Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4)

by Cassandra Gannon

  He’d always believed in God, which was so much harder than not believing. When you’d seen what Galahad had seen and done what Galahad had done, holding onto faith sometimes seemed next to impossible. But he’d clung to it by his bloody, ragged fingernails, even though he always --always-- feared what divine judgment would mean for someone who’d fallen so short of his noble ideals. Someone who felt hidden darkness inside of himself, every single day.

  Someone who was damned.

  But God was still with him. Galahad might be dying in a pyre, far from home, but he wasn’t alone. An angel was here for him, so he wasn’t alone, after all.

  “The knight has trespassed on our land.” Wilbur, the leader of the pigs, bellowed.

  The entire village was filled with humanoid hogs, who didn’t take kindly to outsiders visiting their primitive sticks-and-straw village. Galahad knew that better than most. One minute he was refilling his canteen by the thin trickle of a nearby river. The next, a horde of angry hogs had attacked him and dragged Galahad into the center of town

  Galahad no longer killed people. He had too much blood on his hands, as it was. Instead, he’d attempted to reason with the pig-men. He always tried to reason with people.

  …Usually with this exact amount of success.

  Instead of listening to his very logical explanations, they’d tied his hands behind a huge post, piled logs beneath his feet, and set the bonfire ablaze. Obviously, Galahad had a lot to learn about diplomacy. His attempts invariably ended with people trying to murder him.

  “And this is not just any knight.” Wilbur continued, his voice rising in exaltation and malice. “This is Galahad. The Captain of the King’s Men, who savaged our lands when we were powerless to stop the foreign invaders. Well, now we are the ones with the power!”

  Wilbur’s armed followers roared in approval at that statement. All the soldiers in the village were gathered around to watch Galahad die. Galahad really did try to view everything that happened to him in the most positive light he could, so he was looking at the exuberant throng surrounding the bonfire as him having a well-attended funeral.

  The angel crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to be a pain in the ass about this, aren’t you, Wilbur?” He sighed out in apparent exasperation.

  Wilbur smirked, bolstered by his men’s cheering. “I’d think you’d appreciate our little barbeque, gryphon, given what the knights did to your kind.” He waved a hooved-hand towards Galahad, as the flames grew bigger and bigger. “They wiped out most of your people like bugs.”

  “I’m still here.” The beautiful voice stayed calm. “And that particular knight has been placed in my care. So, I’ll be taking him back.”

  Gryphon? Galahad focused on the winged-man, straining to see him clearer through the smoke. It was thick and suffocating, burning into Galahad’s lungs. It must have been messing with his mind, too, because he was apparently hearing things. No gryphon would ever help him.

  Ever.

  The “angel” explanation made way more sense.

  Except, Galahad finally noticed that the man’s tawny-colored hair was pulled back in the intricate braid of a gryphon warrior and his clothes possessed the simple lines they favored. He was a gryphon. Shit. Now, Galahad was sure he was going to die.

  “Taking him?” Wilbur scoffed, not understanding it, either. “You must be joking.”

  “Do I look like someone who jokes a lot?”

  No, he really didn’t. Especially not if he was a gryphon. They were born without emotions. Cut way down on the comedy. Galahad squinted, trying to figure this out and coming up with… nothing. Not one explanation explained it.

  “If you’re not joking, then you must be out of your mind.” Wilbur snapped. “We’re burning that dumbass knight at the stake, in case you missed it. We already lit the wood! You think we’re just going to hand over our prisoner before he fries?”

  “I think my niece and sister want that knight back.” The angel-who-was-really-a-gryphon retorted in an even tone. “So, I know you will give me that knight back… one way or another.”

  Whoever this man’s sister and niece wanted him to save, it certainly wasn’t Galahad. What the hell was going on?

  Wilbur puffed himself up, refusing to back down to the gryphon’s threats. “Well, my men might have a little something to say about that.” He sneered. “What will it be, boys? Shall we give the gryphon our knight… or shall we have a second roast tonight?”

  More shouting ensued, none of it in support of the “letting Galahad go free” plan. Several of the nasty little porkers raced forward, weapons drawn, ready to kill the angel for interrupting their fun. If Galahad had any oxygen available, he would have shouted a warning.

  The gryphon sighed, again. “Why is everyone so fucking stupid?”

  Then, somehow, a double-bladed axe was in the man’s hand, swinging out like a part of him. After that it was all… art. Unexplainable and undeniable, as with all genuine masterpieces. Galahad had given up killing, but he’d trained at it for years. He knew what it was to see a true artist at work.

  It was as if everyone else in the village was stuck at a lower speed. Their movements slow and clumsy and doomed before they even made them. The gryphon knew just where to step. Just when to spin. Just how to hit. He struck one pig with the axe, even while shifting sideways to avoid a second pig’s attack, and slamming a fist into a third pig’s face. And it was all effortless. All perfect and precise with no extra motions or false moves.

  A thick, powerful mist developed over the gryphon’s face, resembling an eagle. His kind summoned the masks in battle. The shifting veil would obscure their regular features, making them seem… otherworldly. Galahad had always been fascinated by the magic of it.

  More pigs ran at the gryphon and they fell. One dozen. Two. Impossible odds, for anyone else. But the odds were meaningless now, because this man was an unmatched talent. All of Wilbur’s forces could have charged at once and the gryphon would still win.

  The gryphon used his wings to propel himself backwards, avoiding an unavoidable bevy of spears, and Galahad knew what it was to be awed. The man flipped a pig ten feet in the air, sending him crashing into three others, while simultaneously stabbing another through the torso with his own sword. This gryphon was preforming a symphony, while the rest of them were picking out random keys on a piano.

  Flames burned the edges of Galahad’s clothes, the fire scalding the bottom of his boots. And still he was grateful to be standing there, seeing something so beautiful.

  Galahad had been the Captain of the King’s Men. The top knight ever to graduate the Knights’ Academy. He was always the best at everything he did. Always. But Galahad was now living a life of truth. And looking at the gryphon with clear eyes, he realized that this man was the only person in the world who just might be able to beat him in a fight. And oddly that idea didn’t bother him, at all. How could anyone resent witnessing true artistry?

  The gryphon was so… beautiful.

  Wilbur let out a squealing yell of panic, seeing that his position was absolutely hopeless. “Take him! Take the knight!” He screamed before all of his soldiers became hams. “Take him if you want him so much!”

  Bones crunched as the gryphon dropped his final attacker to the ground. “As if I need your permission, at this point. Goddamn waste of my time.” His features back to normal, now, he stalked towards the pyre, jabbing his axe-blade at Wilbur for emphasis. “Pray to all your gods that the knight isn’t scorched beyond repair. If he is damaged, and it upsets the females of my clan, I will hold you responsible.”

  Wilbur paled beneath his piggy-pink skin.

  Muttering to himself in his own language, the gryphon knocked some of the larger logs away with his axe, so he could reach the pole. “Knight? Do you live?”

  Galahad tried to answer, but it resulted in a coughing fit. The fire wasn’t singeing him, but smoke filled his lungs and made it impossible to breathe. He should have thought about
that. In another moment, he’d pass out. There was no getting around it. Still, that wheezing hack seemed to be enough for the gryphon.

  “Good. You’re alive. Attempt to stay that way.” There was a heavy vibration through the wooden post and Galahad realized that the gryphon was trying to cut him loose with the axe.

  …Which was not going to work, because the ropes were enspelled and unbreakable. Galahad would have told him so, except he was blacking out.

  “P’don.” The man muttered. “Hold on.”

  The gryphon was clearly a problem solver by nature. He stopped hacking at the ropes and attacked the wooden pole, instead. His axe slammed into the post, again and again. And then suddenly it toppled over and Galahad was free of it. Without the support of the pole, he began to fall. The flames seemed to rise up to meet him. He would have collapsed face-first into them, except the gryphon was already lugging him upwards again.

  “You weigh a ton.” The gryphon complained, but he didn’t let him go. “Two weeks tracking you and you’ve not made one second of it easy, I swear to Lyrssa.” There was the brief sensation of flight and then Galahad was being laid down on damp ground. “Hold still. Your shirt remains afire.”

  A sudden flood of water nearly drowned Galahad. He sat bolt upright, gasping and shocked back to full awareness. It took him a second to realize that the gryphon had just opened the town’s water tank, which was an elevated wooden barrel that caught and stored rainwater. The gryphon slammed his axe into the side of it, so a waterfall gushed out onto Galahad’s head.

  Galahad peered up at the gryphon through the torrent, once again struck by the absolute beauty of the man. Not just on the outside, which was flawless. But inside, where it actually mattered. This man, who should have been his enemy, had just saved his life. He wasn’t exactly an angel, but it seemed as if God had still sent him. He was a gift.

  “Thank you.” Galahad whispered sincerely.

  The gryphon grunted, which was probably supposed to mean “you’re welcome.” He clearly wasn’t the most talkative guy.

  “Come on, now.” Wilbur whined. “Water is rare in these parts. You can’t just waste it on an asshole like him.”

  “Are you still here?” The gryphon sent him a glare. “Most people would be smart enough to run.”

  “I know you, now.” Wilbur continued, heedless of the danger. “You’re Trystan Airbourne. They said the old king sent you away to die in a hole, because of the attack on the Mynyw Garrison.”

  “That was one reason.”

  This was Trystan Airbourne? Galahad blinked against the pouring water. The gryphon most knights had called a demon for his constant surprise attacks? The one who’d waged such a relentless war against Camelot that they’d been forced to stop their advance in the west?

  Trystan had used the mountain’s maze-like passes as traps, bottlenecking the soldiers and nullifying their vast numbers. Even when he’d been the one trapped and nullified, Galahad had been forced to silently acknowledge the superior planning of his enemy.

  If Trystan Airbourne had been on the winning side of the Looking Glass Campaigns, his strategies would have been taught at the Knights’ Academy as works of military genius. Instead, he’d been locked in prison for years. For a gryphon, being confined was worse than death, which was probably why Uther had selected it as punishment. The old king had been an evil bastard.

  Wilbur looked betrayed. “You killed hundreds of knights, Trystan, and now you protect their leader? Do you know who this man truly is?”

  “He is Galahad, the Butcher of Legion.”

  Galahad cringed at that nickname.

  “Exactly. Have you forgotten what his kind did to everyone they deemed ‘inferior’ races? They lives they took and the lands they destroyed. Your entire clan was wiped out!”

  “I now have a new clan and they claim this man. No one will harm him.”

  Wilbur spat on the ground in disgust, but he didn’t push his luck. “Then you’d best get him the hell out of here. Everyone within a hundred miles is going to try and kill that man. Folks in Camelot might think he’s hot shit, but this will look like a goddamn birthday celebration compared to what the Welkyn Clan will have in mind for him around here.” He waved a hand toward the still raging bonfire.

  “Luckily, we’re headed east.”

  “No.” Galahad gave another cough, tossing his hair back from his face. “I have to go west.” He struggled to his feet, which wasn’t easy given his hands were still tied.

  Trystan Airbourne sent him a quick dismissive look, then seemed to do a double-take. Fathomless brown eyes stayed locked on Galahad for several beats, like something had surprised him. His gaze skimmed over Galahad’s features, not saying a word.

  Galahad smiled at him. “I was on TV.” He explained, thinking that Trystan recognized him. That happened a lot. They’d never met in battle, (Galahad would remember that, since he probably wouldn’t have survived,) so television was the most likely place for the gryphon to have seen him before.

  His two TV shows had been family programs, which taught that violence wasn’t the best answer. One had been for smaller children and featured lovable puppets. The other was for older children and took a more action-adventure tone. Both series had focused on Galahad traveling around, meeting new friends and spreading the most vital part of the Knights’ Code:

  A knight protects those weaker than himself.

  Trystan gave his head a clearing shake and looked back at Wilbur. “We’re going east,” he repeated, like Galahad hadn’t even spoken, “with two of your horses and a week’s worth of supplies. Which you are about to give me.”

  Wilbur gasped in outrage. “And if I say ‘no?’”

  Trystan arched a brow.

  “Son of a bitch.” Wilbur went stomping off to gather up everything Trystan wanted.

  “I have to go west.” Galahad said again, because it seemed like Trystan wasn’t understanding. Gryphons had their own language, so maybe there was a translational issue. He didn’t speak Trystan’s native dialect, so he jerked his head off to the left, thinking that might help clear up the confusion. “That direction. I certainly appreciate all of your help, though.”

  Trystan flicked him another glance. For someone “born without emotions” he looked kind of pissed about this whole situation. “Helping you is not my aim here, knight.”

  “Well, I still appreciate it.” He pointedly moved his hands, which were still bound behind his back with the enspelled ropes. “Can you get these off of me? Then, I’ll get out of your way and you’ll never have to see me again.”

  Trystan disregarded the request. Instead he sighed like he was about to perform a particularly arduous task. “Our way is the same. I was sent to collect you. For some reason, it seems you are missed.”

  Galahad forgot about the glowing ropes wrapped around his wrists, his face breaking into a wide, happy grin. “Really?”

  Trystan blinked again at his excited expression.

  “Queen Guinevere sent you?” Galahad persisted. In the whole world, there was only one person who’d care enough to look for him, so it really wasn’t a question.

  Trystan answered it anyway. “Yes.”

  Joy filled Galahad. It had been so long since he’d seen Gwen and Avalon. Galahad missed his homeland, but he missed his best friend and her daughter far more. “Is she alright? She and Avi are well?”

  “They are perfect.” Trystan studied Galahad for a long moment, his expression less hostile. “Arthur is dead. Guinevere is now married to the man I claim as my j’ha. My… uh…” He waved a hand, as if trying to come up with a suitable translation of the word. “Brother.”

  Galahad’s jaw sagged open. “The king is dead?”

  “No. Arthur is dead. Midas is king, now. He is Guinevere’s True Love.”

  Galahad blinked at that insane recap. Everyone was born with a True Love, but only the lucky ones found theirs. Bad folk tended to know their destined mate just by looking at them. Good folk ne
eded to actually sleep with the person to know about the bond.

  Either way, Galahad had never felt anything approaching that kind of soul-deep connection. He doubted he ever would, given his inability to relate to people. Still, it was wonderful that Gwen had finally found her True Love, after years of suffering through a marriage to Arthur. She deserved to be happy. Even if her one-and-only, fated-from-God, perfect-match was a huge, badly-dressed gangster.

  And if he was married to Gwen, then Midas really was the king, now. Galahad almost laughed. Uther would roll over in his grave, assuming he had one. It all seemed so delightfully impossible it occurred to Galahad that maybe Trystan was tricking him.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Why does everyone persist in thinking I have a sense of humor?” Trystan shook his head in bafflement. “Pay attention: Guinevere and Avalon wish you home, so I have come to bring you home.” He hesitated, looking Galahad over, again. “They say you are their family.”

  Galahad didn’t appreciate that doubtful phrasing. Nobody was going to question the depth of his relationship to Avi and Gwen. “They are my family. They have been for years.”

  Brown eyes narrowed at Galahad’s possessive tone. “I’ve now claimed them as my clan.” He reported and it was a warning. “In my culture, claiming someone is sacred. It means you treasure and protect them, above all else. A piece of you belongs to them. It is irrevocable.”

  “So, they’re you’re family, too? That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Yes. My sister. My niece. I will never let them go. Not for anyone or for any reason.” Trystan paused. “Do you wish to dispute my claim on them, because I am a gryphon?”

  The two of them watched each other, waiting to see if there would be a battle.

  “No.” Galahad finally decided. Gwen and Avi were the only things he was still willing to fight for, but this man didn’t seem like a threat to them. “Not if you treat them well.” He arched a brow. “Do you wish to dispute my claim on them, because I’m a knight?”