Being a knight is not such an easy job. It is only the city's loafers who think that chivalry is only a beautiful prance on a horse and waving a sword; They don’t even realize how heavy and uncomfortable the armor is, how much it hurts when they hit their butt on the saddle—sorry—on which they sat all day. But that’s why we are knights, so that it would seem to every hillbilly that our life is a complete fairy tale. The Khalinians flew at us like the sultry wind of their homeland. Dark-skinned warriors in fur-lined bekeshes, under which ringed chain mail, turbans wrapped over steel helmets, all had round shields on their left hands, long scimitars in their right hands, some were armed with crossbows. We took off, the horses' hooves splashing the autumn mud. The enemy was dying under the hooves of our horses... We parted ways and managed to exchange a couple more blows before a bolt from a Khalinsky light crossbow pierced my stomach... I blinked and shook my head, driving away the obsession, and now the Khalinian gives way to the beautiful face of a girl of about fifteen -seventeen, mostly covered by the robe of a nun of the Order of St. Cabernicus. “You are an angel of the Lord,” I whispered, barely moving my lips, “that means I’m in heaven.”