Esteemed reader!

  The story that we are about to present is in no way part and parcel of everyday events and the gray humdrum existence. Neither is it the fruit of someone's unhealthy phantasmagoria, nor of an addled mind, as shallow analysis might indicate. What we are about to meet is a heroic story of knights, a witch and a princess, the real deal, in a white diaphanous dress and with one of those pointy hats on her head. Finally, there will be mention of values that have disappeared from this earth with the end of that younger and more honourable era. There will be fighting, tears and heroism to fill the proud bosoms all the way to meteorisms of feeling, whatever that may mean.

  This is how it want:

  A king had three sons and a daughter of age to be married. The first of the three sons was the strongest; the second the fastest; and the third, youngest son was the most beautiful. All in all, it was a group of fellows of truly noble character, but there will be no mention of them at this time, because they have as much to do with our story as an out-of-work shin-man does with a pile of horseshit.

  Anyway:

  Just as the king started thinking about appropriate partners for his rich, but rather homely daughter, and when she was surrounded by a host of gold-diggers looking to make the score, a tragic event took place. One afternoon, preluding on her lute and putting some of her earlier reflections to music, the princess was sitting under a gazebo that efficiently shielded her gentle, noble flesh from the coarse rays of the sun.

  Thus engrossed in her singing and enjoying her music, the princess Gillerra Endurro noticed nothing in her surroundings, so that a passing hunter or a wise man would think she had a moorcock in her genealogy. Whether it was truly possible, it's hard to say, as there had been all kinds of things going on at the lusty orgies organised by her inbred ancestors. Just as the princess screwed her face in effort, struggling with a high note, evil Yamassa jumped out of a bush, clinging and clanging his scabbards and blades. He hoisted the princess on his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and took her away, as the princess sang and preluded, noticing nothing. Only once the song was over did the maiden realise that she was tied to a saddle, riding quickly towards Yamassa's castle, situated not far from the King's summer palace.

  “Alas and alack!” wailed the tender Gillerra.

  “What now?” asked the evil Yamassa.

  “Brute, how did you dare abduct me? Me, the favourite of the old King. Do you not think my brothers and my father's soldiers will not come looking for me? Oh, woe is me, will you dishonour me, plucking the flower of my innocence, that, like a modest blossom...”

  “You should be so lucky,” interrupted the evil Yamassa. “I've taken you because I want ransom from your father. Money that is mine by right and reason anyway.”

  “But the money isn't my father's; it came from my mother.”

  “That's what I'm saying. Your mother and I were...”

  Gillerra twitched, stunned. “I know! You're my father!”

  “Gillerra, I'm three years older than you.”

  “And at three years old, you already...”

  “I am not your father, stupid girl. Shut up already.”

  Gillerra sulked in silence and stared darkly at the landscape they passed, only occasionally muttering, “Alas and alack.”

  Once they arrived to Yamassa's castle, the soldiers took over guarding the princess. She kept sighing about how they would dishonour her now, destroying her flower before it had blossomed, but experienced warriors did not buy any of that, but rather put the gentle blossom into the castle dungeon. Yamassa had instructed them to give her nothing but bread and water until he returned from securing their defense from the attack that would certainly follow once the King found out his daughter was taken. The old ruler had some unresolved issues with Yamassa from the time when the evil knight taught the King's wife in the art of oratory.

  Thus, evil Yamassa went to faraway Constantinople, and returned after some three weeks, carrying the relics of St. Lazarus in silver chalices, and bringing along a seer-witch who saw the future and occasionally the Lady in her crystal ball.

  Getting off his horse, Yamassa carefully put down the silver vessels that clanged and flashed the suspicious but ancient glitter of faraway Byzantium.

  “What is that, my lord?” asked the head of the guards, covered in scars from many a hard fight.

  “Relics of St. Lazarus. They will keep us from attack once we inform the King that I'm holding Gillerra. Speaking of which, how is she?”

  “Aside from the fact that she's tried to bribe all the guards by offering her body, she's fine. Occasionally wails and cries. Asks for caviar.”

  “She'll get caviar, if only her dumb father pays. But if he doesn't, I'll take off her head before the eyes of the whole kingdom, and that without her ever knowing the blessings of the flesh or the ecstasy of hot passion.”

  “Master, you are the cruellest man I know,” said the head guard with respect.

  “Thank you,” said the evil Yamassa bashfully.

  Now, when he'd secured the realisation of his plan, Yamassa instructed the guards to take the princess out of the stinky dungeon, wash the bat guano off her, and put her in the high tower in the north-west bulwark of his castle, the one with the view of the King's summer palace. The seer-witch chanted magic formulae that started up the relics of St. Lazarus and, around all of Yamassa's castle, an invisible magic field went up, preventing the entrance to anyone unknown. The inhabitants of the castle, who had already stocked up, carefully closed all the doors and bolted them firmly. Once the preparations for the siege were done, Yamassa took a homing pigeon and sent his “Demand for princess ransom”, as he called the shameful thing. The princess kept crying and bothering the guards until she was given caviar and French champagne.

  When the first of the King's emissaries came to check whether the princess was truly kept at Yamassa's, they saw a gentle girly shadow tottering by the window, quietly, softly, saying “Alas and alack!” between two hiccoughs. The princess' face, somewhat bird-like, showed suffering, and her teeth were covered in little black dots for which the emissaries couldn't figure out the cause. If they could have smelled her, they'd have felt a faint odour of bats, wine and fish.

  “Do you now believe I have the princess?” shouted Yamassa from the ramparts.

  “We do,” said one of the soldiers darkly. “We do, and we'll take down that laughable castle of yours like a house of cards. Then we'll torture you to death, and kill anyone who ever even heard of you. We'll kill even the worms in your gardens, and aphids in your rose-bushes.”

  “Awwww, so mean and dangerous,” mocked Yamassa. “Try it, and you'll see things don't go as easy as you expect. This is how it's going to be: for each new attack, the princess' ransom will go up by 2000 gold pieces and a chest of jewels.”

  “We'll see,” said the soldier darkly, gave the abductor another angry look and then, armour clanging, started on the path that led towards the King's lands. The soldier's mustache shivered in anger, and his walk had the decisive quality one can only see in warriors forged in many a hard fight's blood, melon sellers, and, possible, unemployed shin-men. Possibly.

  Less than half an hour went by before Yamassa's castle was surrounded by the King's soldiers, armed to their not-exactly-numerous teeth with all kinds of sharp and murderous things. The war-bugles sounded, and the soldiers swarmed towards the castle. But...

  When they came close to the bulwarks, they ran into an invisible wall through which their arrows and spears could not pass, but the projectiles of Yamassa's few soldiers, coming from the other side, passed through with no problem. Thus, many a warrior remained lying on the battlefield, his thick blood soaking the bright spring grass. Once the attacked stopped, because the King's soldiers realised they could not harm the abductor nor penetrate his castle, Yamassa climbed the ramparts and said,

  “There, what did I tell you? It just won't work. It would be better for you to go back to the King's castle, and tell the old cuckold that the princess' ransom has just gone up. Any further attack will just cost him more of his wife's money.”

  When the warriors passed the message to the King, the old ruler got so angry that his heart seemed to be just about to give out.

  “Cuckold! Cuckold!!! Cuckold, he says... I'll feed him to the fish in my pond, and then I'll gladly eat the fish myself. The bastard. Wife!!! Of, wife mine!!!”

  “What is it, darling?” asked the Queen entering the presentation hall. Her still beautiful face showed a totally inappropriate, feisty smile. She was somewhat taller than the bulky, gray-haired King, and significantly younger.

  “Why is Yamassa calling me a cuckold, huh? Yes, the same one who taught you rhetorics, the very same who abducted my little girl.”

  “I don't know. He's always been a little crass. You don't really think that I would...”

  “I don't know anything,” sulked the King. “I know perfectly well that you have a soft spot for such murky types. Remember, at the orgies, when we... well, perhaps we should just skip it.”

  The King was embarrassed when he thought of his wife's odd look once when he unthinkingly confided some of his stranger leanings to her. Since that day, the Queen had a different view of melons.

  “Guard!” shouted the King.

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Send me the scribe!”

  “Right away.”

  Once the scribe arrived, the King was already seated on the throne, in the pose of decisive thinker, while the Queen stood by the window, watching the gardeners put silk underwear on pumpkins and shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Write! We, our royal highness Northon GT Endurro, are offering a high price for the head of the hateful Yamassa, who has abducted the gentle fruit of our loins, and imprisoned her in the high tower of his castle. Whoever shall best the rascally scoundrel, the fruit of lust between his mother and a Neapolitan mastiff, shall receive significant riches from my wife's coffers, and shall be awarded the hand of the gentle princess Gillerra in marriage.”

  The scribe wrote this all down, dipping his pen into the juice of oak galls, which he kept in a ram horn, quietly repeating the King's words and squeaking over parchment. The Queen could not take the intolerable sound, so she retreated to her chambers.

  “Make a dozen copies, and send it to chosen heroes. And then we'll see who the banshees will cry for.”

  “... banshees will cry for,” muttered the scribe and cast a glance towards the King. “Is that all, Your Highness?”

  “Idiot!” The King waved a hand and left the hall, angrily muttering to himself. “I can't believe the mistake's of nature I get for subjects,” he told his grandfather's armour which, truth to be told, had seen better days. The armour commented merely by somewhat rusted silence.

  The scribe shrugged, dried the ink with a soft cloth and started for his rooms. At the very door, he yelled at his apprentices, surprised by the fact that the letter was not yet copied and sent to the heroes, although the only copy in existence was still in his hand.

  ***

  Fate declared that, of all the heroes, the first one to receive the latter was prince Vailiant, who had just returned from a strenuous hunt and was desintegrating boar-roast in the company of his bosom buddy, the brave knight Junker's. They ate half-roasted meat, tearing it off with their hands and wiping their greasy fingers on the dresses of tipsy maidens who giggled merrily. Scented wine was poured in abundance, particularly over the heroic breasts of the brave knights. At one point, Vailiant was approached by a page. At the command of his master, who was less than proficient in decyphering the tiny scribbles, the page read the letter out loud.

  “Wow!” said Vailiant. “My friend, there is work for us. Let us go towards that Yamassa's castle before the others arrive, so that we can get the princess' hand and take the considerable treausre.”

  “What if I should kill Yamassa?” asked Junker's.

  “Then you can keep it all. I'm embarrassingly rich already, anyway.”

  “Great.”

  And thus it came to pass that the two strong heroes started out at dawn, while their white armours shone in the morning sun like mountain icebergs. The journey was not particularly long, as Vailiant's lands were, luckily, relatively close to the summer castle of the Endurro royal family.

  After some day and a half of riding, they reached the King's castle, where they were received with all the pomp and glory.

  “Honourable knights,” said the King, “whichever of you should best that no-good Yamassa shall become significantly richer, and get the hand of my favourite daughter to boot.”

  “That's very nice,” said Junker's, “but there are two of us.”

  “We shall see how it will all come out. If you both survive, you'll have to fight for her hand.”

  “All right,” Vailiant winked at Junker's, “we'll arrange it somehow. But let us see where that Yamassa is, so we can test his mettle.”

  And then the King shortly told them everything that could be of use to them considering the environment, before calling one of his scouts to show them the way.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Once they reached Yamassa's castle, Junker's shouted to the soldiers, “Hey, miserable souls, call your dingy master.”

  “Right away,” answered one of the guards and dutifully went to fetch Yamassa.

  As they waited for their foe to appear, they heard a quiet “Alas and alack” from the tower. They looked towards the towar and saw the princess looking at them with her tiny eyes, all swollen and red from crying. She tottered as she walked and anxiously lifted a pale hand towards her forehead, an indication of the dispair that bear-hugged her youthful soul.

  “Have you seen the princess?” asked Vailiant rhetorically. “Not exactly an epitome of beauty.”

  “All lank and very plain,” agreed Junker's. “We'll have to ask the King to throw in a bag with the royal coat of arms embroidered on it.”

  There both of them started giggling like little boys and, just as they were slapping each other's wide shoulders so the hills resounded, Yamassa's tall and slim form appeared on the ramparts.

  “What is it? What do you want?”

  “We're here to free the princess and put an end to your foul deeds.”

  “The two of you?”

  “What's wrong with us? Would you prefer someone else to kill you?”

  As the conversation had become somewhat odd from the very beginning, Yamassa merely waved a hand and left the ramparts, singing a merry song. This so enraged the curageous knights that they immediately hopped into their saddles, grabbed their spears and assaulted the castle shouting their battle-cries. Everything went well until they run into the magic barrier. Then, they both fell of their horses and rolled in the dust with a metallic clang, followed by the soldiers' mocking laughter.

  Confused, they got up and felt the invisible field. It was warm to the touch like a milkmaid's lap, and impenetrable like steel. Vailiant had hit his nose against his horse's head as he fell, and was bleeding profusely.

  “Well, dow he's dode it,” growled the knight through his teeth, holding his nose and lifting his head to stop the bleeding. Junker's helped him by pressing the cold steel of his hunting knife against his friend's nose.

  “Give be a hadkie,” muttered Vailiant looking at his friend.

  Junker's rummaged through his pockets but, after a while, he shrugged and asked, “What's a hankie?”

  “You're right, we're id early biddle ages. Hadkerchiefs are yet to be idvedted,” said Vailiant feeling somewhat strange.

  “Well, how then...”

  “It's stradge for be, too.” The brave knight's blood had already started coagulating on his masterfully eagle-like nose that would have made proud even the royal condor who took Macnco Capaco into the sky. But Peru is far away, so this is pure speculation, and possible deviation.

  The knights tried to attack twice more that day, but with no success. Tired, their vanity wounded, they finally retired to the King's palace for dinner.

  “You see, it's not easy,” said the king looking at the prince's swollen nose. “Like I told you, his castle is protected by the magic coming from the relics of St. Lazarus, cared after by the seer-witch. I'm afraid brute force will not be of much help.”

  “Correct,” said Vailiant. “Which puts us in a somewhat uncomfortable position. Does anyone have a better idea?”

  “Well, if we were to put a spike on top of the tower, and conncted the spike to earth by a wire, we wouldn't have to fear thunder any more. There's a wizard who's done it already,” said the King.

  “That's a good idea indeed, but no help as regards your daughter. At the moment, I can't think of anything.”

  “Why don't we ask Wyrd?” said Junker's.

  “That might work,” nodded Vailiant. The King also thought it sounded bright, even though he had no idea what they were talking about.

  ***

  It was a time when people lived truly unusual lives and, in accordance with this fact, sometimes they boasted unsual names. Thus, Junker's had a brother by the nam of Am Hirsch, because the old nobleman, their father, named his children after his favourite inns. Thus, there was also Wyrd, although that had nothing to do with the aforementioned excentricity of the old hedonist. Even before his accident, Wyrd wasn't exactly your everyday guy, but afterwards, he became a truly unusual person. He had always been a wizard of great power, capable of all sorts of magnificent and inimaginable acts, but it cost him dearly one day. It was his wont to get into a trance and separate his astral body from the earthly clay because, as we all know, the astral body is more powerful in magic. But, there was the rub. Right at the moment when, in his astral body, he was performing a difficult task in a world where everyone's name had two dots over every vowel, and the expected and inevitable twin blue suns threw double shadows on the land, a bunch of ugly thieves came across the wizard's flesh body, robbed it, and cut its throat. Thus, from that time onwards, Wyrd remained permanently in his ectoplasmic astral body, which is occasionally embarrassing since some people are simply afraid of ghosts.

  Thus, Wyrd floated half-way between the real and the uncertain when he felt someone calling him. Quickly, he rushed towards the source of the call and saw the old King, Queen, a court lady and two of his friends, hands joined and eyes closed, invoking his prsence. Only one of Vailiant's hands stopped the chain, wandering through the folds of the Queen's rich silk dress. The prince smiled like a true spoiled brat, while the Queen's blushing face and deep breathing skteched a struggle of warring passions.

  “Here I am,” said Wyrd. “Is there something special or did you just want me to drop by and hang? How's it going, Junker's.”

  “Bro. We need you because we've been hindered in the performance of a heroic act. We've run against some sort of magic, and the relics of St. Lazarus.”

  “Hmm,” Wyrd thoughtfully stared at the ample bottom of the Queen's courtier, who had bent to fix her socks. “And what is the magic protecting?”

  “A gentle princess imprisoned in a high tower.”

  “Well, then we have to do something,” said the wizard gallantly. “We can't leave a damsel in distress.”

  “I wonder...” Suddenly, the eyes of the old ruler twinkled like an old alchemist. “What is the secret of the quadrature of the circle?”

  As he was speaking, the Queen cast an uncertain glance towards Vailiant, playing with a ring with a large ruby. The knight winked discretely, which made the lady blush and quickly turn her eyes towards the king.

  “Of course, it's purely academic,” continued the King, “but still, I wonder, what is the secret of the quadrature of the circle?”

  At that moment, the King's scribe entered the room. “Master, I can help you there,” said the scribe obsequiously. “Measure the length of one wall, and the the other, and then multiply the...”

  “Geeeeet ouuuuut!!!”

  “But...”

  “Out!!! I wasn't asking about the quadrature of the room, but... Ouut!!!”

  Wyrd watched the weird scene with the enjoyment of a true connoisseur. For decades, creation enlivened the walls of his soul like carefully nurtured wine, encouraging him to gather all the unsual situations of his life and turn them into a magnificent saga, loaded with poetry of the strange and the illogical, as well as the entirety of human misery. Moments like these were to the wizard a gift from above.

  Silence fell, the well-known embarrassing situation when no one is willing to speak first.

  “So, what are we going to do?” said Junker's at last.

  “Best you should get to bed, and tomorrow, you, Vailiant and I shall go to Yamassa's castle,” said the wizard.

  “Do you have an idea already?”

  “No, but I'm sure something will come to me once we get there.”

  “All right, so let us go to sleep, and at dawn, we attack.”

  They all had one more chalice of scented wine, and went to their beds. The night was quiet, and everyone was surprised in the morning that they had fallen asleep so quickly. Only Vailiant and the Queen showed dark shadows under their eyes, but they seemed not to mind the lack of sleep. Junker's could have sworn Vailiant's eyes were twinkling in the way he hadn't seen ever since they'd hidden in a haystack as children and watched his sister's youthful nurse change her clothes. The nurse was later struck from all records due to the scandalous affair with a certain acrobat, and later a large hound.

  Wyrd needed no sleep, and smirked in a significant manner, casting occasional glances towards the King. They breakfasted on paté made of nightingale tongues, soup spoons full of caviar and peacock brains, the whole accompanied by thick red wine which the King maintained was good for blood. Thus fortified, they got into saddles and decisively started towards the castle. Wyrd had to make the effort of keeping his ectoplasmic body firm, because, otherwise, he'd have fallen through the horse.

  Once they reached the fortress, Yamassa was already waiting for them, sitting on the battlements and peeling an apple with his dagger. His soldiers were also waiting, their crossbows at the ready.

  “Wow! I see mister Wyrd himself has joined your ranks,” said Yamassa in a mocking tone.

  “Do we know each other?” said Wyrd.

  “No, but I know of you. I must say, despite a certain transparency in your appearance, you look quite ordinary. Much more normal than the two comedians convinced they're knights.”

  Vailiant burned with rage.

  “When I get my hands on you, you'll wish you'd never been born. You'll see, you abducting rascal, who the banshees will cry for. Your castle will go up in flames so high I'll see the smoke from my kingdom.”

  Junker's merely nodded in support and sent a provocative gaze somewhere over Yamassa's left shoulder.

  “That will be, as they say, easier said than done,” answered Yamassa.

  “Well, let us see,” said Wyrd and, getting off his horse, started towards the castle. Once he reached the invisible barrier created by the relics, he could have passed through, but yet, he didn't.

  “Go through,” said Junker's. “and remove the spell. We'll take care of the rest.”

  “I can't. The magic produces ectoplasmic tickling that I can't stand.”

  “Tickling?”

  “Yup. Whoever put this magic up, took measures to prevent the passage of people like me, of, hmm... less than standard structure. I believe it's even protected against demons.”

  “So, what are we going to do now?”

  “We'll wait until nightfall, and then perhaps it will be easier.”

  “Why?”

  “At night, the tickling forces grow significantly weaker. At least I think so.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Thus, our heroes rode to the nearby grove and tucked into the cold roast and wine they'd brought with them. Despite the confidence he felt about the magic, Yamassa thought the knight's laughter was somehow ominous. Spurred by a strange feeling in his stomach, he went to the chambers of the seer-witch.

  “My lord...” said the witch and bowed. She was young, and would have been quite comely were it not for the bear grease mixed with soot that she spread all over her. Yamassa had never asked her why she did that, guessing that the answer would be of no use to him.

  “Look into your crystal ball and see what those three in the grove are doing. I can hear them singing and joking, and I like it not one whit.”

  “Right away.”

  The witch took of the antimacassar of blue silk off her crystal ball and took a long, serious look.

  “So?”

  “My lord, they're sitting on the ground, eating and drinking. That strange, slightly transparent guy is right in the middle of a joke.”

  “Wyrd?”

  “Well, he is a bit weird.”

  “I didn't mean that; his name is Wyrd.”

  “Is it a first or a last name?” wondered the seer-witch.

  “Both.”

  “Like Madonna?”

  “You mean the Lady?”

  “No.”

  “Enough of this silly conversation,” said Yamassa. “Tell me, rather, what are their intentions?”

  The witch muttered the future-presenting spell and looked into her crystal ball again. A moment later, she was on her knees, in religious fervor.

  “What now?” Yamassa was getting more and more nervous.

  “The Lady. I have seen the Lady.”

  “Well, get her off. I need those three.”

  “... Lady...” murmured the witch, paying no more attention to her master.

  He muttered a curse and quickly left the witch's chambers. Then he climbed the ramparts again, staring worriedly towards the grove from which a merry song resounded.

  “Hee, hee, heee,” laughed Wyrd like a hyena. “Do you remember when we went to baptise wine for St. Martin's? When Junker's fell into that big barrel and couldn't get out.”

  “If you please, I lacked for nothing in there,” said the knight merrily. “It's true that, afterwards, I stunk somewhat, but what can one do?”

  “Take a bath, for example?” proposed Vailiant but, as soon as he said it, he became aware how silly he sounded.

  “A bath?” Junker's stared at him, stunned.

  “All right, it was silly, but I've had a few, so... you know.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Wyrd, “here, night has fallen, so now it would be a good time to check whether I can pass through the magic field now. If that should fail, too, I do have another idea that might work.”

  “What idea?”

  “You'll see.”

  When they reached the ramparts, Wyrd tried to pass through the magic field, but he shivered and quickly returned.

  “I can't,” he said. “This is really tough stuff. We'll try something else.”

  The soldiers on the ramparts lit the whole area with torches, and stared at the people down there with interest.

  “What now?”said Vailiant drawing his sword.

  “Nothing. Get ready to fight and pay no attention to what's going on.”

  “Fine.”

  At once, Wyrd sat on the wet grass and started muttering something, quietly and indiscernibly. When he waved a hand, the surrounding area suddenly grew cold, and a few snowflakes fluttered through the air exuding a bluish, metallic, wintery smell. Wyrd got up and approached the place where the magic field began.

  “It's over,” he whispered to the heroes. “The field is gone.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Remember how we mentioned that Junker's had dropped into a barrel?”

  “Yeah, we just talked about it. What's that got to do with the spell?”

  “It doesn't, but it was on St. Martin's day, when must turns into wine. Thus, I created a time dilatation; we are November 11th, St. Martin's day, and Yamassa's chalices contain only wine, no magic. Get at 'em, boys.”

  ***

  Long story short, the mighty knights stormed the castle, killed the soldiers, quartered Yamassa and raped the seer-witch. Afterwards, they even drank the wine from the byzantine chalices. The gentle princess was saved from the high tower, and everything was over in a jiffy. Once they started towards the old King's castle, Wyrd returned time to its proper place. Slowly they passed through the gardens, followed by the crackling of fire in Yamassa's former castle, while the princess thanked them over and over, hungrily measuring the wide shoulders of the knights in white, blood-spattered armours. Wyrd tuned her out, wondering rather how the two knights had managed to set fire to a stone-built castle.

  “It must be the power lines,” he muttered to himself.

  “What did you say?” asked Vailiant.

  “Doesn't matter.” Wyrd shook his head.

  Once they reached the summer palace, their presence was announced by fanfare, and the King appeared, followed by his youthful co-monarch. The King hugged his favourite daughter and gave the heroes a grateful look. With a proud expression, he said,

  “Honourable heroes, noble knights! This is the day when my heart is as filled with joy as when my little girl was first born. The dreadful Yamassa had the gall to abduct my favourite, and got what he deserved, the rascal. Now, tell me, which of you would like my daughter's hand in marriage. Or would you rather fight for it?”

  “Well...” Junker's seemed extremely embarrassed. “I shall let Vailiant have the honour.”

  Vailiant looked at the princess and said, “Perhaps Wyrd should get it? He is the most to thank for our victory.”

  “Guys, guys, no false modesty,” hurried Wyrd. “It was you two who killed all the soldiers and Yamassa.”

  The King was staring at all three of them in amazement.

  “You do not want my daughter's hand in marriage?”

  “Not really,” said Vailiant honestly, and the others nodded. “We'd rather just have the treasure and be on our way.”

  “Fine, fine,” agreed the King, because he had no real liking for any of them, and particularly not for Vailiant. “We'll organise a feast and I'll give you significant riches, just as I promised.”

  Thus they spent the night celebrating. The next day, in the afternoon, the three friends rode towards Vailiant's lands, followed by servants leading mules heavy with treasure. It has been whispered that Junker's used his part of the treasure to open a luxury brothel, which returned his empoverished family to its old glory. Wyrd, who is no longer of this world anyway, said his goodbyes and disappeared somewhere in half-reality.

  xxx

  The princess married only five years later, while the King almost went bankrupt due to a technical error. The King's scribe included the King's instruction to copy the letter and send it to heroes in the letter itself. At least half of the knights understood this to work as an MLM system. Thus, in the days after the fall of evil Yamassa, 17,453 heroes arrived to the old King's castle, and fought each other over the next five years until only one of them remained. And, in the meantime, they all ate and drank their fill, discussing who it was for whom the banshees cried.