Lost in Glory
Chapter 3

Sillysquid was a proper town. Not a big one, but definitely a town, not a village. It had a proper town square, and a proper statue of a squid. There wasn't anything especially silly about it, maybe apart from its facial expression. Also, the nearest sea was quite a long way away. Any squid found around here would be very silly indeed.

The town didn't have a mayor. It had a lord. He was not a terribly important lord, but a lord nonetheless. Lord Seagull Sassysnake was his name, which irritated him quite a bit. It was hard to be taken seriously when one introduced himself as Seagull Sassysnake, Lord of Sillysquid. At least he wasn't a Squire of Sillysquid. It would have made matters even worse.

Lord Seagull lived in a house located next to the town square. It was easy to spot, because it was a lot bigger than other houses. Almost like a half of a castle. Admittedly the smaller half, which was nibbled on a bit, and slightly spoiled from one side too. Maybe closer to a quarter of a castle, but still impressive, at least by Sillysquid standards. Vannard wasn't impressed. He went right in.

He was in a hallway. There were multiple doors there, and also stairs leading upwards. Nobody in sight. He looked around. The hallway was completely unremarkable apart from a few works of art. Any lord's house must have a few of those. So there was a sculpture of a man holding a spear in a curious way, a painting of a man holding an eagle bigger than himself, an offensively pink and rather misshaped vase, a painting of a five-legged dog brutalising a three-legged hare... Vannard was no art connoisseur, but even he knew something was wrong with some of these. Probably decent artists were hard to replace around here.

Since nobody appeared to either greet him or chase him away, the assassin considered his next move. An obvious idea would be to shout, but he was against shouting as a rule. Shouting was not assassiny. He decided to explore on his own. Going upstairs was a logical choice, because the stairs were covered with some sort of red material. Covering stairs with a red material was something lords often did, although Vannard never understood why. In his experience, bloodstains were less visible on red than, let's say, white, but he doubted that was why the lords liked it.

He went upstairs. There were multiple doors. He selected the most lordly-looking. It had a handle shaped like a lion. A lion with a facial expression suggesting violent stomach problems. He entered. The room he was now in contained a clerk sitting at a desk and two guards guarding another door. This suggested that this door led to the lord's chambers.

Vannard assessed everyone in the room as non-threatening. The guards were rather large, but guarding in their particular case consisted of sitting on the floor and playing some sort of a board game, while their halberds were lying on the floor next to them. The clerk was a small, thin man. There were stacks of papers in front of him. He seemed to be totally absorbed by scribbling something on yet another piece of paper. A very typical clerk. Vannard had seen many like him before. Their existence seemed a bit pointless to him. Filling papers was all they did. What are papers good for? The only use for them he knew of was to make paper cuts, and he had always preferred to cause more deadly injuries.

Neither the guards nor the clerk appeared to notice Vannard, maybe because he didn't make much noise, or maybe they just didn't give a newt. It didn't bother him, but he had things to do, so he decided to announce his presence.

"You, clerk person!" he said as he approached the clerk's table. "I want to speak with the lord."

The clerk didn't even look at the visitor. Maybe if he had, he would have decided that it was in his best interest to help him. Or maybe not. "Do you have an appointment?" he asked. Meanwhile the guards got up in an attempt to look a bit more guardly.

"I do not," Vannard replied truthfully.

"So you cannot speak with the lord. Go away," the clerk said, put away the piece of paper he had been working on, and started scribbling something on a new one.

At this point Vannard decided that peaceful, non-violent approach was unsuccessful and switched to a different one. One he had a lot more experience with. "I do not have an appointment, but I have several daggers," he said pleasantly.

After hearing such statement most people would at least look at the person issuing the threat. Not the clerk. He was quite insistent on not caring about the visitor. "Guards. Throw him out."

"You. Get out," one of the guards said without much feeling. They were there mostly for show, very rarely needing to use actual violence. A big man with a halberd, wearing a chain mail, a steel cap and all that, was usually a good deterrent without a need to do anything.

Vannard only smiled at the guards. That weirded them out a bit, because people usually don't smile at guards who are telling them to get out. Well, one time there was this wandering masochist who had made it quite awkward for these particular guards. Especially when a few minutes later he returned, asking for more. They weren't looking forward to repeating the experience.

The guards weren't quite sure how to handle someone who apparently wasn't intimidated at all. The one who had spoken before waved his halberd at Vannard in a threatening manner. That wasn't his best idea ever. An eye-blink later he was lying on the floor and the world was spinning around his head. It took him a moment to realise that this nice gentleman in black had just wrested the halberd from his grasp, spun it around and hit him on the head with the shaft.

The other guard didn't fare much better. Although he had a moment longer to prepare, he didn't anticipate a vicious upward strike aimed at his crotch. His steel codpiece absorbed some of the blow's power, but not nearly enough, and thus he also ended up on the floor, writhing in pain. The halberd's shaft broke.

Vannard thought that killing the defenceless guards, however enjoyable, could make the lord reluctant to cooperate, so he decided against it. On the other hand, removing them from the vicinity was advisable, because allowing surprise attacks from behind would be really unprofessional. "Out of the window," he commanded.

The guards knew better than to argue. They half-walked, half-crawled towards a large window, opened it and jumped. Vannard expected some pained screams when they hit the ground, yet instead there was only a soft, mushy sound. He looked out of the window to investigate. "Ah. Dunghill. How convenient," he said, half to himself, half to the clerk. Now it was time to ask to speak with the lord once more. He expected that this small demonstration would cause the little wretch to realise the error of his ways, but apparently it was not the case.

"More guards!" he shouted, this time a bit more lively, with some silly glimmer of hope that they would do any better than the first two. Vannard waited patiently.

Two more guards entered through the door. They were armed just like their unfortunate counterparts and didn't seem very combative as well. They saw a black-clad person holding half a halberd and some blood on the floor. Also, their fellow guards were nowhere to be seen. That made them hesitate.

"Your friends left through the window," Vannard explained pleasantly. "You can follow them willingly or I will be forced to use excessive violence."

"Kill him! Kill him!" the clerk cried, but these guards weren't that dumb. Someone who had just thrown two armed guardsmen out of a window had to be taken seriously.

"We... will leave?" one of them said, looking at his companion for confirmation.

"Uh... it's quite high, you know," the other one replied, unconvinced.

"Do not worry, there is a dunghill below," Vannard reassured him. "Meeting with it will be smelly, but relatively painless. On the other hand..."

"Right. Right. So... we go," the guard said and both of them walked towards the window.

"Turn back! Turn back and fight, you cowards! Mice! Gerbils!" the clerk screamed, but it did little to persuade the guards. They jumped, and Vannard turned to the clerk.

"And now..."

"What is going on here?" Another man burst through the door. "Who are you?"

Vannard immediately guessed that this had to be the lord himself. The first clue was wealthy-looking clothing, and the second one was asking 'What is going on here?' when he could clearly see that guards who should have been there weren't there anymore, and that their absence might have something to do with an unknown man in black holding a broken halberd. At least he had enough brains to be wielding a sword when asking that, not that it would do him any good if he decided to use it.

"Greetings, you must be the lord of this place. I came from the capital to speak with you, but this silly person ordered the guards to attack me, so I had to defenestrate them," Vannard explained.

Lord Seagull pondered that for a moment. "I understand you had to defend yourself, but did you really need to cut off their... things?" He seemed a bit shocked.

It took Vannard a moment to understand what was the lord's objection. "Ah. You're thinking about castration. I performed a defenestration, which is a sophisticated name for throwing a person out of a window."

"Oh. Well. Not that bad then," the lord decided.

"Indeed."

"So, if you bothered to come here all the way from the capital and threw all my guards out of the window on the way, I should probably speak with you?" lord Seagull asked.

"I would appreciate that, yes," Vannard replied. "But first..." He dropped his impromptu weapon, turned to the impudent clerk, grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and lifted him up with one hand. He squirmed and dangled his legs in desperation, but to no avail.

"Could you please not damage him too much? It is hard to replace a decent clerk around here, you know," lord Seagull requested. "He often is nasty to people, but he's the only one in this wretched town who can read and write."

"Oh, I'll only defenestrate him too. There is a nice dunghill below, so he should be fine, although a bit smelly," Vannard explained, as he went to the window and threw the clerk out. The unfortunate man screamed during his flight. Then he screamed some more, obviously in pain.

"You said he'd be fine!" the lord complained.

Vannard looked out of the window to see what had happened. "I didn't anticipate one of the halberds being left in the dung, sticking up," he explained. "Your clerk impaled his buttock on it. I replace this most amusing."

Lord Seagull joined Vannard at the window and they both laughed as the screaming clerk was being dislodged from the halberd by dung-covered guards.

Nothing bonds two men better than laughing at others' misfortune. Well, it is not entirely true, but in Vannard's case any sort of bonding was a success. Unfortunately, that didn't amount to much, because lord Seagull didn't know much about the paladin. Like every good lord, he didn't really care what was happening in his lands, unless it was really important, and sometimes not even then. A wandering armoured madman certainly didn't register as something important, a passing curiosity at best. Therefore, the assassin decided to talk with some less important people who might have paid more attention. He was surprised to notice that his visit to the lord's castle had some interesting after-effects.

"Ah, ye must be that nice lad who jabbed da clerk in da arse!" the elderly stable master said. "And 'twas right 'bout time someone did it, aye, mayhaps not exactly like that, but he deserved it, aye, pompous fool, ye know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," Vannard replied. Not that he really understood, but apparently this man approved of his defenestration technique. Definitely not a bad sign.

"Aye, so, ye asked bout that paladin lad, eh? He was here, aye. Was a few nails short of a hammer. Wanted a horsey. For free, imagine that! Of course, I told him to have some fun with a rusty spear, if ye know what I mean. Wretch says he's on a qvest. A holy qvest, imagine that, m'lord! Lad looks like a cow sat on his face, and he's on a holy qvest! So he goes right to the nastiest horsey around, and says 'tis destined to be his glorious steed! And pats it on da neck! Lad has speed, I give him that. If he didn't jump back, he'd lose half his face, aye. So he says horsey's a demon, and me its cursed servant, and we are doomed. Dooooooomed he said, aye. And perish in unspeakable torment, imagine that, m'lord. So he left, hitting his head on the doorway on the way out. Called it work of a demon carpenter, aye, m'lord."

"So, you're that guy who threw Imponderabilius out of the window. Good job!" The blacksmith was another person who was happy about the clerk's misfortune. "He thinks he's all important cause he's the only one around that can read and write. Nice to see him return to the dunghill he crawled out from. The halberd was a nice touch too, and a deserved one! He was always a pain in the butt for anyone who had business with the lord. Now he has a pain in the butt of his own, and serves him well, I say! But I ramble on a bit. Yes, that armoured man was here. Wanted a sword. Didn't want to pay for it. Told me some gibberish about how that sword would help him bring freedom to the land and some other crap. I could've thrown him out, you know, but he ermined me off a bit. So I gave him a sword that my apprentice had made during his training. Not a good sword, not at all. In fact, I wouldn't have sold this crap to anyone, but since he wanted one for free, well, why not? You get what you pay for. That thing probably broke the very first time he used it. If he had a chance, that is, cause that armour of his wasn't too good either. Rust got it quite a bit."

"Right." Vannard decided not to mention that the paladin with this crappy sword and rusty armour apparently slaughtered a villageful of goblins. Unless he found some better ones on the way. The assassin didn't care much. It wasn't his job to figure this out. He was only gathering information. And his mission wasn't over yet.

-I-I-I-I-

General Roseduck was slowly running out of time. The High Lords of the Empire one by one were arriving at the capital. Roseduck was well aware of that. He had eyes everywhere. Not that he needed them for High Lord spotting, anyone missing a High Lord's entourage would have to be blind and deaf. And have no sense of smell.

The succession talks were going to start soon. The process wasn't simple. The new Emperor would have to be no older than twenty, of noble birth, and as closely related as possible to the previous one. That limited the number of candidates somewhat. Fortunately, there were no silly rules about birthmarks shaped like broken bananas or stuff like that. Getting four out of seven High Lords to agree on a candidate should prove pretty difficult regardless.

This ridiculous system was a few hundred years old, when Emperor Cygnerius the Third had decided to create some sort of codex of law. He very imaginatively named it 'Codex'. It was a novel idea. Before the Codex there was no written law. The unwritten law was that everyone could do whatever they wanted to as long as it didn't upset anyone of higher station. And if two people of similar stance were in a disagreement, they resorted to traditional conflict resolution methods, such as direct violence, blackmail, assassination, bribery, or calling upon someone more important for help.

The Codex didn't change all that one bit. It nicely phrased all that instead. Unfortunately there were only so many words one could use to describe a pretty straightforward system, therefore some irrelevant laws were added just to make the Codex bigger and more important-looking. The problem was that some of these got relevant much later and proved to be absolutely nonsensical. Just like this one. At the time nobody cared what had been written in the 'in case of the Emperor dying without a direct descendant' article simply because the current Emperor had seven sons, most of whom already had had sons of their own. So nobody had thought through consequences of that article, which in this case involved a need for some people to make an important decision together. People, who usually disagreed on principle. Making two High Lords agree with each other was hard. Four, almost impossible.

Roseduck, as the High Lord Commander, was the holder of the only non-inherited High Lord title. The rest of them was passed down from the father to the eldest son. Or to some other son, sometimes. Or a cousin. Or to someone completely different in some cases, when the Emperor had decided it was time to give some other family the privilege of having a High Lord. Other old, rich and important family, of course. All High Lords were descendants of old, rich and utterly decadent noble houses. Quite a bit inbred, too. A proud and troublesome group and sometimes a bit stupid. Quite often quite a bit stupid. Eneumerius hoped that they would be quarrelsome as usual. He was even pretty sure that they would. He was also pretty sure that in the end they surely would decide on someone, if only to stop having to talk to each other. He needed a better plan, and fast.

Roseduck was heading towards the Imperial Library. It was just an ordinary library, but since it was on the Imperial Castle grounds, it was Imperial by inheritance. For the same reason the old man who was running it was the Imperial Librarian.

"Eneumerius, nice to see you again! More reading about battles, eh?" Roseduck sighed. The librarian couldn't wrap his old mind around the fact that the little boy who used to borrow books about battle strategies and tactics became a High Lord and all that. Well, at least he stopped calling him 'Merry'. That had been most annoying.

"Not this time. I need books about Heroes."

"Reading about battles when little, reading about heroes when older? Most people go the other way, heh, heh..."

"Say 'heh' once more and I'll kill you," the General threatened.

"Oh no, you wouldn't do that!"

"I wouldn't," he admitted. "But I could ask someone to do it for me."

"You wouldn't do that too... but I don't think I want to risk that."

"Good man."

They entered the library.

"So, what kind of heroes you want?"

"I'm not sure. I think I'm more interested in those that might have been real, as opposed to ones entirely made up."

"Harmonicas, harpies, hedges, hedgehogs, heroes! Here they are! Let's see... Jack and the Brain Stick?"

"Please summarise."

"A small village boy Jack replaces a magical growing stick attached to an old wooden doll. He throws away the doll and takes the stick home. Little does he know that the stick grows very fast when its owner gets embarrassed. So when a small village girl Jill tells Jack he's kinda cute, the stick suddenly grows so much that it stabs right through his skull and in the brain, killing him outright."

"Fascinating. What's heroic about this?"

"I don't know really. I'll better move it to another section."

"What section? Retarded stories?"

"Comparative religion I think. What's next... Fierylocks and the three trolls. A red-haired princess called Fierylocks gets lost in the woods. Not wanting to spend the night outside, she hides in a nearby cave. Unfortunately, the cave is a home to a family of trolls. Fierylocks hides behind three stalactites, but has to leave when the baby troll goes there to use them as toothpicks. Then she hides behind three stalagmites, but has to leave when daddy troll goes there to take a leak. Then she hides behind three stalagnates, but mommy troll went there to berate those. Fierylocks doesn't have any other place to hide, so the trolls replace her. It irritates her quite a bit, therefore she drags them out of the cave and beats the living daycarp out of them until dawn, when they turn into mirrors. And not a good kind of mirrors, cause the princess looks a bit fat in them, so she drags all three of them up a cliff and pushes them off."

"I think I'll take this one."

"Thought you might."

"Next please? Some knights or paladins maybe?"

"There are many stories about the Knights of the Square Table. There were thirteen of then, and they always argued about who had to sit on the side of the table where there were four places."

"How quaint. They all were Heroes?"

"Well, up to a point. Let's just say that there was Sir Edric the Dragonbane and there was Sir Eric the Dragonsnack."

"Ah. Well, I'd take something about them. With focus on the more successful ones."

"Of course. Next, we have..."

So they went through the shelves. Finally, the General had a stack of books, amongst them such classics as 'Jimu and the Armageddon's Bride' or 'Big Bald Barbarian and His Handy Heroic Hamster'. He had a lot to read. He liked reading, but he wasn't looking forward to this particular lecture session. There was that nagging feeling at the back of his head, a feeling that soon he will want to stab his own brain with a stick. He sighed heavily. Some things simply had to be done.

He somewhat regretted that he didn't have enough time to read some interesting, but most likely unrelated titles. 'The Art of Albatross Selling' would have to wait, as well as 'Two Men in Black Clothes and Black Binoculars Riding Black Horses in the Middle of the Night'. Too bad. He had always been focused solely on books about real battles and now he realised how many gems he was missing.

There was also the whole subsection called 'Village Boy Saves the World'. Pretty self-explanatory. For example, there was "Village Boy Fights His Armoured Zombie Father and Saves the World". Details varied. Sometimes the boy was a girl. Sometimes only a kingdom was saved. Sometimes an entire universe, whatever that meant. Usually the title promised some ridiculousness on the way. Way too fat-fetched to bother with right now, but the General promised himself to read at least one of those some time in the future. If he survives.

-I-I-I-I-

They were travelling through a particularly unremarkable forest. It had trees, it had bushes, it had birds... Not interesting for a Hero. On the other hand, very interesting for a dwarf. Maybe not for every dwarf, because most would prefer more rocks and less leaves, but certainly for this particular dwarf.

There was a nice path going through the middle of the forest. After all, one can't expect a Hero to hack his way through the thicket all day, every day. Arthaxiom was walking on the path, as any halfway sensible Hero would. It was the obvious choice. Alexander in turn did just about everything else. He ran forward or he lagged behind, he jumped around, he walked on his hands, he climbed trees, he poked random bushes with his trident, he slung rocks at the paladin...

"Stop that!" Arthaxiom scolded him for perhaps the hundredth time.

"Sorry," the dwarf responded as usual, and as usual wasn't going to stop. "How much longer do we have to go?"

"You have asked that..." A larger number of times than the paladin could count to. He wasn't going to admit that. "...way too many times. Do not be so impatient. We have only started the journey today."

"Yes, but I am bored already!" Alexander complained.

"Why?"

"Because there isn't anything to do!"

"You are doing something all the time," Arthaxiom pointed out.

"Yes, but it's not doing doing, it's more like doing looking for something to do. But there just isn't anything!"

"What is it that you are looking for?"

"I don't know! Anything! Some animal to play with!"

"There are many animals in the forest."

"Yes, but they run away. In the cave I had bats. Of course there's only so much things to do with a bat... but I could poke them with the trident, shoot at them with my sling, chase them around while waving my hands and screaming, hang from the ceiling by my legs while making squeaking noises and pretending I'm one of them..."

"I get the idea," the paladin interrupted.

"Yes, well, you know, the point is that they were stuck in the cave. Here, I try to play with something and it runs away. Or flies away. Or crawls away. Or..."

"That is enough."

"Ah. Sorry. You don't really need to know about those who jump away. Or dig their way away. Or..."

"Alexander, please!"

"Right. Right. Sorry. Anyway, no animals to amuse me. I was also hoping to replace something. I don't know. Like, magical items or something?"

"Magical items? Do not be ridiculous. Magical items do not simply lay around in the forest."

"But you are a Hero, no? Aren't you supposed to replace some?"

"I might be. But they will not be hiding in random bushes. I cannot be searching for them all the time. If I was, I would never finish any quest. If there is a magical item I am supposed to replace, it will make itself known."

"Like, jump out of the bushes and kick you in the rear?"

"Well, maybe not exactly like that. But somehow."

"So I won't replace anything?"

"Probably. But worry not! You are travelling with a Hero! Something interesting will surely happen. Something that will allow me to show my Heroism! That is what being a Hero is all about!"

"Heroism is all about walking around in hope that something will happen?" Alexander was doubtful.

"Not walking around, we are walking in a straight line," Arthaxiom corrected. "Also, there is no hope involved. Something has to happen sooner or later, because I am a Hero."

"Has to?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"I do not know," the paladin admitted. "I... feel it. With my entire Heroic self. I am a Hero. Heroes do not simply walk through forests without something happening to them. Heroes do not need to search for adventures. Adventures happen to them, so that they can test their skills in battle, gain allies, replace magical items... In the end, the Hero becomes powerful enough to complete his main mission. Which, in my case, is defeating the Empire of Evil."

"You are saying that something might happen to us at any time, even though this forest seems absolutely normal and..." the dwarf paused. "Attack of the undead squirrels!" he screamed.

"What? Where?" Arthaxiom shouted as he unsheathed his sword. "You will perish, undead scum, like the abominations you are!" he cried, while waving his sword around aimlessly. "I, Arthaxiom the Great, will cut you into pieces, and crush your unholy skulls with my iron boot! I will destroy you all! You will dissolve in ignominy!" The paladin was spinning around, hacking at the air, screaming threats at the squirrels, until he noticed that Alexander was rolling in the dirt, laughing. "That was not funny," he said reproachfully.

"Oh yes it was," the dwarf replied, still rolling. "What's more, I'm not bored at the moment! Oooh, a butterfly!" he exclaimed with joy, got up and ran after a large yellow butterfly. Arthaxiom sighed, sheathed his sword and continued on his way.

Meanwhile, in the nearby bushes, the Magical Nut of Fertility also sighed with frustration. It knew it should have leapt out and kicked the paladin in the rear, but it was somewhat difficult to do that without legs. And the dwarf got distracted and ran the other way. Great. Just great. The Nut was pretty sure that its day couldn't get worse at that point. It was wrong. A random hare made it even worse by eating it.

-I-I-I-I-

Many people had seen the strange, armoured man. Many had heard him spurt some random declarations about glorious quests. One boy had even seen him stealing an old shield that had been used to shovel cow dung onto the now-famous dunghill. Yet it took Vannard quite some time to replace someone who knew where did the paladin come from. That someone was an old crone, who looked like a victim of a particularly vicious raccoon attack. She pointed him towards a village of Happylake, and promised him 'dooooom' if he went there. She didn't seem a particularly reliable source, but Vannard lacked any other leads, and thus he was approaching Happylake now. He also promised himself that if she had misled him, he would personally provide her with some 'dooooom' of his own should an opportunity arise.

The lake was not happy. It seemed rather sad instead. Perhaps it was an effect of the nearby ruined and half-burned-down village, but Vannard wasn't quite sure. He had seen enough ruined and half-burned-down villages (and even some three-quarters-burned-down) to be bothered by this. He only hoped that there was someone alive around. Certainly didn't look like there was.

He dismounted and chose a house at random. Well, not entirely at random. He chose a house that had a door. He knocked. The door fell apart. "Most interesting," he said to himself. Suddenly some unidentified noises were heard, and a hunched figure emerged from another barely-standing hut. It wielded a pitchfork.

"Begone, foul ghost!" it moaned and waved the pitchfork in something which probably was supposed to be a threatening manner. It was a rather sad attempt. It reminded Vannard of an old, toothless dog that had attacked him once. Probably. Maybe it was having an epilepsy attack. In either case it was so pitiful that he didn't even bother to kill it, and that meant something. To be more exact, it meant that he decided it would die soon enough on its own and therefore killing it would be an act of mercy. Vannard didn't do mercy. Unless it was funny for some reason.

"Drop that implement or you will become a foul ghost yourself," the assassin suggested amiably. The figure, which upon closer examination proved to be a peasant wearing some rags, was not suicidal enough to argue. "Right. So, is this the place of origin of one 'Arthaxiom the paladin'"?

The peasant cringed. "Don't thee say that name! It brings doom! Dooooom!"

"I'll take it as a 'yes'. Please elaborate a bit. And could you drop the 'cryptic foreshadower of dooooom' act? It is getting tiresome and may cause injury. To you, of course."

"Right, right, I'll be good," the peasant agreed and Vannard braced himself for another long and utterly boring story. "See these ruins? All his fault! We had a village here. Everything was fine. Peasants were drinking, cows were mooing, cats were meowing..."

"No need to elaborate on animal noises. Unless you wish to re-enact peasants who were screaming and bleeding."

"Uh, no, not really, no..."

"So please continue your exciting story."

"Right. Well. It started when old Revy was repairing his roof. His son Arty was helping him of course. For some reason Arty fell from the roof, hitting his head. A wooden beam fell after him and hit him on the head again. We thought he's done for, but no. He seemed fine, which was, well, weird. His body was fine, that is. His mind, not so. He said he was no longer Arty the peasant, but Arthaxiom the paladin, y'see. And a rainbow surgeon, and some other things too. We thought it would pass. Didn't.

Bad things happened next. Arty was a helpful lad, but after he hit his head, 'twas like he got cursed or something. Whatever he did, went very very badly. When he went to chop down a tree he hit a neighbour with his axe, the tree fell on a stray donkey, and a squirrel jumped out of the tree right in the face of a small child. He went to feed a cat, the cat fell into the well. He went to feed the pigs... well, y'know. Good thing they got stuck. We took the well apart to get them out. Then ole Rolfy went down there to get the cat out. He slipped, he fell, he broke his arm. In three places, no less. We got him out, and the cat, and then Benny fell in. All the way down. Cause he stumbled on that same cat. The cat fell in again right behind him and landed on his face. It was ugly.

We tried to do something about this. Our local witch magicked a bit. We think she did at least, cause she turned herself into a large turkey. Fell down the well too, aye. This time Henk went down there and tried to get her out, but she breathed fire on him. Nobody else wanted to try, so we left her there.

We wanted to hit Arty in the head again, to make him better. We tried a stick. The stick bounced right off and killed a cow. So Chegg threw a brick at him. It circled around Arty and took out Chegg's eye. We stopped hitting him with things after that.

We tried to talk him out of being helpful, but he insisted he has to work to earn money. He said he needs to buy a sword, a shield, a horse, and armour. So ole Gerold dug up his great-grandpa's rusty armour from his attic and gave it to that dolt, on condition that he leaves and never comes back again. And so it happened. He left and never came back."

"A beautiful story," Vannard said. "I almost cried. While it explains a lot of devastation around, it certainly doesn't account for all the damage around."

"Ah, yes, y'see, when he left, we threw a party. We were all excited that 'tis all is over and drank a leetle too much. Some singin', some dancin' and stuff. And someone barfed just a leetle bit into the well-hole. As you might remember, the fire-breathing turkey-witch was still inside, and she was a lee..."

"Say 'leetle' one more time," Vannard warned, "and you'll have a 'leetle' bit more holes in your body than you have right now."

"Ah. Um. Er." The peasant got somewhat distressed. "She was... a bit unhappy. She breathed fire. The poor barfing wretch was burning nicely, and he started running around screaming and putting everything on fire. And we were a lee... a lot drunk," he corrected himself in a hurry, "we didn't help, just laughed and cheered. He was a human torch, haha! But in the morning, we wake up, all hung over, and nothing is left standing. I thought I was still drunk. Then I broke an egg on my forehead, and another one, but it didn't get any better."

"Why did you break eggs on your forehead?" Vannard was rather surprised by this action.

"'tis our traditional hangover cure."

"Does it work?"

"Well, dunno, really. My pa said it does, my grandpa said it does, an all the boys said it does, so it does, I guess."

"Ah. Yes. That makes sense. Please continue."

"Nothing to continue. We buried the ones who burned to death. Everyone else just left. I stayed. Nowhere to go, too old to start again. And too lazy. Now I just wait here to die... GACK!" he stuttered, as Vannard's dagger struck him in the chest, right in the heart, even before he finished saying 'die'. "I... I... didn't... mean... now!"

"Oh. My apologies in this case," Vannard replied and removed his dagger from the peasant, who promptly fell to the ground. Then they both started their journeys: Vannard back to the capital, and the peasant to a hopefully paladinless afterlife.

-I-I-I-I-

"Undead squirrel attack!" Alexander the dwarf shouted.

"It is not funny anymore," Arthaxiom replied calmly. "It was not funny the previous twelve times. Neither was the invisible bear-shaman, nor the fire-breathing turkey-witch, and most certainly not-"

"Chiiiirp! Chiiiirp!" something chirped and landed on the paladin's helmet with a clang. A second later a small skeletal head peeked into his visor. He instinctively stepped back, but that didn't amount to much. The skeletal squirrel chirped again and tried to reach his eyes with its little skeletal paw. The paladin tried to swat it away with his hand, but he was way too slow. He only managed to hit himself in the helmet. That stunned and disoriented him quite a bit.

The squirrel changed its approach. It sat on the top of the helmet and tried to dig in. Arthaxiom tried to hit it again, but to no avail. The undead animal was fast and agile, and the paladin couldn't see what he was doing.

"Alexander, help!" he called, but Alexander was having trouble of his own. A small zombified weasel was trying to bite his ankles. He was jumping around to prevent that and did a good job so far. He also tried to impale the creature with his trident, but was unsuccessful. In view of this Arthaxiom decided that the right strategy would be to change opponents.

"Ow! You carp-brain!" Alexander cried as the tip of the paladin's iron boot hit his leg instead of the weasel. "Use your sword, you dolt!"

Arthaxiom indeed felt like a dolt. He was a paladin, a Hero! He was not supposed to forget about his sword! What was he thinking, trying to kick that zombie? He unsheathed the Shining Sword, but the weasel didn't wait for him to use it. It hissed and disappeared in the bushes. Meanwhile the unmolested squirrel decided to try the visor again.

"Augh! Get it off me!" the paladin shouted when the revived rodent remains appeared in front of his face and clawed him right in the nose. The dwarf dropped his trident, pulled out his sling, and fired a rock at the squirrel. The shot was true, the squirrel was hit and fell to the ground. It gave an annoyed chirp and followed the weasel before Alexander managed to grab another rock.

"We have triumphed!" Arthaxiom declared and waved his sword around.

"No we didn't," Alexander disagreed.

"Yes we did! We dispatched the sinister forces of evil!"

"We barely chased them away."

"And it was a glorious victory!"

"There wasn't anything glorious about that. They ran away unharmed, your nose is bleeding and my leg hurts quite a lot."

"I apologise for that kick."

"You know, if I was a human I'd probably have my leg broken now."

"I apologise again."

"No need, no harm done. We dwarves are tough," he declared proudly, but his nice green clothes somewhat spoiled the effect. "I just wanted to point out that an inconclusive skirmish against small ex-furry undead creatures does not warrant a triumphant speech."

"You always try to deny me my triumphant speeches!" Arthaxiom complained.

"Because you always try to make them! You wanted one after you killed that old and scrawny wolf yesterday, not to mention that hedgehog two days ago... Why did you even kill it?"

"It attacked us!"

"It simply stood in our way."

"It was looking at us menacingly! And it was huge. A giant hedgehog. Anything giant is a thing for a Hero to fight!"

"If you say so. But a slightly-larger-than-usual hedgehog isn't a thing for a Hero to make a triumphant speech about."

"And I did not make one, as you might recall."

"Only because I sang a jolly song about crushed tomatoes very loud until you gave up!"

"Yes, you were quite... persuasive," Arthaxiom admitted. "Perhaps you were right and that battle wasn't worthy of a triumphant speech. But today we did not encounter a random animal. This was a skirmish with the evil forces of undead! It surely deserves a speech!"

"I disagree."

"Just a little one. Please?"

"Oh very well. But make it quick."

"We have triumphed!" Arthaxiom started again. "A bit! We defeated the sinister forces of evil, even though they were rather small! The glory of our deed will resound for some time but not really long, and maybe a peasant or two will sing a short song of mediocre quality..."

-I-I-I-I-

Arthaxiom indeed had cut his speech short. Mainly because Alexander threatened to sing about funky ferrets. Now the paladin was sitting on the ground and tending to his nose, which got scratched by the squirrel's paw. He didn't mind. Being wounded was Heroic. The wound was very minor, but it would do for a start. "That had to be doing of a vile necromancer," he said.

"How do you know?" Alexander inquired, while jumping around him on one leg, allowing the hurt one to rest a bit.

"What do you mean?" The paladin was shocked and surprised that it isn't obvious. "Those were undead! They had to be creations of a vile necromancer!"

"Yes, yes, I know that. But how do you know he is vile?" Alexander inquired. "Or she," he added. "Or it, even. The point is, we don't really know anything about this necromancer."

"Of course he is vile!" the paladin exclaimed and got up, agitated. He also tried to give the dwarf a disapproving look, but it was rather difficult to use against a moving target. "Necromancers are vile! Known fact!"

"And dwarves are...?" Alexander asked, calmly.

The Hero hesitated. "Well, short. Have beards, wear armour. Fight with axes, or hammers maybe. Good miners. Live underground. Why do you ask?"

"Am I any of these things?"

"Short. Not much else."

"Right. And yet, I'm a dwarf."

"To be honest, I am not entirely sure about that," he said, as the dwarf yet again jumped past him.

"What else would I be?"

"I do not know. Some sort of gnome, maybe?"

"Some sort of gnome, maybe?" the dwarf sneered. "So, what sort of gnome would I be?"

The paladin considered this. "A dwarf-impersonating gnome, obviously."

"A dwarf-impersonating gnome?" This time Alexander got agitated. It even got him to stop jumping. He faced the paladin and waved a finger at him menacingly. "Now that is your most retarded idea so far, and that tells a lot! I am a dwarf, but I have neither a beard, nor an axe! The same way this necromancer doesn't have to be vile! You are stereotyping and discriminating! It's like if I said that all paladins are self-righteous and dumb!"

"Ah. Now I understand," Arthaxiom said.

"You do?" That caught the dwarf off-guard.

"Of course I do! I am a paladin but I am not dumb!"

Alexander didn't bother to point out the obvious flaw in that statement. Instead, he considered it a success that the paladin managed to more or less understand what he was being told. Now, it was time to make him use it.

"So you see, a dwarf doesn't have to have a beard, a paladin doesn't have to be dumb, so a necromancer doesn't have to be vile."

"But he became a necromancer!" Some stereotypes weren't that easy to overcome. "You have to be vile to do that!"

"Maybe he was lonely and misunderstood?" Alexander suggested.

"His creations tried to kill us!"

"All right, that's a valid point. Maybe... maybe it's only the necromancer's way of saying hello? Or maybe he didn't order it at all, and these creatures were just hungry or something?"

"And I still say it is a vile necromancer and that we must replace him and end his reign of evil once and for all!" the paladin declared.

Alexander at this point gave up about making the Hero a bit more socially conscious. A necromancer had to be vile and that was it. "So how would you go about that?"

"Cut his head off with my sword, I think. Simple. Effective."

"I mean, how do you intend to replace him? He can be anywhere. Or she. Or it."

"It is simple. We will follow the direction they ran away in."

"What? That's stupid! You don't know if they are returning to the necromancer, and if they are indeed, you have no idea if they are going in a straight line!"

"That is what a Hero would do. That is what I will do. Alone, if need be!"

"Don't count on that. I won't miss an opportunity to tell you 'I told you so.'"