Everything in order

Guys!

Everything is still okay!

I think it is time to reveal to you the many plans that swirl beautifully around the bathtub of the inner mind, in space.

Here are the illustrations for Chapter One of Saga Of The European King:

But hold your horses and nail down your hats, fellows, because that's not all! Here is the first of many Kingcasts - mysterious objects that play a recording of a particular chapter in the Saga when moved to do so.

On these words lies the Kingcast for the very first chapter.

And here is a special, crazy preview of what lies ahead in the special, crazy future of Chapter 11.

And on that same vein, here are some freestylin' character studies of all of your favourite SOTEK (As we call it in the office) characters, except if your favourite character is a girl or Cajun. The man behind most of the voices is called Mano Camatsos. He used to be my neighbour.

Click to awaken:

Axe Axewound

General Majesty

Michael

Cutty

Colonel Glowfist

Erik Rage-Eater!

Dr. Tchaikovsky

Father Dominoes

David

- Guest starring my housemate (and friend, I guess), Kasia.

Commander Flightfeather

Ba'al

Terrorthaw

Mechanicus

Old Goat Man

Will Smith

and finally,

The Angel Cowboy

That should keep everyone busy for a little while. Is it the required etiquette to tell everyone that the voice workshops are NSFW? They contain swearing and some outrageous stereotypes. Also, canonicity is questionable!

More story soon. You deserve it!

Hey everyone in the world and you, I think this story is going great. So great that I'm going to stop it for a while to get some drawings and recordings done. That's right. The King and his story are going to be represented in other media than plain old boring text. This will make it easier to tell your friends about the King and to make them understand.

But don't worry, I won't be away for long. Every part of me burns to tell the rest of this story and to answer the questions that may be sprouting in your manymind -
Who is the traitor?
Is there really going to be a Civil War? How awful!
What's Terrorthaw up to in the Ancient Past? No good, I expect.
How's Axe Axewound doing, is he okay?
I miss Sally Minefield! (Not really a question)
Is the King going to get his Super-Chastity back?
When are they going to kill Winter, please?
What's up with Scruff? Is he magic?
When is Ba'al coming back?
What's the Cowboy Angel got planned for the Old Man?

There are probably other questions and I'm going to answer them too. I'll also be filling in the old chapters with the illustrations and recordings I'm making, but I'll tell you when those happen.

Things are about to get awesome and sad.

Astrid Gimmerleck sped away from the abbey and all away at full pelt down towards the beach. She was fit and lithe and good at running. You had to be, really, if you were a Vikinca archeologist. The slow ones get chomped by a ghost or strangled by a mummy in their first week on the job.

But, fast as she was, it seemed to her that it took an age before she arrived at the beach. She darted about the chattering, idle European and United Statesian troops until she found Colonel Glowfist inside one of the many, many hospital tents that had sprung up like mushrooms all around the base of the Tower of Super-Chastity. Europe was the most compassionate place in the world and compassion doesn't just mean looking after your own guys when they fall in battle, but the other fellow's guys as well. Those hospital tents were full to the brim with troops from both the European and United Statesian sides. They were being looked after by scores of European priests, physicians, bards and alchemists, in addition to the United Statesian Medical Corps of shamans and dancers. Those tents were so busy with all the healing going on! Everywhere you looked, potions were being cooked up, Bibles were being read, leeches and brandy were being applied or something smelly was being set on fire to the accompaniment of wailing. All the wounded people were getting better or else dying. Bernadetta Leathervest was in there too, healing up real nice, getting access to the priests of the highest levels, the fattest leeches and the most magical of potions. She was being treated so well, of course, because she was a friend of the King's. This might seem unfair, since most people in Europe considered themselves a friend of the King, but everyone understood how the system worked and they were okay with it.

Because of all the smoke and bustle and noise, you might have thought that the good Colonel would have been hard to find, but Astrid only had to poke her head into a dozen tents or so before she found him. The Colonel is the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd. He is, remember, impossibly fat and even though he'd got his grooming problems more or less under control by that point, the fatness still counted for a lot. Also, he and David were popping out spells like the most fluid of the squits: mostly low level haste spells and resistances to fatigue for the hospital staff, along with a lot of confusion, stun and sleep spells to anaesthetise the patients. This was cool and modern and no one had really thought of it before. When Colonel Glowfist saw Astrid hurry up to him, he smiled and made to welcome her, for he had not seen his fellow Adventure Friend for many hours and there had been a war on and all, and he'd been a bit worried about her. But then he saw how serious and pain-stricken her face was and he had to know what could make a face look like that.
“He's in trouble,” was all she said. Colonel Glowfist knew who she was talking about – the King, of course, and all of the Europeans in that hospital tent knew it too. The noise and the bustle dropped suddenly as they all stopped dancing or praying or getting better and looked at Astrid Gimmerleck, their faces turning just as serious and pain-stricken as hers had been. Quite a few of them died right then, even if they hadn't been very ill. Colonel Glowfist wasted no time and summoned two Awesome Horses, which wasn't such a wise move because then he had to lead the demon horses carefully out of the hospital tent and try not to trample anyone or anything. But that was okay because it gave Roxy Tripfoot and Cajun a chance to find him.
“One of my informants – whose name I shall not reveal – told me there was a King Related Incident (KRI) emerging in this operational sector,” said Cajun. Roxy tried not to roll her eyes at Cajun's lamezoidness because he was an Adventure Friends now and you don't roll your eyes at Adventure Friends. It was one of the worse things you could do.
“Yes, I saw Astrid run in here. What is wrong, Colonel?”
“He's in trouble,” said Colonel Glowfist and then he summoned up a few more Awesome Horses, which they carefully led out of the tent and then they were off!

David had not failed to notice that he had not been included. He stood outside the hospital tent and watched the Adventure Friends rumble off into the distance on their Awesome Horses. He didn't think this was fair. He had his coffee tin and his invisibility cloak and he was getting better at magic all the time. He'd killed at least two United Statesians on the beach during the invasion and he didn't even feel too bad about it (though maybe he would later, in dreams), so he didn't see why he shouldn't be allowed to help his dad out if he was, indeed, in trouble. He switched his cloak to 'on,' conjured up an Awesome Shetland (he couldn't do a whole horse yet) and rode on invisibly after them. Of course, the Awesome Shetland wasn't invisible, but David was doing his best. When he arrived at the abbey he saw some terrible things. Just inside the open front doors, Cutty lay on the ground, babbling not unquietly to himself. David snuck up to to the sword, turned his cloak off and tapped him on the handle.
“- oh no, don't listen to stupid old Cutty, he -never- knows what's going on -”
“Cutty, hey, hello in there?”
“Oh, Prince David, I didn't see you. Thank heavens you're here. Now you're here, you've got to get out of here, I'm not kidding around.” There was a terrifying racket upstairs and David could hear his mother's voice.
“Cutty,” he whispered, “Is my mom up there?”
“You've got to go, David, it's not safe. Your father, the King, His Highness, the Chief – he's done for. There's nothing you can do, now get out of here, please!” But David ignored Cutty, of course, and charged inside. He found Roxy Tripfoot, his beloved, spicy, bride-to-be, lying still and beaten upon the stairs leading up to the maire's bedroom. For a strong female character, she sure was getting knocked around a lot. He wanted to go to her and touch her hair and tell her that she was all right but there were other terrible things that demanded his attention. At the top of the stairs, almost blocking his way, was Colonel Glowfist, gasping on the floor in the midst of a heart attack. David watched helplessly for two long moments as his teacher shook and grabbed at the air, then there was a cacophony of light and screams from the maire's bedroom and within that terrible blaze of noise, David could hear the King moan and his mother shriek. He apologetically hopped over the Colonel's body and ran down the hallway into the bedroom and saw the most terrible thing there was to see. Oranje was electrocuting Cajun, but that wasn't nearly as terrible as the way in which she was doing so. She was shakily suspended in the air by a pyramid of lightening, the apex of which was located just above the womb from which he himself had been formed. His father was joined to his mother at the crotch, his body rose and fell with hers, his eyes were dead and staring as his head lolled back over his shoulders. Inarticulate moans and pants escaped from his lungs with every twitch and shake of Oranje's electric supports. He was entirely naked, as was she. David had never seen the King naked before. No one had. At first he wasn't sure that the poor creature dandling off his mother's waist even was the King, but there was no mistaking that sweet face, that noble beard, that invincible wooden hand. Oranje stopped electrocuting Cajun when she saw David enter the room, which probably saved the United Statesian's life. Her eyes widened to saucers, she squeezed her hips to narrow the lightning-pyramid to a pencil-thin beam, slowly dropped to the floor and then peeled the King off of her body. He folded over onto the ground as she walked slowly over to greet her son.
“David. So nice to see you baby. I'm all finished up here, let's go fetch your sister.” David could not say anything. His mouth was full of horror. His hands were wrapped white-tight around his coffee tin. In the corner of his eye he saw Cajun, burned and weak, crawl over to the King and check his pulse. Oranje smoothly took a few steps closer. There was a crash from behind her as Cajun hurled himself and the King out of the bedroom window. She turned to look behind her, “Oh dear. Doesn't matter. David, what's important is that you're here. What's important is that I love you.” David threw his coffee tin with fortunate accuracy at his mother's head. It struck her a glancing blow on the temple, which surprised her and knocked the lid of the tin off and produced an astonishing, deafening explosion of displaced air, orange light and over a thousand hungry and terrified woodland animals just next to her face. David caught a too-long glimpse of the nonsensical folding of space as the room filled up with every kind of fur, claw, muzzle, wing and tooth and his mother was torn to confetti in the churning inferno of gore that followed the explosion with such shocking speed that it was all over even before he had run away. Later, he could not even remember his flight from the bedroom, the short scream down the hallway and the tumble over Colonel Glowfist's blubbery obstruction. He woke up with his head buried in Roxy Tripfoot's side, at the bottom of the stairs, with Father Dominoes standing over him with all the sympathy in the world vibrating through his eyes.
“My poor boy,” he said, “My poor, poor boy.”
“Is my mom okay?” asked David, hopefully.
“You get some sleep,” said the priest. He hoisted his solid gold Bible up to reading height, deftly flicked to the correct metal page, marked his place with a nimble finger and read aloud the verse that makes young boys go to sleep.

David awoke once again, this time in a comfortable bunk bed inside one of the barracks that surrounded the Tower of Super-Chastity. He was in the bottom bunk. This made him feel a bit childish. The top bunk is where the action is. He stared at the wooden slats of the top bunk and wished himself up there. Wishing made his head hurt. He touched his forehead and discovered a bandage there. He groaned and the groan summoned a face from the edge of the top bunk. The face was that of a plump girl's, quite pink, framed by a glossy bookmark of shock-white hair that dangled almost half the way down to David's bunk.
“You're my little brother,” said the face. “Daddy says I'm allowed downstairs now and my job is that I'm supposed to say when it is you're awake. They say I'm not supposed to play any of my games with you but that's -nonsense.- Oh, Father Dominoes, my little brother's awake now. Are you a eunuch? You look like one. You killed mummy, you know.”
“Princess!” cried Father Dominoes as he waddled over to the bunk beds. His sleeves were rolled up and he was sweating. He'd been praying hard. “You are to leave your brother be. He's a very brave young man. He saved the life of your father and all of his Adventure Friends and the last thing he needs now is you giving him a … ah, hard time. Let him rest!”
“Fine!” pouted Princess Princess and, with a yank of her silver mane, her face disappeared and she went back to cuddling her eunuch. Father Dominoes had not approved of her dragging Eunuchophles from upstairs into the bed with her, but she'd been more than adamant and he'd had a lot on his plate and couldn't really spare the time to argue and the King had insisted very strongly that she'd be there in the makeshift Adventure Hospital with them and, well, she hadn't done anything too weird yet so maybe there wouldn't be a scene.
“David!” came the King's voice, strangely hoarse, from behind a crowd of priests and witches that were all jostling to get their healing spells in. “Clear away, the lot of you! I'm fine, can't you see I'm fine? Let me see my boy!” The crowd reluctantly parted and turned some of its attentions to Colonel Glowfist, who occupied two beds scooted up next to each other just beside the King's. The King climbed out of bed and staggered over to David's bunk. He looked old and frightening. He knelt down and poked his head just a little too close to David's. “You did it, boy. You defeated the worse villain in European history. Even I was not strong enough to best her. She stole my Super-Chastity, you see. She took it and with it, she made herself even more powerful. It's a thing that Lady Draculas do. I should have seen it coming! But I'm glad that it was you that did her in, son. It wouldn't have been right if it had been anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes dad.”
“Good,” said the King. Then he brought his wooden hand up, gripped David's hair a bit too hard and shook the boy's head softly around. “Good,” he repeated. “Your sister is back with us now. She's safe from You-Know-Who and she's been through some tough times, but we'll look after her with all our might, you and I. Do you understand?”
“Yes dad,” said David, grimacing at the hair-pulling. The King took no notice.
“I can't actually look at her just yet – all things in time, all things in their time – so you're going to be the one to look after her, to show her the wonder and splendour of Europe and to protect her from -” he closed his eyes and shuddered, “-predations.” He opened his eyes. They had the old stuff in them. “The two of you are the good part of your mother. I watched it happen, when all the good came out of her. I didn't see it with Princess, but when you came out of that, of that – void, David, I could not bear the sight of it, it did not make sense. It was like watching a fish be gutted, only the offal that spilled was light, pure light, my sweet David – there you were. All the light that was inside of her was you all along. How could there be anything left inside of that … vessel that lay bleeding and spent, useless, there on the sheets? I should have killed her right then, you understand. But of course it was not my right. You. You made it right.” The King let go of David's hair. David squeaked. He wished that he was not crying. He wished that he could allow himself to exhale, or make a sound that was not a squeak. He wished that he could wish without making his head hurt. Father Dominoes appeared and placed a caring hand on the King's shoulder.
“Come now, Your Highness, I think it's time you got some rest.”
“What were you talking about just then, daddy?” chimed Princess Princess, draping silver over David's bunk again.
“Ah!” said the King, shielding his eyes from the sight of his daughter.
“Come now, we've changed your sheets,” said Father Dominoes softly. The King moved uneasily to his feet and was led across the room by some NPCs and put back to bed. Father Dominoes leaned down to David's ear and murmured, “He's really not well. He's not been quite himself since he awoke. She took away such a vital piece of him – I fear he may never be the same. Keep him company while he recovers, it's what he needs, there's a good boy.” He stood up and walked back to the King. “All right, Your Highness – you're going to need lots of rest. Weeks of it. I recommend – no, I insist – no quests, no adventures and no more wars – aha – for at least a little while yet. I'll have to be back to my duties in Hell soon and no doubt the poor Devil will need some looking after, so you won't have me to fuss over you. So, standing orders – no more adventures until you're all better, do I make myself absolutely clear?”
The phone rang. The King looked up, then leapt out of bed and poked about in his robes that lay by the bed. He held the Magic Telephone up to his head and spoke for a short while. The call was from General Majesty, of course. He had good news and bad news. The good news was that the Angel Cowboy had taken the very same United Statesian army which had attacked Normandy that morning, marched them up to the Chillinous Plains and leased the whole outfit, to a man, back to Europe for an exorbitant fee. General Majesty had inspected the troops and found them to be very impressive. Also, Fort Majesty was being rebuilt by a mysterious Engineering Corps of demons, also hired out to them by one Mr. A. Cowboy. They were reportedly doing a speedy and splendid job.
The bad news was all that, well, the reason -why- General Majesty had to resort to mercenaries to fill the garrisons was because there were no fighting fit Europeans to be found anywhere. They'd looked so hard and found nothing. He wasn't supposed to tell the King this, but Mechanicus was in the kitchen, so he thought now was the opportunity, but they'd discovered where all the able-bodied men of Europe had gone and what had happened in the years that separated the time he lived in and the time the King lived in – There had been … there was going to be a European Civil War. It would start quite shortly, relative to the time in which the King was living.

The King hung up and slumped down into his fresh sheets. He covered his eyes with his hand.
“More adventures coming, everyone!” he screamed.

End Of Chapter 93

1. He took care to not smudge the King's drying signature as he handed the copy of the contract over to Will Smith, who still had a petulant expression on his face and his hands clasped over his ears in case the King started up again. As he watched Will Smith march back into the temporary office prefab, something caught his eye. He looked around and saw a little wolf cub staring at him from the White Roost's lawn. His CIA-trained extrasenses immediately told him that the wolf cub was special, that it had a name and it would almost certainly be important later on. When he looked harder he could even see the shimmer and spatter of a very powerful spell that surrounded the tiny thing. He winked at it and then ducked behind a pile of cement bags and timber. He rolled up his own copy of the contract the King had just signed into a spindle and tucked it into his coat pocket. There was a heckuva lot of work to do and time was of the essence. With an old slave song pushing through the smile on his lips, he saddled up his trusty llama, Jake, and rode like the woolly wind to the harbour.

2. He was seasick all the way to Europe and so was Jake. He'd never been at ease on the water and, for all his talents and experience points, had never before been on a long sea voyage. His discomfort was made all the worse by Shaman Sidewinder's presence on board their flagcanoe. Oh, the shaman was a straight-up, personable fella in conversation and had proven his mettle and integrity to him as much of any of Willy's Business Partners had, but it was the way that the shaman squeezed time around the front and back of their megacanoe fleet that twisted his guts.

“The Spirits are being exquisitely generous,” intoned Shaman Sidewinder at the end of their first week at sea. It was just about all he'd said up until then. He'd heard it being intoned at him from just over his shoulder while he'd been talking with one of the captains and the shock had rattled him so much that he hadn't gotten seasick for the whole rest of the day. Not many people could get the drop on him, but Shaman Sidewinder was a special kind of guy. “The Spirits are ecstatic, overjoyed that the dragon has been humbled and are speculating abundantly about their meeting with the gods of this new world.”
Startled as he was, he had time enough during the shaman's second intonation to regain his composure. “W- Well, I aim to have a sit-down with a few of them and help pave the way there, and I'm sure that the ladies and gentlemen below decks will say their prayers every night in their new homes, sure as sugar.” He tapped his foot against the deck to indicate the two thousand, five hundred slaves that were stacked up in tiny, effluence-soaked crevices in the darkness below. A shorter, chrono-squeezed journey would mean a lower mortality rate and that was something that everyone could enjoy.

To the casual observer (probably a sea-monster or a dugong in this instance,) the vast, two hundred and twenty five-strong fleet of megacanoes whizzed across the waves at a dizzying speed. Our observer would be further delighted by the dazzling chromatic spray that lashed across the wooden edges of the flagcanoe and bathed the whole fleet in light whenever a pocket of vomit would fall over the side and burn up in the tremendous temporal torque that fizzed around the wake.

3. The sickly, the weak and the just plain dead were rolled up into a pile and burned on one big slave-pyre as soon as they landed on European soil. It was pale, sandy soil that lay near the little town of Ostend, but it counted. The living slaves were divvied up into their prearranged parades, oiled up nice and shiny, chained together, made to carry foam beams between them that looked like really heavy wood at a distance, marched the forty miles or so to Brussels and then, in a genius masterstroke from Shaman Sidewinder, glamoured up with some magic-heavy blasts of smoke so that their pallid and starved bodies would appear powerful and healthy at the inspection that was planned. A state messenger boy was found and sent in to Laeken Palace and the meeting of The Big Important Council Of Europe that was taking place. After waiting a little longer than he liked, he was met by the queerest-looking monster-fella he'd seen in a goodly while. Birds had come to the United States at the same time they'd arrived everywhere else and folks there were still getting used to them. Converse to Europe, where everyone knew for damn certain that Terrorthaw had techno-magicked the birds in from one of the weirder hellmensions, in the United States the birds were just a pretty, chirrupy mystery, with no stigma attached to them. Personally, he'd always thought that the birds brightened the place up and he hadn't heard of anyone getting pecked who hadn't deserved it. So he greeted Commander Flightfeather as warmly and as graciously as he greeted anyone. There was no point in holding back the benefit of the doubt on account of a fellow looking like a bird. He led Flightfeather out to the gates and showed off the assembled slaves. He'd never seen a bird look so pleased. Soon he was sitting in one of the back rooms of the Politics Forum, hashing over the specifics of the trade agreement - and the End User Licence Agreement for the slaves – with Flightfeather and his two boorish lieutenants, Timothy Clashradish and Jacob Hillmounter.

“Impossible,” said Timothy.
“Can't be done,” said Jacob.
“There must be some trick.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“How do we know that you've even met our beloved King?”
“We were the last to see him,”
“We spent quality time with the King.”
For the third time in the course of that meeting, he flicked his eyes over to the contract the King had signed, that now lay on the table before them all. They took up his gaze, but Timothy and Jacob didn't even bother to pretend to read it this time.
“The date is all wrong,” said Timothy.
“It could mean anything,” said Jacob. The date on the contract referred to the Vikinca calender, which was quite a bit different to the European calender they were familiar with.
“You could have met him -years- ago.”
“We were the last to see him,”
“Which makes us closer to him than anyone.”
He regarded the pair closely as he smacked his lips and made a noise that in a lesser man might have been called a grunt. He looked levelly at Commander Flightfeather and said, in a low, clear voice, “Apologies for interrupting the flow of this discussion, fellas, but it's been a long trip and well, right now I've got no choice but to ask one of you to direct me to the restroom.” Then, without pause, he added, “You'll show me where it is, won't you, Commander?”

Outside in the hallway, Commander Flightfeather obligingly tried to point out the way to the commode, but he brushed off the gesture and grasped the good Commander's shoulder, pulled him close and said, “Do those two goons in there ruffle your feathers as bad as mine? They strike a man as being the most … unneighbourly pair of bloatmouths under the sun – does that ring true with you, Commander or am I just sore on account of that long sea voyage I mentioned earlier?” Commander Flightfeather's face turned ashen as the memories of the previous week came flooding back – when Timothy had decided to replace all of the lightbulbs in the Palace with those new energy-saving bulbs. While clumsily removing all the regular bulbs - which had worked just fine, thank you – Timothy had torn the plastic fittings right from the socket so that you couldn't get another bulb in no matter how you tried and the Palace was all dark and they had to take all of the free-standing mood lights out of the Grand Hall and put them in the affected rooms and there were extension cables trailing everywhere and oh my god.
“Everybody likes them but me. Is that fair?” whispered Commander Flightfeather.
“Now, some fella named The King told me in writing that I was to deal with Commander Flightfeather – the appointed custodian of Europe, not the jackass brothers in there. I'm beginning to get a mite regretful that I didn't drop off my little 'gesture of goodwill,' standing outside there, on the Ire Lords' doorstep on the way over and saved us all a lot of inconvenient trouble. Now,” and here he put up his hand, closed his eyes and stuck his lip out, “That's not a threat, just an illustration of the kind of mood those two can put a man in.” He exhaled long and slow through his nostrils. Commander Flightfeather looked from side to side, decided to stick with what he knew and broke into a hug. He accepted the hug gladly and contributed many flat-palmed back-slaps. When the hug melted away, he produced the contract that bore the King's signature. Commander Flightfeather was sure that it had been left back on the table. “Sign here, make Europe richer than it's ever been, then walk back in there and tell them the way things work around here.” He handed it over and Commander Flightfeather signed it on his back. “Oh, and while you're at it, sign this too,” he added, producing the End User Licence Agreement from his coat. Commander Flightfeather was sure that it had been left back on the table.

4. The megacanoes were being filled with European trade goods as fast as they could unload the rest of the slaves. He watched as caravan after caravan of sheep, grain, wool, wine, tin, jewels from the realm of the Rock Kingdom, horses, cotton, dye and spice from Islamaland, magical trinkets from the Royal Vaults, sacred branches, action figures, dehydrated ice-cream, tulips, skins, furs, silver, matches, seeds, sports equipment and the most amusing Bibles of the day were all paraded in front of them on their way to the canoes. It would take days for it all to arrive and be catalogued, sorted and stowed, just about the right length of time it would take for Shaman Sidewinder to open up a doorway to the Europan Land Of The Spirits in his makeshift sweatlodge. He would go in and check on the shaman every few hours and usually all he saw in there was a lot of smoke. He didn't have a big part to play in the loading of the megacanoes so he killed time by pacing up and down and hiking through the honestly quite disappointing landscapes around Brussels until a check-up on the shaman revealed no smoke at all in the sweatlodge, but rather a dimensional portal to a molten cavern of brimstone, which was a fairly surprising thing to see.
“Didn't know it would be so quick,” he muttered.
“The Spirits of this place are effete and languid,” intoned the shaman without standing or opening his eyes. They show no diligence in keeping safe their secret recesses.”
“Is it safe for me to trespass there?” he asked.
“It is but a display,” sneered the shaman.

He bid farewell to the shaman and entered. He found the interior of the dimension to be quite balmy and humid, but not nearly as fierce as it looked. Almost immediately after he had taken survey of his surroundings was he beset by piles of the dead. They touched him and called out to him. They all wanted to know one thing:
“Do you know the King?”
“The King?” he said gingerly, pushing them back so they wouldn't crowd him so much. “About yay high, big scraggly beard, voice like the Mississippi River? Sure, I know him.”
“Tell us! Tell us everything!” screamed the crowd.
“Whoa now, keep it civil, keep it down, what business do you good departed folk have with hearing about him? I mean, he's a straight-up customer but -”
“You have to tell us!”
“We have to know everything!”
“We have to love him!”
“We want to love him!”
“If we love him we can leave!”
“That so?” he said. “Same apply to everyone here?”
“Yes!” screamed the crowd, in its way. He smiled. His smile warmed even the spectral hearts of the damned.
“Cut you a deal – You take me to the highest authority in this place, let me jaw with him a while, then -”
“Then?!” shrieked the crowd.
“Then I'll spill my guts to the lot of you.”

“I have to say,” he did say, leaning against the giant water cooler in the Devil's office, “This isn't what I was expecting.” The journey through Hell had taken over a week. He'd met all kinds of dead people and had heard more stories than he was sure his head could hold. He had a pretty solid of idea of what angle he'd be working on this pitch.
“What were you expecting?” asked the Devil.
“Sir, forgive my naivety, but I'm not from around here -”
“I know where you're from, United Statesian,” said the Devil.
“Well then surely you know what I'm talking about. Don't mind me asking, but where are all the other Spirits? By that, I mean gods.”
“This is Europe. It works very differently here. The Kings rule the Heavens and I am indentured to them, while the former gods serve as my demons. Some still roam Europe above, but they are diminished and usually of little concern. They add flavour and adventure to the world and when they become a nuisance they are dealt with.”
“By you? You seem like a capable guy in a tussle, am I right in saying that?”
“No, not by me,” said the Devil heavily. “My domain is the dead.”
“And I hear that you're looking to make yourself redundant.”
“It is the talk of every street corner and hang-out in Hell, yes.”
“How'd you like some assistance with that?” The Devil paused.
“We have teams of missionaries that tour the planes of Hell, spreading the news of the King and releasing souls wherever they meet them.”
“Yeah, I met those fellas. Good people, good people. Can spin a yarn better than most anyone, but I'm talking about tackling the problem at the surface level. I'm talking about making sure that not a soul gets here in the first place.” The Devil tilted back in the huge swivel chair while locking his hands together behind his horned head. The chair rolled backwards and collided gently with the drywall, causing the empty coffee cups of the windowsill to chink. “Do go on,” said the Devil.
He clambered gracefully up onto the chair opposite the Devil and scaled the desk. He stood there beside the Devil's calculator and looked him right in the eye. This was his favourite part.
“We've got a storyweaver or two on our team, yes we have. I know fellas back at home who could have a Thunderbird and a host of Wendigos bawling their eyes out on the floor with a simple knock-knock joke if the critters were around to hear it. All they'd need to captivate the folks above would be their voice, a fire playing 'cross their face and the right story – most important part. Now I would put good money on the notion that our mutual friend, the King, leaves enough of the right kinds of story in his wake to keep us all in the business of telling them from now till the hereafter.”
“And how will your storytellers be of any use to me? The people of the United States do not come and stay with me when their lives are over with.”
“Haven't you heard? The good people I'm representin' and the Kingdom of Europe have just entered into a lucrative and long-standing trade pact. The megacanoes are getting loaded up with fine European goods as we sit here yakkin'. Why, I can picture it now in my mind's eye – clear as day – megacanoes and sailboats, riding low over the emerald waves, heavy with precious cargo but still with more than enough room for a yarn-weaver or two to come and go as they please, once we've trained them up to satisfaction.” The Devil smiled once again then straightened up and said,
“And what would you ask in return for this arrangement?”
“What would I want for hastening the Devil's ascent to Heaven? Well, stands to reason that the price of such a thing would have to be high indeed, wouldn't it?” He reached into his overcoat and produced the contracts he'd prepared on the journey through Hell. “But I'm in a generous mood, sir. All I'm asking for is for this to be an exclusive contract 'tween just us, and for sweetheart rates on the hiring out of your demons on long or short-term contracts for security and labour. Also – and you're gonna love this,” he chuckled, “How about I take a few of them souls off your hands?”

When he emerged from the Devil's office, with freshly signed contracts in either hand, he was met by the throngs of the dead who had led him there. He found a little out-of-the-way ledge, sat them down and told him everything he knew about the King. When the glowing had stopped and he was left alone on the ledge, he found his own way out.

5. Half of the megacanoes were on their way back to the United States and the other half – empty, save for the heaps and heaps of Vikinca gold they'd brought with them and the skeleton crews they carried, set sail to the rendezvous point on the coast of Normandy under the guidance and protection of Shaman Sidewinder. He was on his own on this leg of the journey. At least he would be if Jake wasn't with him. But that was for the best. He had one more errand to run before the invasion and it needed to be done quietly.

Somewhere along the road to Normandy, his way became blocked by a soup of goats that had seemed to come out of nowhere and would simply not move from his path. The road was framed on both sides by steep ditches that looked like they would hurt Jake if he tried to get around them. The goats had picked on hell of a spot to be obtrusive. He sighed and looked around for the goatherd. Finding none, he scanned the herd itself, dismounted Jake, waded into the soup and tapped a likely goat on the shoulder.
“Excuse me friend, but you kindly move your little critters here off the road? I don't know what you'd call them, but I need them out of the way. The hurry I'm in is a fierce one.” The goat he'd tapped literally jumped right out of its skin and proceeded to stand there amongst the other goats, listening to his request while looking exactly like a shrivelled, highly embarrassed old man. The old man did not respond. “Oh don't get sore. I can spot a skinwalker at a hundred paces. Where'd you pick up a trick like that anyway? Was under the impression that it hadn't occurred to you Europeans.”
“I cannot let you pass. I have something to tell you.” muttered the old man, slipping back into his goatskin, but still retaining the shape of a man.
“And what would that be?” he said, helping the old man back into his goatskin coat.
“I must tell you about the consequences of your actions. They will be nothing less than the destruction of Europe! The blood!” he piped.
“Now now, I think you've got it all scrambled up there, grandpa. I'm aiming to save Europe, not the opposite. The way my intelligence puts it, your boys don't stand a 'coon's chance in a cougar factory against the forces coming for them. That is - “ at this point, he tapped a cigarette out of his case and lit it from a tinderbox, “-unless your friend and mine, the King, can pull off something tremendous in the very final hour.” He took a long, hard drag of Vitality. “And I don't doubt that he could. But I gave him my word that I'd help out, and that's more important to me than anything you could say to me.” He stood there and smoked a while in goat-filled silence. Presently, he looked up at the old man, who was tugging at his fingers. “Tell me, grandpa, have you met a King? Seems to me that he'd be the man to speak to on the matters of Europe and destruction and such.”
“Not directly,” said the old man after some finger-tugging. “But he is in my dreams every night. I try to warn his friends of what is going to happen. I told his General, I told the gypsy woman.”
“Did they listen?”
“No.” said the old man, blankly.
“And you can't talk to the King because you can't look at him,” he said carefully. “Because there's too much to look at. Too much destiny.”
“Are you a wizard?” said the old man.
“I guess so. I trained as a shaman – that's what he call a 'wizard' where I came from, though the terms aren't exactly interchangeable. I know the basics, but I ain't got the gift.” He finished his cigarette, spat, then got back on his llama. “Got plenty of friends who do, though. Fella I came here with – I don't expect to see power the likes of his in this world or the next. Just a little while back, he used a hide tent, some smoke and some weeds he found – punched a hole right through the world, took me to see that big composite Spirit you got looking after your dead folk.” You could almost hear the old man's eyes widening.
“The Devil?”
“That's the old boy. Me and him had quite a pow-wow, let me tell you. C'mon Jake.” He rode the llama on a few steps. The goats stepped aside without a fuss. Then he stopped and turned to look back at the old man. “Hey,” he said, “How'd you like them to believe you?”
“Who?” croaked the old man, lost among the goats.
“The King's friends. The King. Hell, everybody.”
“It would mean everything. It would save my beautiful Europe.” Jake trotted back to the old man.
“Seems to me that you're jumping the gun, so to speak, with all the doom and calamity and have you. Stands to reason no one's gonna listen to you if you come out swinging all like that.”
“But – that's what I see... chains of events that -”
“Yeah, yeah, I sympathise, I do. But there's a done way of building up to it. Here -” he handed a small box to the old man, who examined it carefully. “It's a Magic Telephone. I've got the other half of it. When it's on, I can use it to jaw at you no matter where I may be. Now I'm going to pass my half along to my powerful friends I mentioned – they might see some things, little things perhaps – that you might necessarily not see. Once you've passed on enough of the little things to the King's friends, they'll be ready for the big stuff.”
“The Traitor.” said the old man.
“Exactly,” he said, then made his goodbyes.

6. Deep below the cathedral of La Havre, he brought Jake before the Big Rocks of that region of the subterranean Rock Kingdom.
“Try it,” he said, offering his towards the oblivious llama. “You'll find it's just as good as a horse, if not better.” The Big Rock of La Havre rumbled off his mossy crag, heaved up its silicate strength and smacked Jake right in the skull. Jake fell to his knees and managed one faint bleat before another blow silenced the poor llama forever.
“Softer. More satisfying.” grated the Big Rock in his metamorphic voice, nodding to him approvingly. He looked away from Jake's still body. He'd seen much worse, but all the same he was glad it had been quick. He forced his face into Pitch Mode and drove the deal home.
“My people can provide twice as many llamas as the Europeans offer horses. And that's an ongoing deal – whenever they splash out some more, we'll double their figure, every time, for the same load of jewels and ore that you give to them. And, for the long term, we'll bring you enough maps and demonic diggers from Hell itself to pave the way for you to come by the United States, set up shop by us. I look forward to a long and fruitful friendship between our two peoples.” He winked a produced a contract from his coat. The Big Rock, with paws still bloody from the insides of Jake's head, plucked it from his hand and then scrawled that friendship into being.

7. He'd emerged from the Rock Kingdom a little later than he'd have liked, and that mistake was compounded by the fact that he longer had a mount to ride. He estimated that he didn't have the time to travel to the Abbaye-aux-Dames on foot, so he chartered a little sailboat and was sick all the way to mouth of the Orne. When he arrived, the fracas had already begun. He'd hoped to have been able to avoid as much bloodshed as possible but it looked like things had become very bloody indeed. He tried to ignore the terrible waste and steered his little sailboat around and met the Shaman Sidewinder and the gold-filled megacanoes at the rendezvous, an uncomfortably close distance from the battle on the shores. The megacanoes had been nibbled slightly be demonds, but the shaman had kept the falling Rock People at bay with his own mysterious methods and, thankfully, all of the gold and most of the crew remained safe. He'd only just made his hellos and how-are-you's to the typically unresponsive Sidewinder when they all heard the King's voice.
“It'll be over in one hour, my people! Till that promised time, waste not one more breath, spill not one more drop of sweat on these curs, rest instead within the walls of the Tower! We can totally relax there”
He smiled at the shaman, who had never once smiled in all his adult life and wasn't about to begin now, and said,”Reckon we should do what the man says.”

In just under forty-five minutes, the megacanoe crews had loaded as much gold as they could onto the Recruitment Barges and he himself had ducked through the chaos and confusion of the battle and made it to the front gate of the Tower of Super-Chastity. He jogged up the steps, where he was in full view of the incoming United Statesians, shook the King by the hand and after the King had told everyone to quiet down, he said his piece.
“Fine evening to you all, it's a pleasure to meet some fellow United Statesians out here on this here foreign beach. Tell me, Your Highness,” he said, turning to the King, “Can't you make it just a touch less cold?”
“I'm working on it,” said the King. The United Statesian warriors around the walls and the main gate paused nervously and then a laugh rippled through them. It died quickly, but there was encouragement there. He licked his lips and pressed on.
“Bet you are, Your Highness. Bet you are. Now folks, I know you came here looking for a fight and I respect that. I've been in a ruckus or two in my time and I know how invigoratin' they can be – sure has been a long time since you guys went out and really mixed it up, hasn't it?” There were some shouts of agreement from the crowd. “Yeah, I know. Sittin' around, waiting for the old dragon to start some beef with somebody sure can frustrating. I mean, the rumbling's where it's at, am I right? That's what you signed up for, to protect our great nation by bringing the fight, and this one is real overdue.” The crowd was cheering in parts. They were warming up, it was nearly time for the pitch. “Well, it just struck me that I have been the rudest of customers and have not yet introduced myself to you good folk – hope you'll find it in your hearts to forgive me, I was just taken aback by how well you fellas have been doing against these Europe boys that I must have forgotten the manners my mother taught me – I'm the Angel Cowboy, gentlemen, and I've come all this way – I nipped at your heels all across the ocean, yes I did – on behalf of the Smith Dynasty (Ah yes, you've heard of that outfit) to ask you a question. Now I know that sounds crazy, but this is a real important question to you and me both. -The- most question if you don't mind me saying so, but I think you'll agree. You sir,” he pointed to a blood-stained, bare-chested warrior in the front row of the crowd. “I'll ask the question to you, you speak for everyone. Now, here it is: How much do you get paid?”
“Three dollars twenty five a week.” the warrior said the warrior.
“Three dollars twenty five a week!” he shouted back emphatically. “You came all that way, you fought through who knows how many European boys and you made it right here to their central command tower for three dollars twenty five a week? I'm sorry son, it's not my intention to make fun, I apologise for my tone, but something aint right here. You know your average Senator gets paid five times that much, and to do what? Sit around all day and tell you fellas how you should be doing -your- job protecting -them?- Something aint right, I tell you.” He appeared to have a new thought. He turned back to the warrior he had addressed. “You get paid leave on top of that?”
“Leave is only half-pay,” he said, sneering at the comical levels of injustice that were active in that statement.
“Half pay? I knew you guys were brave but that's something else, that's what it is. It's a miracle you fellas aren't all half-starved out there – matter of fact, you all look beefier than a ton of bison, each one of you. Wish I could be carved like you guys!” He slapped his belly at this point and thousands of people laughed. “So I guess you get by, but I'll bet your families could do with a little more sent back home, am I right? I bet you'd like to treat them with one heck of a Soyal this year, right? Spend some time with em, tell em all the stories you've worked so hard to pile up? Can't do that so good on three dollars twenty five with half-pay leave, not when you're scraping to keep them fed on last year's Maize harvest.” The crowd was cheering with him now. He rose his hand to quiet them. “Say,” he said. “Ever thought about providing your time and the inestimable worth of your service to someone else – now, I know what you're thinking, there's a thought that jumped up in your minds then like you stepped on a rattlesnake – I'm not talking about treason here. I'm not suggesting that you good patriots defect to some foreign power and bow to someone like this fella here,” he pointed at the King, who looked like he wanted to say something but then decided not to. “I'm a Smith Dynasty man, a Texan man, about as United Statesian as smoking, Maize and wild syphilis, and I would not do one thing to hurt it. Not one thing. In fact, I want to help it – by giving her brave warriors who fight and win and defend her every day with every inch of their might and who will never falter, never fail and never lose – I'm going to offer all of you, every last one, the respect and pay and action that you deserve. Three dollars twenty five a week? How about thirty five dollars a week? How about fully paid leave? How about shorter tours of duty, more time with your family, the chance to serve your country better by being dropped right where the action is, all for ten times what you're getting now?” The crowd was wild. “That's what I'm offering, folks. Come work for the Smiths and we'll look after you while you look after your country. Fifty dollars – that's right, fifty dollars of gold, right in your hand, when you sign up. There's space for everyone, just mosey on down to the beach and the Recruitment Barges will – he said a few things more, but the sound of his voice was drowned out by the thrill of the crowd as it surged towards the beach and the waiting barges. Those who weren't convinced by his offer were soon left standing scattered at the walls and were soon killed by the Europeans. The Angel Cowboy took off his hat, mopped his sweat-drenched brow and looked over at the King. “One invasion averted, Your Highness, looks like your daughter's safe and sound.” The King nodded. He didn't know how the Angel Cowboy knew about Princess Princess but right then he wouldn't have been surprised if the United Statesian had brought his father back to life right there at the foot of the Tower and then hired him as a consultant.
“I must check up on her!” he said suddenly and then was gone.

8. He'd calmed the King down and he'd run up the stairs but he was nearly exhausted by the time he'd reached Princess Princess' room at the top of the Tower of Super-Chastity. He had not slept since he'd entered the Rock Kingdom and the glue that had bound the usual day's reserve of strength to his soul had dissolved when he'd watched thousands upon thousands of the United States' finest warriors line up to sign the contracts and get their fifty dollars. His assignment in Europe was over and some deep set, administrative part of him was adamant that it was time to sleep and then hopefully he'd wake up back at home. All that changed when he reached the top step and the open door and he saw the princess, curled up into a ball with her many skirts wrapped tight around her ample frame, crying her dear little eyes out. He moved softly towards her, crouched down and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, which she'd managed somehow to make damp. “Hey there, Princess,” he whispered. “I'll leave if I'm disturbing you. Your daddy sent me up to talk to you,” at that, Princess Princess yanked her face, all mud and aubergine, up to look a this stranger. It was the first man she'd seen apart from her father since she'd hit puberty.
“Where did daddy go?” she said, quite clearly. Then – surrounded in sobs - came the words, “Why did he run away from me?” Her head flopped down onto the floor again. He carefully brought his other hand to her other shoulder and slowly put her the right way up. She sniffled but cooperated.
“There. There, there you go. Now I can see you while we talk.”
“What did he say to you? Did he say why he went?” she mewled.
“Princess, hush now on this notion of him meaning to hurt you. The King's not like that – you know that better than I do. What he is... he's an emotional man and he's had a day today like no other. Seems to me that he was just surprised to see what a beautiful young woman you've become. You're growing up so fast, you'd be surprised yourself if you saw how much you've changed in the last little while.” She sniffed and nodded. He reached into his pocket and brought out a golden wheel no larger than his thumb. He pressed it into her hand. “Now here, try one of these. It'll make you feel a whole lot better.” She looked puzzled. “You can eat it. Take that there wrapper off and then -” he made a 'gobble' motion with his hands and mouth. She unwrapped the gold foil and gave the little brown button an experimental sniff. Her pupils dilated and her mouth flooded with saliva. She gobbled it up exactly as he'd shown her. She moved it all around her mouth and let it melt under her body heat. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her whole head likewise pivoted back on her neck while sounds reverberated from deep within her throat and her chest flushed to a most becoming shade of pink.

“You sure took to that. Doesn't surprise me, most folk do. It's called chocolate. My friends the Vikinc-” he was interrupted by a primal scream and a wild-eyed lunge from Princess Princess towards his personage. He swiftly brought his hat in between his chest and the red-faced girl then reversed backwards into a standing position. “No no, I'm sorry Princess, but I'm not altogether comfortable with where this situation is headed,” he said, bowing his head to avoid eye contact. Princess Princess flopped back onto her royal booty, panted heavily through her nose, rolled her tongue furiously around the inside of her mouth to absorb the last few particles of flavour to be found there, while glaring up at the Angel Cowboy disapprovingly. “I apologise – I don't mean for my actions to be a slight on fine looks or high breeding, Princess, let me assure you on that.” He swallowed, “I had a wife -” he paused for some time, thinking of the right words to say, then, said simply, “She passed away.” Princess Princess crawled over to him and threw herself at his legs and hugged them with animal strength. He put his hat back on. After a long time, a small, muffled plea rose up from his shins,
“Can I have another chocolate?”
“I'm all out,” he said, shrugging elaborately.
“All out!?” clucked the Princess. She was not used to the concept of exhaustible supplies.
“That was the last one,” he said. She dropped her head, straightened up and lay face-down on the floor with her legs kicking up and down in the air.
“No nono no no no!” she wailed. “You must get me more of them, you must!” The Angel Cowboy crouched down again and touched her hair.
“Aw hell, I'd love to, sweetheart, but all the other chocolates are far away over the ocean in the United States. That's the place I call home.”
“Bring them to me!” said the Princess in a voice like iron lightning.
“I'm sorry Princess, but I just can't -” he started, “Well, not unless you add a shipment of chocolate to the Formal Trade Agreement I signed with your daddy not long ago.” He produced a contract from his coat. “Here, sign this and I promise I'll bring you all the chocolate you could ever want.” He offered her a pen and she marked the pages he showed her with her signature and a smear or two of tear-diluted make-up. He hugged her goodbye, kissed her lightly on the hair and made his way down to the base of the Tower. The King was nowhere to be found. The view outside was an absolute mess. He started out towards the Recruitment Barges to see if he could make himself useful. He hated to stand still.

9. It was the first time he'd seen them all together since that day on the beach in Normandy. Oh sure, he'd seen a lot of them when he'd dropped by to check up on their training and he'd yakked it up with enough of them on the journey back to the United States and on the way to the Chillinous Plains, in the time he didn't spend vomiting, but it stirred him tremendously to see them all before him again, their numbers swelled by the demons he'd hand-picked from Hell's impressive rosters of labourers, craft-gods and tinkerers. He said a good many words to them, how he was proud of them that they'd made it this far, that they were the best chance their country had at keeping the world safe, that soon they'd be taking part in what would be the most important campaign in their lives and possibly the lives of everyone. Then he told them to stay put. He didn't want to spook the clients. He trudged forth through the frozen mud until he came to the ruins he'd hoped to find and two men in finery sitting in a ditch. He smiled and doffed his hat at the general and the engineer and said, “Hiya folks. Friends call me the Angel Cowboy. I was just passing on down the road – thought maybe you'd like a little helping hand with your construction project I see here.”

Mechanicus and General Majesty accepted his offer in no time at all.

End Of Chapter 92

Colonel Glowfist, David (w/Scruff) and Cajun did not storm Oranje's quarters like the King, Bernadetta Leathervest and Roxy Tripfoot did. Their job was to hang back and prevent an entire megacanoe-load of United Statesian warriors from interfering with the assassination party going on below decks. They also had to make sure that David was kept safe and ignorant of the fact that his mother was about to be murdered by his father, his future wife and a determined lesbian. He was currently hiding under one of Cajun's invisibility cloaks with Scruff tucked in his elbow and a coffee tin clutched in his little hands. The King had told him that if he was in real trouble and there was nothing left that he could do, he should throw that coffee tin as hard as he could at whatever the trouble was and then get away very quickly. He wished he still had his Chinese belt but even so he wasn't scared. He had trusted his teacher, Colonel Glowfist, with his life so many times on their adventures in the United States that it felt totally natural by this point, and Uncle Cajun had kept him adequately entertained for hours and hours with his tricks whilst they were all stowing away so he knew that he could greet any occasion with some clever solution or deft manoeuvre. He did, in fact, have a trick set up for this very occasion.

Cajun and Colonel Glowfist were dressed in the black feathers, white war paint, sunglasses and sleek coyote skins of the CIA. They stood on either side of the stairway that descended to Orange's quarters and refused to answers anyone's questions about the dead guards or the gang who had just rushed below decks into the boss' lunch meeting. When pressed, Cajun would flash his CIA medicine stick. United Statesian had bee trained to expect the CIA to show up at any time to block entrances and they had to respect that. If they kept asking questions or gathered together into groups of more than four or raised their voices, Colonel Glowfist would thump his staff, which had a lots of dreamcatchers hanging off it to make it look more authentically United Statesian, against the wooden deck and shook out a flashy, yet mild, European spell that the warriors of Oranje's armada wouldn't have seen before. United Statesians had been trained to expect the CIA to have magical powers that they could not understand. This worked for a while.

“You. Ugly bitch. Let's go.” said Bernadetta, at the same moment that the King tore off his wig and scooped the face-paint off with his wooden fingers.
“I was here among you the whole time!” he shouted, but the moment had passed and several henchmen had already started throwing punches and bolas at Bernadetta, to no effect. The King tried to repeat himself but Oranje somersaulted towards Bernadetta before he could say more than two words and her scythe met Cutty, who would normally have said something pithy at that point, were he able. The King sighed so that everyone could hear and then rocket-punched a megacanoe captain away from Roxy, who was impressively dancing up some prayers to her chaotic gypsy god to try and get him to buff up the assassination party's speed and defence scores. When the King's fist came back he walked over to the dazed captain and punched him so hard in the head that he permanently lost all hearing in his right ear. I say 'permanently,' but he drowned about twenty minutes later so whatever. Next up was a mid-ranking battlechief who the King grabbed by his long, beaded hard, spun him around and then punched him in the back of his head until his neck felt like a bag of broken biscuits. Easy. The King actually yawned as he threw the former battlechief into an advancing field general. As he kicked his first opponent, the deaf captain, in the ribs to make sure he didn't get up, he looked over to the -real- fight going on on top of the table in the middle of the room. As he watched, Bernadetta grabbed Oranje's scythe in mid-swing and pulled her into a savage kick to the chest. Roxy was singing a few healing chants because Oranje had already managed to slash Bernadetta nine times and had spilled an acre of blood, but Bernadetta was looking no worse for wear. She had so many hit points now that she could laugh off nine hits, even from a boss like Oranje. He sighed again as Bernadetta slashed and sliced and hacked his ex-wife with his own sword. It was so unsatisfying. There wasn't a chance in hell that Bernadetta wouldn't slay her. What an undramatic end. He considered leaving Oranje's attendant shamans alone so they could continue healing her and keep the fight going for longer but then he supposed it wouldn't even really help that much and grumpily shattered the sternum of one of them with a close range rocket-punch and used his body to batter the other two into unconsciousness. Without their buffs and area effects, there was even less stopping him from smashing the other megacanoe captains and battlechiefs into nothing. He even used Ba'al's scythe to do it, and he wasn't even all that good with Ba'al's scythe. After that, all he had to do was wait. He looked around at all the minions he had destroyed – lying there and squirming around in bloody puddles of each other. It was a good result, he supposed. He was hardly scratched and no one had even got close to Roxy, while Bernadetta was glowing white-hot with all the nifty spells and resistances and holy armours that Roxy had heaped upon her. The King walked to the door and checked outside. Colonel Glowfist and Cajun were fighting a horde or two of United Statesian warriors because panic had finally overcome their natural wariness and respect towards the CIA. That was something, at least. He jogged up the stairs and started punching people to death but it was clear from the start that the two of them already had the matter in hand. The addition of the King to their fighting power just freaked the United Statesians out so much that they turned tail and abandoned ship. The King watched the United Statesians jump overboard, briefly pondered the spectacle of the falling Rock People breaking the other megacanoes in the armada to splinters, then turned to Colonel Glowfist and shrugged theatrically. Just as he did that, a Rock Person fell from the sky, straight through Oranje's quarters and hit the sea bed. The flagcanoe lurched and the King stopped shrugging at Colonel Glowfist and flew down the stairs back into Oranje's punctured quarters.

Oranje was gone, predictably, and Roxy Tripfoot was struggling to get a dazed Bernadetta back onto her feet. The King hoisted the battle-lesbian up onto his shoulders and then he and Roxy got back onto the deck, leaving the battered and/or dead officers, shamans and captains to their fate (drowning). Once David had been found and fitted with an emergency float-bladder, they abandoned ship in the traditional way and plunged into the churning Pacific. What was churning down there in that Pacific was quite alarming. The United Statesian invasion force had been decapitated all right, but nobody had told it that. The United Statesians didn't conduct warfare the way Europeans did. Warfare in Europe was basically an arrangement for a dramatic backdrop so that the most senior officers of each side (and their friends) could meet each other and have it out in melee combat. The winner of that fight would declare his or her or their victory and the opposing army would simply pack up and go home. The United Statesians had never heard of this grand and noble tradition. They had this crazy system where the most senior officers didn't do any fighting at all and the main attack force was divided up into co-operating 'squadrons,' each with their own unit leader who often wasn't even a hero or the friend of someone important. These squadrons, once they'd received their specific orders, would go out and accomplish their particular objectives without having to be within earshot of the coolest guy on the battlefield. Their orders were all different too, not just 'kill the leader.'And if, somewhere along the way, someone messed up or a squadron got wiped out then the squadron leaders would communicate and coordinate by messenger prairie dogs, coloured flags and flares or even hand signals so they could make a slight modification to the plan. The whole philosophy was that if you take away an opposing army's ability to fight, it didn't matter who was in charge or what his powers were because they would have conclusively lost even if not a single punch had been landed on them. This was unfair and stupid.

Commander Flightfeather's strategy had been to devote his first line of defence to sinking as many megacanoes as possible, assuming it would be a matter of slaughtering whoever washed up on the shore. He had drafted the entire population of the Rock People town that lay beneath Normandy to be hurled at the armada by Terrorthaw's fearsome old techno-paults that the Commander had had dragged all the way from the King's awesome Royal Vaults in Brussels. He'd convinced the Rock People that the threat to their society was so enormous that the entire town would do well to sacrifice itself upon the techo-paults and, while they did set aside a few healthy breeding pairs to flee to nearby Rock People towns and let them know what the situation was, they agreed, and so there was a hail of rock the likes of which the world had never seen before that fell upon the approaching armada, with the exception of Oranje's flagcanoe, which had been pointed out to them by Astrid Gimmerleck. Gadfly and Formation's Bird Corps helped tremendously with the spotting and targeting while Flightfeather's trump card, the Devil Himself, waded into the ocean up to his chest and merrily uppercutted megacanoe after megacanoe while his swarms of demons picked them apart plank by plank.

But still the United Statesians landed on the beaches of Normandy - not in their big, vulnerable megacanoes but in smaller, more manoeuvrable regular canoes, each carrying a single squadron of warriors. And they landed in their thousands. Oranje had anticipated the use of the techno-paults and even the involvement of the Devil and as far as she was concerned the megacanoes were no longer needed after they had they had brought the United Statesians as close to the coast as possible. After she had stormed the Tower of Super-Chastity and rescued Princess Princess, the plan was to marshal whatever forces remained, take the harbour at Mulberry and set sail for darkest Ireland, where the Ire Lords were expecting her and the good news she'd deliver of Europe being dealt a crippling blow. As it was, Commander Flightfeather wasn't -too- worried when canoe after canoe after canoe full of highly organised United Statesian warriors drifted in on the high tide under the full moon, brandished their Smith Dynasty brand automatic spearbows and assumed 'sweep' formation. There were like a gazillion European troops – well, most of them were from the Kingdom Of Sharing – waiting for them on the beach alongside some of the mightiest heroes Europe had to offer and, besides, the King had a plan. He spread his wings and drew his sword, which shone in moonlight. Beside him, Jacob and Timothy did the same. They didn't agree on much, but they agreed on this:
“Kill them!” they called, as one.

“Who is there on the shore, blessed child of the Biggest Rock? Who will we fight alongside in battle?” said the King to the Rock Person who had, quite by accident, sank Oranje's flagcanoe. They were both wading to shore but they had a while to wade because the tide was so high. The King was still dragging Bernadetta by her armpits while trying to keep a close eye on David w/ Scruff and had to constantly dodge the United Statesian canoes that kept nudging past him. Rock People aren't the most forthcoming folk at the best of times, and trying to get a field intelligence report out of one under those conditions was just impossible.
“Many people. You know what these things are like.” shrugged the Rock Person.
“Okay, did you spot anyone important – someone with a name?” tried the King.
“Oh, I'm bad with names.”
“Fine.” said the King after some thought. “Was there a gentleman with the wings and hands of a bird?”
“Aw, I hate birds. I'd wish they'd all go away. Silly little things.” plodded the Rock Person. The King gave up.
He checked again to see if David was still there but also still invisible (difficult,) did a quick headcount of his Adventure Friends and told Colonel Glowfist to summon up as many Awesome Horses as he could muster. He was done wading. It was time to cut down foreigners by the dozen. The Angel Cowboy would show up when he showed up. There was some seriously glorious war to be had until then. He helped Bernadetta up onto her still-hot Awesome Horses, pulled Cutty out of her scabbard, jumped across to his own horse, shook Cutty until he could speak again (“It was horrible, Chief!” he said) and then let out a scream so pure and so cool that the water around the hooves of his Awesome Horse was blown away into a neat crater. He set his horse to 'gallop,' and so did the others. Immediately, the United Statesians in their regular canoes, who had been ignoring them up until then, took notice of these crazy white folk (plus a CIA guy) on their burning demon horses and tried to maybe do something about it. Those who got in the way had their skulls cleaved by Cutty, or were cut to ribbons by Roxy Tripfoot's iron hula-hoop thing or got explodoed by Colonel Glowfist, or be forced to deal with a Level One blaze or bolt spell from David's little fingertips or their chest torn out courtesy of Cyclops' Bane and Bernadetta Leathervest - who perked up a bit once things got exciting again. The Adventure Friends were on the warpath, guys. You could not stop them even if you were uncool and really wanted to.

Things weren't looking so exciting for Europe on the shore. The United Statesians were better trained and better equipped than the vast majority of the European forces and the European heroes were having a hard time picking up the slack. Countering the heroes themselves were the Unites Statesian Paramilitary Specialist Operatives who were dispersed throughout the squadrons so as to add to overall mission effectiveness. While Fights-Like-Elephant-Seal from the 23rd Charlie squadron distracted the European powerhouse, Auroch Jones, with a ground-shaking fistfight, the operative known as Joseph Smith v0.032BETA was able to use his lasers to knock out European guard towers and archery positions, allowing the 109th Kappa squadron to escort the Prairie Predatrix on her assignment to capture a European techno-pault or two and use them to splatter the aviaries that provided rest and ammunition for the Bird Corps of spotters and small artillery and later against the troops stationed around the Tower of Super-Chastity itself. The techno-pault's aim was steered true by the spectral form of Shaman Cottonmouth of the 8th Epsilon squadron, which was gliding high above the field of combat, doing a fair amount of coordination between the squadrons. The Bandit Kids fought to their last Kid to protect their foster father, Enrique The Catheart, from an ambush from the 3rd Theta squadron, the 19th Delta squadron and the Protean rage and sparking tomahawks of the Specialist Operative, Crazier Horse. When poor Enrique fell, with a curse clinging to his lips, fell beneath those bloody hooves, there was no one to swoop in and out of the curtains of confusion and protect the back of Bürgermeister Z, whose stalwart overseeing of the construction, good operation and repair of Europe's barracks, field hospitals and all important guard towers was brought to a murderous end by the lightning fast pom-poms of Wendigogo Girl. When Auroch Jones finally succumbed to Fights-Like-Elephant-Seal's tusks and the cruel automatic spear wounds of a thousand since-vanquished braves, the United Statesian beachhead rose at the spot where he fell and the sweeping squadrons (the 212th, the 14th Delta and the 25th through to 39th Alpha,) pushed the European defenders right up against the jagged rocks that cradled the Tower of Super-Chastity. Commander Flightfeather tried to fly high and order a fall-back to the Tower's first line of fortifications, but the sky that day was occupied and the brave Commander was overcome with dread and suffering and could not so much as let out a croak, never mind a rallying call. Little did he know that Shaman Cottonmouth was poisoning his mind with dark Coyote magic while the 91st Bravo squadron, from high up on a glassy rock, directed the 55th squadron, which contained the assassin known as 'The Texas Boomerang,' towards Flightfeather's position. The Texas Boomerang cracked his whip as his squadron slid through the splattering chaos on the beach. His whip was a rattlesnake. He smiled as he thought of the horrific mess he'd make of the bird-monster. Each of his teeth was carved into the shape of a skull. It would take a miracle to save Commander Flightfeather from the blood and terror that was coming his way. It would take the King.

Meanwhile, back in the ocean, the few remaining megacanoes, now free from the rain of Rock People thanks to the Prairie Predatrix and her squadron, trained their spear cannons on the Devil, fired all at once and blasted him into the bedraggled collection of tricksters, child-snatchers and forest-spirits from which he was forged. Their bonds unmade, the scattered demons screamed as they dissolved in the harsh moonlight. The King glanced over his shoulder when he heard the Devil's many, many death shrieks, and the Battle Tears he shed made his Awesome Horse run so fast that it almost broke the speed of sound, but it could not break the speed of sadness. He fixed his eyes on the Tower and his face on the 'grim' setting. It was all down to him now.

He 'hyahed' his Awesome Horse to jump just as that old sound barrier fell away and a sonic boom spat from its hooves. Oh, how that Awesome Horse jumped. He jumped clear through the first line of sweeper squadrons, scattering them like ninepins, cut off the back of Shaman Cottonmouth's head without really even meaning to, bounced his horse right off the back of some poor sap in the 26th Phi squadron, sailed majestically through the air for a hundred brilliant seconds onto to come down again and bounced off the heads of the 91st Bravo squadron atop their rocky perch, screamed all the way down to the ground as he landed -splat- upon the Texas Boomerang, killing him nearly instantly. The King had cleared a kilometre in what was technically a single jump. He was so cool. He raised Cutty, who was making a 'haaauh' cheering-crowd noise and he looked back over his shoulder at his Adventure Friends, far back in the distance. Colonel Glowfist and Bernadetta Leathervest were doing a stellar job of mopping up the confusion and fear that his bouncing had made. Cajun was skinwalking around as a scarier-than-anything Sasquatch monster, happily destroying everything in sight with his Awesome Horse, which he was using as a bat. And everyone was well protected under Roxy Tripfoot's prayers and charms. They were going to be just fine. The King spoke and everyone could hear him.
“It'll be over in one hour, my people! Till that promised time, waste not one more breath, spill not one more drop of sweat on these curs, rest instead within the walls of the Tower! We can totally relax there!” he triumphed. Everyone stopped and looked at him while he did so.
“The King is back!” yelled Cutty, just in case people hadn't caught on or thought that maybe he was a clone. Soon all the Europeans on the battlefield had yelled it also, at least twice.

The King was just guessing when he had said that there would only be one more hour of fighting but it turned out he was exaggerating. In less than forty five minutes, just about as long as it took for him to herd the armies of Europe into the capacious and high-standing walls that protected the Tower of Super-Chastity, the Angel Cowboy pushed his way politely through the invading army fighting at the perimeter, jogged up to the Tower gate, waved his arms and cleared his throat to get everyone's attention and then he fixed everything. The King took the opportunity to slip inside the Tower and check up on his daughter, whom he had not seen since she had first become hot and needed to be locked up in the first place. Soon he was running out, screaming, into the Tower grounds, which were by then quite empty. The Europeans had been let out to mingle and chat with the United Statesians and had generally dispersed to the beach, where dawn was just about to happen and things were getting pretty. So the Angel Cowboy had no trouble in spotting the King and running up to him so he could hug him until he calmed down. If the troops had seen the King upset and crying, it might have freaked them out. Nobody wanted that. And so the Angel Cowboy released the King and ran up the stairs of the Tower to pay his own visit on Princess Priness and the King was left, dazed but calm, to wander the emptying beaches of Normandy. European troops kept running up to him and reminding him that they had sent him homemade cards on every one of his birthdays. United Statesian warriors also wanted to shake his hand and invite him to smoke with them and to sign their medicine sticks. He'd been very impressive out there. The King indulged them, of course, but his eyes remained cold and confused and his voice hardly rose above a whisper. Before long, he strode off towards solitude and followed the path to Seine-Inférieure. He went inside. All he wanted to do was sleep. Cutty asked him what was up so he dropped Cutty right by the door, then absent-mindedly began to drop most of his gear as he trudged around looking for a bed. He wondered if he'd even be able to sleep in a bed any more. He was back in Europe but Europe felt hollow and different and lost. He supposed that there would be a big party in his honour and everyone would want him to be happy but how could he be when he knew that Winter was still out there somewhere? When he knew that he had failed on his quest. When he knew that he had broken the Law Of Europe out there. The very foundations of Europe were cracked, he could feel it on the undersides of his feet.

Then he looked up and saw a few things that were surprising to see. He was surprised to see that he'd wandered into the maire's chambers. The maire himself had been evacuated with the other civilians and his bed was left still made and empty, but not quite, for the other thing that surprised the King was the sight of Oranje sitting on the edge of that bed, covered in blood, crying into a towel that she held tight to her face. His first instinct at hearing her sobs was to drop his hand to his waist and draw Cutty, but then he realised he had left Cutty at the bottom of the stairs. He could hear a faint, “Chief? Chief?” coming from outside. His second instinct was to take that same hand and brush it against the back of her neck, to comfort her and to put his love inside of her body. She turned into his caress, squeezed the tears out of her eyes, took his hand in hers and led him close. As she turned, the towel fell off her lap and onto the floor, where it crumbled to dust. She'd picked up that little trick from the Dracula King. They kissed and then they kissed deep. The King rested his hand against the side of Oranje's wet face and then they kissed so deep that you could see their teeth. She pulled him down onto the bed and their levels of embrace were as 100%. Oranje's hands began to grab at places the King hadn't ever been grabbed at before, except during wrestling matches where it was okay. That was when Astrid Gimmerleck - who'd been standing invisible in the room the whole time, spying on Oranje at first but then too shocked to do anything when the King came in and just started making out with her – decided that things were getting way out of hand and ran from the room and, at the very moment where Astrid reached the door, Oranje's wicked hands ventured way down South and actually touched the King's ding-a-ling. There was a bright flash of light and Astrid felt heat and tremendous pressure on her back as she dived out the door, rolled into the hallway and followed the trail of the King's stuff all the way out the front door.

End of Chapter 91