Finally.

It had taken a long time.

Amsterdam had always been safe. So had Münster. So had Bologna, his spiritual home. It was the places between that had hurt him.

However he travelled, it was always the same. They had read the lies. Without the vulgate bibles he had printed himself, they would not have been able to read. But instead of searching for truth in the word of the Lord, however low they had to go to find it, searching even when, in desperation, screaming at each other, they thought they would go deaf before they brought the other to *their* truth. Instead of that, they blamed him. They all knew him. He cared only for the cities. But not their cities. Everyone had a city. Between Amsterdam and Münster, there were many cities. Even at Nijmegen, the last beacon for the most worthless and desperate witches, they had seen the shaft of light that was the book.

But they didn't. They read a little. With difficulty. Then easy lies, printed in flat, ugly text — not the beautiful Gothic writing that he had learned from Gutenberg himself how to print — were brought to them by agents of the bishops. Now it was easy. The bishops' truth shone in their eyes. They should have known better. Jan Mattys was just a stupid baker telling them they could understand God, rather than letting the bishops beat knowledge of God into them. So they accepted their fate. They took their pikes — even the women learned to lift them too. Jan Mattys knew his end was nigh.


Somehow, though, it had all come right.

Every time it happened, he cried. It was Japan. Nihon. Nippon. It knew. Somehow. It had a friend. They had printing presses too. There was an empire near them too. The empire pretended it couldn't see. And Japan — or Nihon, or whatever — pretended it was just a child (as it always did when children were afraid, and only their favourite colourful moving picture could help them sleep) and said, "Please, Busan. Please, little Karen girl, from Busan, tell me that story from the Holland-land — if that is its real name ... The one where brave Jan Mattys says: It's okay. I've been to the east. They taught me well. We will wear yellow rags. They will say that yellow is the colour of cowardice. We know the truth. It is courage itself. I was at Sekigahara. It is not a myth. Pikes are useless. But, they always win in the end. We have friends. They will bring their horses. They will bring their muskets. The bishops will attack, as they always do, like the Romans did, always a pig's head. But we will be ready. Like Hannibal — who also studied long in the east — we will pull back, until like the snake from the underworld, we strike."


Jan Mattys awoke from his sleep. He was in the fortress. The time had come. They had been ready. But his men had trembled. And it had cost them. There was a stone place. It was a trap. It was always a trap. But they had sought shelter instead of fighting for safety. Instead of fighting for freedom.

It was time. He went to his men. He said the last words of hope. In Nihon, for the crime of his yellow hair, Tidus had died for them. But Jan Mattys feared nothing. He flipped a pretty silver thaler (in the knowledge that both sides would be heads) and said those holy words: "Listen to my story … This may be our last chance."

They did not mock. They knew. Shit had got real. Jan Mattys would meet his fate. A martyr's fate. The weapons of the enemy. The bishops' would mutilate his body totally, keeping him alive with all the dark ways of their vile Nijmegen witch allies. Until finally, the axe fell.


He surprised them. Surprise sanity. Jan Mattys's secret weapon.

"Guys, seriously? A man in my position? A renaissance man? A master-at-arms? A mere baker who lives and dies (like a cheap Picard noir holodeck fantasy) on the streets of Amsterdam (and Münster — not to mention fabled Marengor)? Give up? Remember the sacred truths of every armchair general. We have the high ground. The attacker needs a 10–1 advantage to win in a siege. There's always a relief force. Redder shows up just in time. (Er … That last one might have been a spoiler. Let's not go all Touhou round here, amirite?)

…

"Er, sorry. Some autobot on the line offering to give me an 'emirate', whatever that is, if I just bugged out … Tempting …"

"Anyway, point is, this is *troll* country. Watch me fly like Mezir winning an on-line vampire elimination LARP! I'm going to the top of the stairs! Someone open the gate!"

His men were stupid. But loyal. And educated in CD-era East Asian propaganda. They knew what this meant. Morale was now Superb.


He stood there. High above the world. High above his former life. This was the moment. After this, he could be a man again. A man of great taste. Who had the Cook skill — very much in demand, given that only Halflings and Tileans knew how to get that in WFRP. Who thought he might just have become the provisional King of Belgium — whatever that was. This would be the last time. A few words and he would be free of the horrors ever repeating in his mind, in which he accepted the judgement of Wikipedia (whatever that was): "He was killed, dismembered and his head stuck on a pike. Later that evening, his genitals were nailed to the city door."

He went for it.

They would never believe it.

Postal services? Mongols on ponies making silk road money out of letters from Amsterdam to Busan? No way. No chronicler would even put pen to paper on it. And the historical tapestry weavers were all witches.

It didn't matter. It was the winning move. He knew his Zhuge Liang. And *this* dragon had never, never, never slept. Sleep was death if you were as brave as Jan Mattys.

He didn't need to shout. The acoustics were perfect. The gate was creaking open. They were helpless. Or were they? He spoke the immortal words?

"Empty Castle tactic, suckers! Come and get it. Bet you can't even play Dynasty Tactics. You ignorant loser westerner LB wannabe losers. I'm playing for Tsao Tsao and Sima Yi would never pull this one out! Guo Jia never died! Believe it! Naruto is a conjunction!"


That last one did it. They could never deal with those taunts. In their puny minds, watching a sub, instead of a dub, was the worst heresy.

The bishops lost it. They went in. They didn't even bring any pikes at all. They just swung their censers, as if the nasty fumes from them would make them some kind of obscure Skaven special forces.


Long story short. Bishops is dumb. Jan and friends won. There was a big party. He finally got that nice blonde piece. In Amsterdam and Münster and, these days, all parts between, bishops never ever again dared show their ugly, apostolically inbred faces outside their priest-holes.

Life was good. Pastries were better.

Only one question remained. A man in his position? A contender for the title of King of Belgium? Where should his residence be?

Not Brussels. It was too international.

Gent? Surely not Gent. Who would dare? That would imply serious things, which might imply further issues for the developing relationship between the white ghost (Starbreeze) and the rainbow parrot (Curro). Spain would fall apart instantaneously — as it always did under the slightest pressure (those Leon pop-ups in London were a dead give-away).

Oh well. He could do what he liked. They'd named a beer after him. As they had for the last Leicester martyr, the blessed Vardy. It was enough. He and his imaginary friends would win in the end. They were FUMBBLers. The world would point and laugh. The reply would always be the same:

"Who the hell do you think we are?"

Shout it loud enough, and they would start to accept. Japanese and English? It might as well be the same language. Just ask Haruhi, emirate?