Sir Reginald of Maplewick was, without question, the worst knight in the entire Kingdom of Alderstone.
This was not an insult.
This was a fact, inked on official parchment, sealed by King Aldric's own signet ring, and nailed above Reginald's fireplace where it curled slightly from the heat. (The King insisted it was motivational. Reginald suspected it was just easier than rewriting the list without his name on it.)
Yet Reginald possessed three undeniable virtues:
1. Boundless, almost radioactive enthusiasm.
2. A helmet that smelled only faintly of old turnips—progress from last year's cabbage phase.
3. A horse named Crumpet, who was considerably smarter than Reginald and never let him forget it.
On an otherwise ordinary morning, Crumpet kicked the cottage door off its hinges, clip-clopped to the bedside, and dropped a rolled proclamation on Reginald's chest with the delicacy of a cat presenting a dead mouse.
Reginald unfurled it.
ROYAL QUEST ANNOUNCEMENT
To Every Knight Worthy of the Title
(And Sir Reginald, because the quill slipped)
A monstrous beast plagues the village of Pickleford. Witnesses describe it as:
- Large
- Hairy
- Malodorous
- Possessed of deplorable manners
(Probable troll. Possible uncle.)
The knight who slays it shall receive:
500 gold coins
One medal (tasteful)
Half-price turkey legs at the Royal Faire for life
Signed,
King Aldric the Unnecessarily Dramatic
Reginald vaulted from bed, tripped over his scabbard, and introduced his forehead to the laundry basket.
"Crumpet!" he cried, eyes shining. "Destiny knocks!"
Crumpet's expression said destiny could knock somewhere else.
Minutes later, dented armor clanking like a drunk tambourine, Reginald swung onto Crumpet's back. The horse sagged as though someone had parked a cathedral on him. Together they set off—knight, genius horse, and the creeping certainty of catastrophe.
Pickleford, from a distance, looked quaint.
Up close, it sounded like a bagpipe being murdered in an alley.
Villagers sprinted in circles. One man attempted camouflage by glueing feathers to his beard and standing beside a coop. The chickens were not convinced.
In the square stood the beast.
A goose.
An absurdly large goose.
A goose that glowed faintly, as though lit from within by righteous fury and possibly illegal magic.
It honked once. The sound cracked a windowpane and loosened several bowels.
A woman clutching a turnip spotted Reginald. "A knight! Thank the gods! Save us from Honkulus the Terrible!"
The goose detonated a potato cart with a glare.
Reginald dismounted, drew his sword (technically a sword-shaped object), and struck what he hoped was a heroic pose.
"Foul fowl!" he proclaimed. "I, Sir Reginald the—well, just Reginald—challenge thee!"
Honkulus regarded him the way a general regards an unusually confident turnip.
Then, with liquid grace, the goose waddled forward, plucked the sword from Reginald's hand, and slapped him across the face with the flat of the blade, and watched him spin like a poorly balanced top.
Reginald landed flat on his back, staring at the sky and reconsidering life choices.
The goose lowered its head. Its eyes blazed auroral green. A single majestic honk rolled out—part thunder, part cathedral organ, part overdue library fine.
Light exploded. When Reginald's vision cleared, a radiant sigil now adorned his breastplate:
THE CHOSEN OF HONK
The villagers fainted in untidy heaps.
Crumpet closed his eyes and prayed for a swift death.
Honkulus flapped up, settled regally between Crumpet's ears like a feathered despot claiming new territory, and honked again—this time with unmistakable satisfaction.
Reginald rose, bowed deeply, and whispered, "Welcome to the party, Sir Honkulus."
Crumpet's groan could have registered on seismographs.
Thus did the fellowship expand: one disastrous knight, one long-suffering horse, and one glowing goose who clearly had plans.
They returned to the capital in triumph, or what passed for it when your victory parade includes a goose riding your horse like a conqueror.
At the castle gates, a guard took one look and muttered, "That goose is glowing," and seriously considered a career change.
King Aldric awaited them on the Grand Announcement Balcony (the one he used for proclamations, lunch orders, and dramatic hair flips). He took in the scene—Reginald beaming, Crumpet suicidal, Honkulus radiating cosmic menace—and top a horse—and promptly fainted off the balcony into his custom crash mattress embroidered with his own screaming face.
Reginald hurried forward. "Your Majesty! The beast is subdued! Er… recruited!"
Aldric rose, dusting off his cape with theatrical despair. "That is no beast. That is my court wizard's failed attempt at a postal service."
Honkulus bit the royal crown and refused to let go until it squeaked.
The King's voice climbed several octaves. "The goose is permanently bonded to you, Reginald. Anything it destroys is now your legal responsibility."
Honkulus spread vast wings. Clouds boiled overhead. Magic crackled like a thousand angry cats.
The goose inhaled.
The King whimpered, "It's charging the Honkenning—"
A single earth-shattering HONK tore through the courtyard. Windows became memories. A statue toppled. Lady Ethelrude's wig achieved low orbit.
When the dust settled, King Aldric fixed Reginald with the stare of a man whose kingdom had just been goose-slapped.
"You have five minutes," he whispered, "to un-goose my life."
Reginald swallowed.
Crumpet exhaled a century of regret.
Honkulus preened, utterly delighted.
They had not taken ten steps before the whispers began.
"The Sigil…"
"The Chosen of Honk walks among us…"
"Will he bless my cabbages?"
A hooded figure flung himself at Reginald's feet. Reginald, eager to be helpful, knelt too. They collided and collapsed in a tangle of limbs and enthusiasm.
The man recovered first. "O Chosen! We have awaited this day!"
"You have?" Reginald asked, rubbing his nose.
"Verily! We are the Order of the Sacred Honk, founded three hours ago when the Divine Honk shattered the stained-glass window of my tavern. The omen was unmistakable."
More devotees poured in homemade goose costumes flooded the street, bearing gifts: loaves, shiny pebbles, one extremely offended duck.
Before Reginald could explain the misunderstanding, Honkulus leapt down, placed a solemn wing on his boot, and delivered a single authoritative honk.
The crowd detonated into religious fervor.
"THE HONK HAS SPOKEN!"
"WE SHALL FOLLOW THE FEATHERED PROPHET'S KNIGHT!"
Reginald looked desperately at Crumpet.
Crumpet's expression said: I told you this would happen. I literally told you yesterday.
King Aldric burst into the square like an explosion in a velvet factory.
"REGINALDINALD!" he bellowed. "WHY IS MY COURTYARD FULL OF LUNATICS CHANTING 'HONK HALLELUJAH'?"
A goose cultist beamed at him. "Blessings of the Great Goose upon you, sire!"
The King made a noise like a stepped-on bagpipes.
Then a second procession marched in—brown robes, chicken masks, banners painted with disturbingly realistic poultry.
Their leader, wearing a beak so detailed it violated several laws of nature, raised a rubber-chicken staff.
"BEWARE FALSE PROPHETS!" she cried. "The goose is chaos incarnate! Only the Sacred Chicken brings true cluck—er, luck!"
Both cults turned to glare.
A goose devotee shouted, "Heresy!"
A chicken monk clucked, "Blasphemy!"
Someone threw a banner. Someone else threw a cabbage. The King caught both with his face.
"ENOUGH!" Aldric roared, bits of cabbage in his beard. "NO cults! NO poultry schisms! NO religious waterfowl WHATSOEVER in my kingdom!"
Silence fell.
Then the goose cult raised their voices as one:
"HONK AGAINST TYRANNY!"
The chicken cult answered instantly:
"CLUCK FOR LIBERTY!"
King Aldric grabbed Reginald by the gorget and lifted him until their noses touched.
"You," he hissed, "started a holy war between birds. Fix. It."
Reginald squeaked, "Right away, sire."
Honkulus honked the opening note of what promised to be a very long hymn.
Crumpet closed his eyes and began mentally drafting his letter of resignation from reality.
Thus began the Great Poultry Uprising—a dark chapter in Alderstone's history soon to be written entirely in feathers, regret, and the unmistakable smell of impending doom.