Bedivere… Martyr of Legion, tragically taken from us while saving gryphons from the very fires they set.
Percival… Who understood that the winged devils can never be assimilated into any civilized society.
Galahad… The knight Uther loved as a son, expelled from our kingdom for some damn reason, probably dead now, in a foreign land at the hands of a foreign savage.
What would those brave knights think about us now? What would they think about the false stories being told about our glorious king? I think, like me, they’d be glad to be far from Camelot and its lies.
Glad to be in a better place, among true heroes.
“Stopping the Savages” Podcast
Sir Dragonet of Camelot- Former Troubadour of King Uther and Host of the Program
The Town- Edge of the Wilds
A sandman was being dissolved in a water tank.
The creature was made entirely of grit and dust, so water turned him to sludge. He’d been locked in a large, vertical container filled with liquid, ensuring that he couldn’t take his humanoid form. Every time the sandman tried, he dissipated into nothing but gooey mud on the bottom of the tank and particles swirling in the water.
That would happen again and again. Forever. Unless someone saved him.
Galahad looked around, hoping to see someone rushing forward to save him.
Trystan wasn’t going to like it if he got involved. It was hardly Galahad’s fault that people kept falling into peril all around him, but Trystan would still blame him. It was inevitable. Trystan had been super clear about wanting to stay away from trouble while they were in town. And he’d been super, super clear about not helping anyone else today.
Unfortunately, nobody else on the dusty street seemed concerned about the grisly torture of a fellow being. They were too busy enduring their dejected lives, dully tilling the dry soil, and plodding from place-to-place with their heads down. It truly was the saddest town he’d ever seen. Maybe the citizens were so inured to its dirt and cruelty that they didn’t even notice the suffering of others. They weren’t going to help the sandman
Shit. That meant he was going to have to do it.
Galahad sighed and started towards the glass cage. Hopefully, everyone would be reasonable about the sandman and this whole thing would get resolved before Trystan heard about it. Since Galahad was trying hard to seduce the guy, he would’ve liked to get through at least twenty minutes without pissing Trystan off.
He bent down to pick up a rock, which was no easy feat, considering he was holding the saddle. It was balanced over his bound hands, because he couldn’t get completely free of it. He’d had to remove the saddle from the horse while he was still sitting on it in order to bypass the enchanted ropes tying him to the pommel. It was the quickest escape he could come up with, but it inhibited his mobility. The damn thing was bulky with leather trim, thickly padded, and weighed a ton. Also, there was a flying carpet tied to it.
Galahad’s eyes flicked around the glass cage, counting four scruffy looking men lounging on the wooden sidewalk. Weirdly, they all looked identical. They were all so dirty and unshaven that it was hard to make out their individual features. Smart money was on them being directly responsible for the sandman’s suffering.
One guy was manicuring his too-long nails with a switch blade. Another was napping in a chair, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. The last two were playing cards on a barrel top. All of them looked like professional scumbags and none of them looked reasonable.
Galahad took a deep breath, pressing forward with determined optimism. “Hey, fellas.” He said easily, stopping in front of them. “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”
The men fixed him with identical glares. It was a hundred and ten in the shade.
Galahad pretended not to notice. At this distance he could see a hand-printed sign was taped to the front of the huge water container. It read: DIDN’T PAY HIS MONSTER TAX!
“That’s not really a thing, you know.” He pointed to the piece of paper.
“Sure it is.” The guy picking his nails with the knife declared in the exact same tone the upperclassmen at the Knights’ Academy used when stealing all the younger kids’ food. “It’s the tax monsters gotta pay if they wanna live in our town.”
Galahad made a “huh” sound. “That seems a bit unfair. Is there a sheriff around here? Because I’d love to talk to him about it.”
“This town doesn’t need a sheriff.” The man spread his hands like a cheap carnival wizard who’d just made a rabbit disappear. “It’s got us.”
The card playing guy hooted in agreement. The one who’d been napping tipped his hat back and sat up a bit straighter. There was a small gun in his lap and his hand was resting on it. None of them said any actual words, though. It was… odd.
Galahad kept his attention on the switchblade guy. He seemed to be the one in command. “Okay. So who are you gentlemen, then?”
“I’m Solomon Grundy. These are my brothers. Thursday, Monday, and Wednesday. We run this town.”
Oh. That explained the oddness.
Galahad squinted, looking for the former soldiers through the grime and finally recognizing them. It was surprising he hadn’t before. After all, how many men had magical duplicates of themselves? Solomon called them his “brothers,” but they were more like multiples. Mute clones, who acted independently, but who he also somehow controlled.
Maybe?
Honestly, Galahad had never fully understood the phenomena. The King’s Men had treated the eight Grundys as separate beings, just as Solomon claimed. (Coincidentally, that allowed him to cash their eight separate paychecks.) Galahad had never been so sure they were really individual people, though. It always seemed to him that Solomon was the center cog of a hive mind.
A very sadistic, homicidal, screwed-up hive mind.
“You were elected by these people?” He asked doubtfully.
Solomon snorted. “Hell, no. We did what all kings do: We took control. Expanded our empire. Demanded obedience. Executed traitors.” He seemed pleased with the analogy. “Back home we might have been nobodies, but, around here, we’re royalty.”
That was exactly why Galahad had had seven of the Grundys court-martialed. He’d seen the way they treated everyone weaker than themselves. The eighth “brother” he’d had tried, convicted, and shot by a firing squad. Which was no small feat in the King’s Men. The rape and murder of gryphons hadn’t exactly been high on Uther’s list of worries.
“Hardly seems just that you takeover a town and enslave everybody.” Galahad pointed out mildly, his gaze moving between the replicas/siblings. No doubt the other three Grundys were lurking nearby, too. Probably on the rooftops.
“Seems just to me. Might makes right around my kingdom and I’ve got the might. That means our kind does what we say or they suffer the consequences. And their kind?” He pointed to the elves, who were fruitlessly farming poisoned herbs in the sand. “They work or they die.”
Jesus, it seemed like every dishonorable soldier in Uther’s army had decided to stick around the land they’d helped conquer, eager to take whatever they could get. The exploitation of Lyonesse would drag on forever, at this rate. Something really needed to be done.
Galahad glanced towards the dying vegetation. “Not to change the subject, but wouldn’t it be smarter to build an irrigation ditch for that garden? It would be so simple to run it from that pond, straight onto the plants.” Was he the only one who saw the sense in that plan?
The three lesser-Grundys frowned at the pond, then the garden, then back again. Like setting up an irrigation system had never occurred to them before.
Solomon’s jaw clenched. “Don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he spat in the dirt, “Captain.”
Great. Solomon remembered him, too. That sure wasn’t going to calm this situation down.
Galahad’s hand tightened on the rock in his hand. “I’d appreciate it if you let the sandman go.” He tried, getting back
to the point.
“Now, why the hell would I do that?”
“Because what you’re doing is torture. I never did abide torture.”
“So I recall.” Solomon scoffed. “You always were a pussy.” He hopped off the wooden sidewalk. “I should have dealt with you back when you killed Sunday, for no goddamn reason.”
“No reason? He forced himself on a little girl and then hacked her wings off with a hatchet. He left her to bleed to death in the mess tent.”
“She was a gryphon!” Solomon advanced on him. “My brother died because of you. Because you’re soft on monsters. You always have been.”
“We’re all monsters. It just depends on who’s looking at us.”
Staring across an abyss of hate and fear, your enemies always looked like something evil. Something other. If they didn’t, wars wouldn’t work. It was the same on every side and it was all lies. Galahad had learned the truth when it was all too late, but now he saw it so clearly.
“Bullshit!” Solomon stabbed a finger at him. “You’ve always been a dirty monster lover.”
Galahad shifted his stance, his eyes flicking to the sandman’s glass cage, gauging the distance. “I follow the law.” He said calmly. “Gryphon or wingless, everyone should be treated the same. That’s what I did with your brother. Sunday was fairly tried by a military tribunal.”
Everyone else on the street was watching them, now. The elves had stopped farming, their small eyes darting around. The other three Grundys were on their feet, supporting Solomon like off-kilter mirror images. Several people ducked into the nearest building, sensing a brewing fight.
“Where does the law say gryphons should be treated the same as us?” Solomon demanded. “You’re making that up. It was never a law.”
“It should have been.”
“This is just like the Battle of Flags,” Solomon raged at Galahad, not accepting that legal theory, “when you didn’t even let us fire on the gryphon. When you made up some goddamn excuse not to kill them all. Uther was right to demote you, after that. He should have kept you locked up for the rest of the War.”
Remembering his two months in the stocks had Galahad’s temper crackling. During that time, Trystan had been captured. If he’d been there, Galahad would have been able to get him free. He hadn’t known Trystan then, but one look at that man would have changed everything that came afterwards. Galahad knew himself too well to think otherwise.
There wasn’t a chance in hell Galahad would ever meet Trystan and then allow him to be harmed. Not under any circumstances. His bond with Trystan was inexplicable, but it had been true right from the first moment they met. Galahad trusted it in a way that would always trump everything else. He would have never allowed Trystan to be illegally shipped off to the Wicked, Ugly, and Bad prison. Not even if freeing him meant his own life.
He gave his head a shake, pushing down the darkness that threatened to rise. Thinking about Badness happening to Trystan was not going to help him stay in control.
“Well, now the War’s over, Captain. Now, I’m in command, so I suggest you get your ass outta here, before I put your monster-ass-licking corpse in the ground.”
Galahad gave reason one last shot. “Let the sandman go,” he reiterated quietly, “or I’ll free him myself.”
Solomon slowly smiled. “I was kinda hoping you’d want to do this the hard way.”
His “brothers” moved in on Galahad from different angles, preparing to surround him. Solomon stalked closer from the front. No one on the street seemed willing to lend a hand and it didn’t seem like this was the day that reason would win out against morons.
Shit. It was times like this when Galahad almost missed carrying a sword. Too bad all he had in his hands were a rock and a saddle.
…And a magic carpet.
Galahad glanced down at it, an idea suddenly dawning.
“You know, I’m glad you showed up in my town.” Solomon sneered out, already anticipating victory. “This thing between us goes beyond what you did to Sunday.”
“There’s a thing between us?” Galahad asked, surreptitiously untying the hopefully-not-fake flying rug from the saddle.
“You bet your dick there is. Seeing your picture everywhere, and reading about your movie deals, and listening to your stupid album over and over and over…” Solomon made an aggravated sound. “Let’s just say, I’ve been wanting to kick your ass for a looooong time.”
Galahad winced a bit at that complaint. It had never been his intention to be a pop star. He’d only recorded that album as a joke for Gwen’s birthday, so it was a little embarrassing that it somehow went triple-platinum.
“The goddamn songs played on every radio station.” Solomon went on like he’d been personally targeted by the music. “It got so I was dreaming them. I almost went crazy.”
“Yeah, to be honest, I really don’t think I deserved to win so many awards for that album.” Galahad tried not to shy away from valid criticism, even when it came from assholes. It was the only way to grow. “I only played three of the instruments on the tracks.” He paused, recounting in his head. “No. Five. There was a harp and…”
“Shut up!” Solomon roared, cutting him off. “This is why no one could ever stand you!”
“My music?” Galahad pretended not to notice as the magic carpet fell to the ground. “Well, I’ve always seen myself as more of an actor, so…”
Solomon interrupted him again. “No. That everything you have is some kind of dumb luck.” He jabbed a finger at Galahad. “It’s all just handed to you, when you do jack-shit to deserve it.” His face was red with rage. “And --just so you know-- you’re not a great actor either, dickhead. Your TV show sucked!”
Galahad frowned. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
Okay. Now he was getting annoyed.
Trystan said the key to using a magic carpet was concentration and Trystan was the most capable person ever born. Galahad was sure as hell willing to go with his advice. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on the carpet, instead of them men drawing nearer. Focused on lifting it off the ground. Focused on sending it through the air. Focused on the trajectory.
After a beat, something happened. A buzzing energy crackled in his head and he knew it was connecting to the rug. He could feel the carpet levitating a bit, which was a good start. But how did he make it really go?
“Take his head off.” Solomon ordered his brothers. “We’ll stick it in a box and charge people for a peek.” He chortled, already envisioning the advertising. “‘Come and see Galahad’s head in a box.’ That’s gotta be worth some tourist coins. I can’t be the only one who’d pay to see this bastard dead.”
Galahad tuned him out, all his focus on the flying carpet.
“The old fella at the general store came runnin’ up before, telling me there’s a gryphon in the shop.” Solomon moved closer. “That winged devil wouldn’t be with you, now would he, Captain? One of your monster friends?” He snorted. “Not that it matters. We gotta keep this town’s riffraff under control. He’s a gryphon so, either way, he’s gonna die.”
Galahad’s eyes snapped open… and the magic carpet took off flying.
“What the hell!” Solomon screeched in panic. The heavy fabric slammed into his knees, knocking him right off his feet. He hit the dust face first, bloodying his nose. “Stop!”
Galahad didn’t stop. The carpet ricocheted between the other Grundys. Spinning them around like tops. Covering their eyes, so they couldn’t see. Knocking weapons from their hands, as it zipped past them. Keeping them off balance and thoroughly occupied.
Galahad might have known nothing about magic carpets, but he’d been the eighth grade laser-pinball champ. (Also, he’d invented the game.) The key was to keep the ball moving. The magic carpet never let up on its assault, even as the brothers tried to swat it away. It wasn’t going to stop them for long, but all he needed was five seconds.
Galahad launched himself sideways. Thro
wing a rock with his hands tied and the saddle weighing him down was hard as hell. But, Galahad really had been the star pitcher of Camelot’s Charity League. The baseball-sized stone slammed into the large tank holding the sandman, cracking the glass into a spider web. There was an ominous creak. A second later the weight of the water burst through, emptying the whole container in a wave. Liquid whooshed out, washing through the cracks on the wooden sidewalk and into the dirt below.
Galahad lay on the ground and flashed Solomon a triumphant smirk. He wasn’t sure what the next step of his plan would be, but, he wasn’t worried. Situations like this seemed to come up all the time and he always figured them out. For the moment, he was winning.
“You prick.” Solomon raged, holding his bleeding nose. “I’ve hated you since you fucked us over at Flags and now I’m going to finally…!”
A dead body hit the sand, interrupting his threat.
It landed two feet from Galahad, with a morbid crunch of bones and its limbs all akimbo. It slammed into the dirt so hard, you’d almost think it was thrown straight down. Its head exploded like a watermelon, so blood and goo leaked all over the sand.
What the hell?
For a heartbeat of time, no one moved. They just stared down at the crumpled, sticky remains, trying to understand where it came from. It was like the man had dropped from the sky.
“Saturday?” Solomon said in a blank tone, gaping down at the dead guy. “Is that you? Jesus, what happened?”
The dead guy didn’t answer.
The mystery didn’t last long, though, because another dead guy quickly joined the first. There was a muffled shout of panic and then a shadow passing overhead. Everybody looked up as a figure went pin-wheeling through the air. He sailed above their heads, almost gracefully. Then, inevitably, he fell towards the ground and… splat. Galahad rolled sideways to avoid getting crushed by the impact.
And nearly got hit by a third guy.
This one silently screamed all the way down. It was kind of eerie. And his rolling crash into the sand twisted his head the wrong way around, which was even eerier.
Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4) Page 21
