plunged ahead anyway. "So, how often do you have that many options when falling from a tree? And how often one of the options is a fat merchant?"

"Luring fat merchants under a tree you are falling down from was a different lesson. I must admit that the whole discipline is a bit... esoteric."

"To say the least. And did you, or your master, ever test this in practice?"

"The only time I partook in a somewhat similar experience was when I pushed my master from a rather high tower. Unfortunately, I am unable to say what would he fall on, because he grabbed an albatross in mid-flight and scrambled to safety."

"That aroused even more questions in my tormented mind. Let's start with the fact that you mentioned once that your master was a three-headed giant. I can't really see a three-headed giant being saved from a fall by an albatross."

"Me neither. My master was a small, green creature with grammar problems. Light enough for an albatross."

"So not a three-headed giant?"

"No."

"And not a one-winged dragon, like you told me the time before you told me about the giant? Also, not an insane ninja-wizard, neither an aged levitating porcupine, nor a pirate fairy?"

"I could have had many masters, you know. Or I could have lied a bit. By the way, you forgot about a particularly vicious bunny rabbit."

"Lied a bit. Yes." Eneumerius had absolutely no idea if the assassin was lying or not. Most of what he said was highly improbable, but on the other hand, it was also hard to believe that he made up all this. How could he even consider something like being an apprentice to a 'particularly vicious bunny rabbit'? Rabbits are not vicious! What could one teach him! "One more question, asking which I will regret even more, but here it goes. Why did you push your small green creature master from a tower?"

"I was quite upset with him at the time, because he took away my rubber ducky."

"A rubber ducky? What is a rubber ducky?"

"You of all the people should know what a rubber ducky is, Ducky." Ducky apparently didn't. "It is a small, rather simplified sculpture of a common duck, made from a squishy material. It would make an amusing noise when squished, and could float on water. Nice to have during bath time."

"So... sort of a... toy?" Roseduck tried to make heads or tails out of what Vannard was saying.

"Yes, a toy. His name was Felix."

Roseduck eyed the assassin suspiciously. Did one of the most dangerous people alive just tell him that he had a toy duck named Felix? It didn't sound like him at all. On the other hand, pushing his master from a tower sounded way too much like him. Vannard's face showed neither amusement nor embarrassment, so the General just couldn't work out if he was being serious or not. Then an odd thought struck him.

"How old were you then?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe five, or six."

"So you are trying to say that you tried to murder your own master at the age of six?" Roseduck tried very hard not to appear horrified by the very idea. He knew Vannard was no angel, but such level of... cruelty? Insanity? Murderousity? It was simply unheard of. Unless... "Unless you are lying."

"Yes. Unless I am lying. He was very proud of me, you know." The General really hoped Vannard was lying.

"All right, the final question. How is your master's advice about falling from trees and the resulting conversation relevant to the matter at hand?"

"It isn't relevant. I just wanted to annoy you a bit," Vannard admitted.

"I hate you. Are you happy now?"

"Yes, thank you. Did I already tell you about that clerk I had thrown out of a window, who as a result of that impaled his butt on a halberd sticking out of a dunghill?"

"I hate you very, very much."

-I-I-I-I-

Princess Gaduria joined the adventuring party consisting of an overheroic Hero and a hyperactive dwarf. She didn't have many other choices. Roaming the wilderness on her own wouldn't be too bright. Returning to her home village was out of the question too.

Not that it was a bad village. She just didn't appreciate the company she had back there. She was a bit too smart for her own good. Smart enough to realise that there might be more to life than having ten pairs of rabbitskin shoes. Smart enough to know that fermented goat's milk isn't the best beverage ever, and that men who liked to watch other men kick a round object made from parts of a pig just aren't interesting.

On the other hand, she just wasn't adventurous enough to leave on her own. Therefore she was even somewhat pleased that she got kidnapped. Well, at least up to the point when she realised that her captors were even more boring than people from her village. They were only interested in doom, gloom, darkness and things like that. And their robes were just awful! Probably made from potato bags or something. Not to mention that they were going to sacrifice her. How inconsiderate!

And then she was rescued by the knight in the shining armour. Every girl's dream, more or less. Too bad he didn't have a white horse to carry her away on. In truth, any colour horse would do. Only after spending some time around Arthaxiom she had realised that if he ever had a horse, it probably ran away. And carried his sanity with it.

At least the dwarf seemed normal. 'Normal' as in 'possible to have a conversation with'. When he wasn't chasing squirrels, at least. Or doing backflips. Or balancing his trident on his nose. Or doing dozens of other things, because he just couldn't sit still or walk in a straight line like a sane person.

Yet, somehow, these two were the best company she ever had. This was a bit sad, but she wanted to make the best of it.

"So, what are you doing here anyway?" Gaduria asked when they stopped for the night.

"I am on a quest to bring down the Empire of Evil," Arthaxiom replied.

"What Empire of Evil?"

"Oh, you know those humans down on the plains, who built cities and castles and stuff there? They are the only empire around. The Empire of Stinking Star they call themselves, or something like that," Alexander explained.

"I never heard they're evil."

"He says they are." Alexander pointed at the paladin.

"I say they are," the paladin confirmed.

"See? Problem solved. Heroing is simple," the dwarf concluded.

"Indeed! I have found a magical sword, I have enlisted a companion, I have rescued a beautiful princess, and soon I will be ready to take on the Empire of Evil!" Arthaxiom declared, drew his sword and posed with it dramatically in the glow of the campfire.

Gaduria rolled her eyes. That Hero was way too Heroic for her tastes. That was too bad, because most likely she was going to spend some time in his company. Time to bring him back to reality. "Yeah? You and what army?" she sneered.

"Him and my army, perhaps," a deep voice from the shadows replied.

Startled, Gaduria and Alexander quickly scrambled to their feet.

"Who goes there!" Arthaxiom shouted. "Fiend or foe?"

"It's 'friend or foe'," Alexander corrected.

"Ah, right. Sorry. Friend or foe? Or fiend?"

"Fear not. I mean no harm." The owner of the voice stepped forward, and they could all see him now. He was very tall. At least a head taller than the paladin. Not including the antlers.

"Who are you?" Alexander asked.

"WHAT are you?" Gaduria rephrased.

The creature stepped into the light. It was a deer. A biggest deer they've ever seen. Unlike any other deer, it was walking on its hind legs. And talking. And wearing exquisite red robes to make it all even more confusing. It paused to pose dramatically in the glow of the campfire, and then it spoke.

"I am Deer Lord."

-I-I-I-I-

Deer Lord sat with them and they spoke for a while. He wanted to send them on a quest. That instantly convinced the paladin of his good intentions. The dwarf already knew better than to argue. Gaduria didn't. "So, let me get it clear," she addressed Deer Lord. "You, Deer Lord, command deer. Every deer. Everywhere."

"I wouldn't call it commanding," Deer Lord interrupted. "More like giving suggestions."

"And yet, you, with all your deer, cannot handle that... Valkyrie Wolf. So you ask us, people you randomly met in the forest, to help you with this Wolf, and if we do this, your deer will help us?"

"That is correct," Deer Lord confirmed.

"And nobody finds anything wrong with this?"

"I see nothing wrong with this," Deer Lord replied.

"Neither do I. Seems fair," Arthaxiom agreed. "It is a quest!"

"I no longer use logic around him," Alexander pointed at the paladin. "It just doesn't work anymore."

"But... if this Deer Lord, aided by every single deer in existence, cannot defeat that Valkyrie Wolf, how are we supposed to do this?"

"What do you mean by 'we'?" the paladin asked. "I cannot take you. It is too dangerous. You must wait for us with Deer Lord."

"No way! You're not leaving me here!" Gaduria protested. "I'm not waiting for you in the company of a giant talking deer! No offense," she added after an awkward pause.

"None taken." Deer Lord nodded graciously.

"You cannot go. You are a princess..."

"And a princess goes where she wants! I'll grab a nice heavy branch and I'll be a warrior princess too!"

"Very well." The paladin sighed. Can't argue with a princess.

"So it is settled. Now, how are we going to fulfil this quest?" Gaduria asked.

"Heroically!" Arthaxiom declared, grabbed his sword, and posed dramatically in front of the campfire. Again. Gaduria looked questioningly at the dwarf. He didn't seem worried at all.

"I suppose so. Let's just go along with it. It will work out. Somehow."

"Are you suicidal or something?" Gaduria definitely didn't share Alexander's optimism. "Going after a fearsome beast without any sort of a plan?"

Arthaxiom decided to dispel her doubts. "Fear not, fair princess. While our lives might be endangered, it is for a just cause, and we will prevail, if such is the will of the Rainbow Sturgeon, the Mythical Archpegasus, and the Joyous Beige Dragon! And maybe, just maybe, the virtue of my deeds will make me look like a shining star of serenity in your beautiful turquoise eyes that are deep like the virgin mountain lakes!"

"Erm... what?"

"I think he's trying to say he likes you," Alexander whispered, while the paladin carried on about hair like heavenly orchards.

"Ah. For a second there I thought he's out of his mind. Again," Gaduria whispered back.

"That's probably also true."

"And you're willingly travelling with him?" She thought for a second about what she had just said and decided to rephrase. "And we're willingly travelling with him?"

"Relax. It will turn out all right. See, we saved you because we went in the direction an undead weasel had run away in. And now you are a princess, because this holy oaf apparently doesn't hear it when you deny it. Or when I call him a holy oaf, probably."

"I heard this! I might be a bit holy, but I am not an oak!" the paladin protested, taking a break from giving compliments. "I am not any kind of tree. What is wrong with you?"

"Sorry. A butterfly distracted me," the dwarf apologised.

"Ah. Yes. It happens. Where was I? Fingers, I think... Your fingers are like pieces of rainbow bread, woven by elves under a pristine waterfall of..."

"Here he goes again," Alexander sighed.

"I probably should be flattered, but I don't think he's seeing me properly when he's saying these things," Gaduria said. "It's a bit sad. I'd really like to look like that thing he's seeing."

"You want to have rainbow bread for fingers?"

"Well, when you put it like this... I don't think I'd like to look like that thing he's seeing. Anyway, what did this Valkyrie Wolf do to you?" she turned to Deer Lord. "Ate one deer too many?" Someone had to inquire a bit. Neither the paladin nor the dwarf seemed interested in what this quest was all about.

"It... it sings. Dreadfully. It sings so bad that Duck Duke migrated with all his people. Ducks, I mean." Deer Lord looked terrified by just speaking about that. The escape of Duck Duke must have been a really bad omen.

"Duck Duke? How much animal nobility is there?" Alexander was curious.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe. There's Moose Marshall, Weasel Warlord, and let's not forget about Aarchie the Aardvark Aarchon."

"A serious case of aalliteration here," the dwarf japed.

"...and your toenails are like eyelids of unicorns..." Arthaxiom droned on.

"He's never even seen my toenails!" Gaduria protested.

"I doubt he's seen a unicorn either," Alexander japed again, but nobody seemed to get his jokes. He didn't mind.

"So anyway, where do we find this Valkyrie Wolf?" The princess decided to get the conversation back on track.

"It roams through the forest, singing viciously at whatever it finds. There is only one chance to catch up with it. Every full moon it can be found on the..." Deer Lord paused, lowered his voice and spoke with dread, "...cursed haunted forbidden cemetery."

Gaduria wasn't impressed. "Of doom?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is it a cursed haunted forbidden cemetery of DOOOOOM?"

"No."

"Good."

"It is a cursed haunted forbidden cemetery of PAAAAAAIN!"

"Ermine that."