Once upon a time, there was a good king and queen who had thirteen sons. There was Richard the Ready, William the Willing, Andrew the Able, Edward the Excused...

Look, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking if I keep spinning a yarn this long, your long johns'll get longer. Trust me, you don't know what I'm sparing you from. Besides, we have to get through this to get to the good stuff. I've been tomatoed for less so bear with me.

There was Tibalt the Timid, Peter the Polite, Samson the Stinker, Bartlett the Blinker, Iggy the Iffy, Maldon the Muller, Bruce, Victor the Valliant and last and certainly least, Robert the Rotten. How rotten was he? He was so rotten barnacles passed. He was so rotten his horse faked a limp. He was so rotten he killed Irving. Poor little guy. Sweet kid, his cousin, but as dumb as a yam. When they were six, Robert made Irving punch his arms through a couple of loaves of bread and said, "Let's play muscles!" Then he marched him down to Mad Gull Cove, tossed a cracker in the air and that was the end of Irving, the white meat anyway. They could never prove it was intentional but Robert came home with his hands up.

Now, the good king died naming Victor his successor. Since none of the other brothers actually wanted the job they applauded the decision. All except for Robert, that is. His blood boiled at his father's slight, fueled by the fire of all consuming jealousy, and quite possibly undiagnosed gout. He vowed to himself that the kingdom would quake for celebrating a pretender to his throne, that Victor would cower and crawl and beg for forgiveness for imagining he could ever be his brother's better. Robert grew even more rotten as the day of the coronation drew near. So rotten he darned his socks and everyone else's. I know, what's with me and underwear? It's just these castles get drafty.

Anyhoo, King Victor's coronation was a joyous celebration for many reasons. He and his queen, Betina, along with his brothers and their partners, had all recently been blessed with baby daughters; the twelve princesses of the court. (You can whistle at the next chapter if you're so inclined.) And while everyone was toasting to futures and stuffing their bellies, you know who was scheming in the shadows waiting for his chance at revenge.

He watched the old nurse put the last child to sleep in the nursery before she left to huddle the Royal Dairy Cows for a motivational speech. Then he crept sinisterly up to the bassinets.

What to do with so many heirs? Taking his brothers on one by one would be time consuming, and why wait when he could kill twelve birds with one stone? It wasn't personal. It was business.

He grabbed an oil lamp from the nursery wall and used it to set the room's canopy on fire, but one of the king's guards saw him trying to escape and alerted the others. Robert was seized and the children were spared a horrible fate in the nick of time.

They called for Robert's skull to be crushed. They called for his neck in a barbed noose. And that was just the women. The entire kingdom demanded he be burned and buried, but as enraged as Victor was, he couldn't bring himself to speak the words. Instead, he banished his brother to the dungeons, never to be seen or spoken of again. It was a good plan at the time.

His cell was dark and dank. It would take forever to figure out where that leak was coming from. His straw bed had someone else's groove in it. He had only a candle to cast a little light and keep him warm, yet the flame seemed cold, and sometimes looked like there were a pair of eyes peering out from it. After many days of watching the flame flicker with all the sighing, an unnatural thing happened. The candle seemed to stretch and grow while the eyes darting in the flame became real. A real pair of beady yellow eyes on a real head of the partially transformed figure of a man - Ivan the Magician.

No character in the kingdom could summon the gooseflesh like Ivan, the wicked advisor who'd once had the ear of Robert's grandfather before trying to kill him and steal his queen. He escaped an angry mob by transforming himself into a candle, intending for it to burn out and set him free when the coast was clear. But the White Witch sussed him out, and imprisoned him with his own trick by casting a spell that the candle would never melt. He'd been locked in that dungeon for sixty years, waiting for the right stooge to come along. Now his forgotten, fiery head blazed before Robert, smiling like a lunatic welcoming a lightning storm.

"What dark magic is this?" Robert sputtered, and I mean sputtered. A little spit flew out and the candle sizzled.

"It's nothing really," Ivan said with his tongue of flame. "A trick of the light. I can tone it down if it hurts Majesty's eyes?"

"Majesty? Do you mock me?" Robert sneered.

"Not at all. I commend your efforts. Your indefatigable spirit."

"Victor the pretender sits upon my throne."

"Tut, tut. A cowardly act. They fear your power. Your potential. They fear the people will respect your might. How you would rule absolutely."

"Absolutely!"

"With an iron fist."

"I could crush them all!"

"Blow me out."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Blow out my flame and allow me to help you."

With a huff of doubt, the fire ceased to be, and in the rising smoke the impossibly thin body regained its fleshy form. Ivan's face was young, but his hands were gnarled like the roots of a blighted stump. He clasped them slowly as his eyes floated upward in thought. "How would you do it?"

"Do what?" Robert asked. What a dope.

"Crush your enemies, Sire."

"I would raise an army the likes of which have never been seen. The others wouldn't stand a chance without Victor. Cut off the head and the rest will fall."

"Mmm, but not from in here. Whenever you're ready, Your Majesty."

"Ready for what?"

"Why to leave of course."

Ivan stretched out his knotty knuckled finger and a branch of blue jagged light split the cell lock.

"Amazing!" Robert glared at the magician in astonishment. He probably couldn't believe his luck. "To whom do I owe my freedom?"

"Ivan, at your service, Highness. Former advisor to the king."

"The traitor, you mean?"

"Silly titles. And what good are they when there is only one that matters? One I will help you take. We could learn a lot from each other, you know. There are a number of ways to defeat your brother."

"I'll run him to the ground!"

"We'll try it your way first, then."

So with Ivan's help, Robert amassed an army of rebels and war was declared. Fearful for the safety of the princesses, they were sent away to live in an impenetrable fortress, built by the White Witch, guarded by a dragon, and under the custody of Sir Frederic the Frugal. (For those of you who borrowed this book, that means cheap.)

He was so concerned with the cost of raising them that he quickly forgot which girl belonged to which of the royal couples. He changed servants so often for less demanding ones that they weren't any help either.

For eighteen years Robert tried to beat the king's army, but we licked them fair and square every time. At last, after a final battle, the enemy was defeated. All but twelve knights surrendered, and they along with Robert and the magician Ivan disappeared into the mountains. As Victor's men celebrated, there were still a few unaware the war had ended.

So let me start over.

Once upon a time there were two soldiers, a handsome one and a boring one.

Okay, okay. They were both handsome and amusing in their own ways. I know some would say this story's not about them, or us, or, well, me really, but when they're almost eaten by a dragon, thrown off a cliff, and sunburned they can have an opinion. And so you don't get the idea that I'm one of those biased, unreliable narrators, I'll try to keep it bard-like in the descript-y bits.

So, let's see... once upon a time, two not-long acquainted soldiers, Danny and Francis, were cutting through a forest and came out into a clearing where the sun lit a green pelt of fertile ground beneath them. (See? I could've just said "grass".) The gentle breeze ruffling the leaves was quite the contrast to the cannon fire of the battlegrounds from which they had recently been dispatched. Not to mention the yelling and screaming and all that. All this calm away from calamity fixed a smile on the face of one, and a scowl on the face of the other, and not just because the handsome one was riding the horse.

"What's the matter with you, Francis?" asked Danny, swaying unbothered on top of old Barley.

"Quiet," said Francis. He was sulking.

A gust of wind seemed to scream through the trees and Barley looked back at Danny as if to say 'Quit digging your knees in my ribs.'

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Francis grumbled.

"I dunno. It kind of sounded like I do when I see a spider."

"You're the biggest chicken I ever met."

"You haven't seen the spiders back home. They're this big" Danny said, holding his arms way out. "Through the right glass, anyway. Besides, I hear there's a witch in these woods and she might not take so kindly to us stomping all over her grass."

"The White Witch," Francis said with a side-eye, as if his companion should've known.

"Geez, is a little diversity too much to ask?"

"Her title refers to her magic."

"Oh."

"But they do say she's sort of pale."

"See?"

"As in transparent."

"None of this helps," Danny shuddered.

"You've got nothing to whinge about."

"Is this attitude 'cause I'm on the horse? I'm injured! If you'd stayed in battle a little longer you could have been wounded too. You should thank me."

"Thank you? Thank you?? First of all, you were not injured in battle. You got stabbed in the toe stealing carrots. If the king's messenger didn't need an escort then I'd still be fighting on the frontlines for my country where I belong."

"Excuse me? I was getting carrots for rations. Did I ask that farmer to come out of nowhere and pitchfork me?"

Francis eyed Danny suspiciously. "Well, did you?"

"She didn't give me a chance! I was attacked in the line of duty. Just for the slander, Barley's going to get your carrot."

Barley paused, waiting.

"In a minute, Barley. Trot on."

They marched along quietly for a bit, but Francis' insinuation that Danny would've got himself hurt on purpose chafed more than the saddle.

"I'll have you know that I may be a chicken, but I'm no coward. I'm no deserter."

Francis let out a huge sigh. "Look, I'm sorry, Danny. It's just that last fight...we almost had them on the run. You know how long we've waited for this. They need all the men they can back there. United we stand."

Danny was not without sympathy. Francis was one of those noble, heroic types who lived for the cause - incorruptible and less prone to spooking. It was his whole identity.

"Look," Danny said, "the king needs his mail, right?"

"Yes."

"And I'm not responsible or brave enough to deliver it on my own, right?"

"True."

"Well then you being assigned to escort me is an important job, and as soon as we finish it, we'll get you back to the war. You'll get you good and bruised in no time."

"I guess you're right," Francis said. He paused, noting the sun's position in the sky and double-checking their direction. "Hey, Danny? What's the message for the king anyway?"

"Oh, no. King's ears only."

"But what if something happens to you? What if you die of infection before we get there?"

"Do you think I'll lose my foot?" he gulped.

"You might get salmonella."

"What's that??"

"Something chickens get," he said. But at least he laughed a little.