Chapter 1: The Knight in the Fog

The sun had only just begun to peek over the towers of Castle Pufforia when the first strange sound floated through the morning air.

Snort.

Then again.

SNORT.

It was not the sound of a trumpet. It was not the sound of a dragon. It was not even the sound of Sir Toothy McBoot trying to blow his nose, which had once caused a small panic in the east courtyard.

No. This was the sound of a horse.

A very grumpy horse.

The castle guards at the front gate squinted through the pale gray fog. The mist hung low over the stone road, curling around the walls and towers like a giant sleepy ghost. Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

One guard scratched his chin. “Do you hear that?”

The other guard nodded. “I do not like that sound.”

“Maybe it is a royal visitor.”

“Maybe it is a fog monster.”

“Maybe it is Sir Toothy’s nose again.”

Then the horse burst out of the fog.

Both guards yelped and jumped backward so fast that one of them tripped over a bucket.

The horse was huge, black, and shiny, with wild nostrils and a mane that whipped around like storm clouds. It stomped through the castle gates with great dramatic clops, as if it knew very well that everyone should be impressed.

On its back sat a rider in gleaming silver armor.

Not normal armor.

This armor was polished so brightly that the sunrise flashed off it in sharp little beams. The rider wore enormous shoulder plates, metal boots, and a helmet topped with a giant black feather that waved in the air like an angry broom.

But the strangest thing of all was the mask.

It covered the rider’s face completely, and it had been shaped to look like a deep, frowning scowl. Thick metal eyebrows drooped over narrow eye slits. The mouth was twisted into a grumpy sneer. It looked less like a knight’s mask and more like the face of a very annoyed potato.

The rider pulled the horse to a stop in the middle of the courtyard.

The horse snorted so hard that a nearby chicken fell over.

For one long second, nobody moved.

Then the rider stood tall in the stirrups and boomed, “PEOPLE OF PUFFORIA.”

Three pigeons flew off the roof in terror.

Servants popped their heads out of windows. Gardeners froze with their watering cans. Two cooks peered around the kitchen door, both still wearing flour on their noses. A footman carrying breakfast rolls dropped the entire tray.

“What is going on?” whispered a maid.

“Is it a knight?” whispered another.

“Is it a statue?” whispered a third.

“It is moving,” said the first maid.

“Then it is not a statue.”

Across the courtyard, Princess Petunia Sparkletoes stepped out onto a stone balcony in her morning robe, holding a cup of tea. Her hair was still in two sleepy braids.

She blinked once at the rider below.

Then she sipped her tea and said, “Oh good. A lunatic.”

Far below, Sir Toothy McBoot came running from the west tower, one boot half-buckled and his helmet on backward.

“A knight!” he cried. “A mysterious knight has arrived at dawn! This is the greatest morning of my life!”

He tripped over his own sword belt, rolled twice across the stones, then leaped up again as if that had been part of a battle move.

By now, nearly the whole castle was watching.

Word spread fast.

A knight. A masked knight. A terrifying knight. A shiny knight. A knight with a feather. A knight with a horse. A knight with eyebrows made of metal.

Even the kitchen boys climbed onto barrels to get a better look.

In the middle of all this, Benny Tootrick was trying to carry a basket of warm buns across the lower courtyard without being noticed by anyone.

He had been sent by his uncle, who worked in the royal napkin room, which was a real place for some reason.

“Tootrick,” his uncle had said just five minutes earlier, “take these buns to the breakfast hall and do not stop, do not stare, do not wander, and for the love of gravy do not get involved in anything weird.”

Tootrick had promised he would do exactly that.

Now he stood frozen beside a fountain, clutching the basket, staring at the shining rider.

“Why,” Tootrick muttered to himself, “does weird stuff always happen when I am carrying bread?”

The rider raised one armored arm.

“I,” he thundered, “am the one and only FART KNIGHT.”

The whole courtyard gasped.

One of the cooks dropped a spoon.

A goose honked.

Sir Toothy grabbed the nearest guard by the shoulders and shouted, “Did you hear that? He said Fart Knight. Fart Knight!”

“Yes,” said the guard, wincing. “I heard him the first time.”

The Fart Knight pointed a long metal finger across the courtyard.

Directly at Tootrick.

The basket of buns nearly fell from Tootrick’s hands.

“You!” boomed the knight. “Benny Tootrick. Called Tootrick by fools, flatterers, and feather-brained peasants.”

Tootrick looked behind him just to make sure there wasn’t another Benny Tootrick standing there.

There was not.

He looked back at the knight and gave a tiny awkward wave.

The Fart Knight’s horse snorted at him.

“You are an unworthy fake,” declared the knight. “A wobbly fraud. A lucky accident. A bean-fed pretender with no true claim to fame.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement.

“A fraud?”

“A pretender?”

“What is a bean-fed pretender?”

“Sounds awful.”

Princess Petunia leaned over the balcony railing. “This should be good.”

Tootrick’s ears burned red.

“Me?” he squeaked. “I mean, yes, me, obviously, because you pointed and said my name, but I still feel like asking.”

The Fart Knight lifted his chin. “The kingdom sings your praises. The castle whispers of your so-called destiny. Children pretend to be you in the streets. Someone has even baked your face onto a pie.”

“That was a bad pie,” Tootrick muttered. “The nose looked wrong.”

“But I know the truth,” said the Fart Knight. “You are no hero.”

Sir Toothy gasped so hard he nearly swallowed a beetle.

“Take that back!” he cried. “Tootrick is the brave champion of Pufforia. He is the chosen one of the royal prophecy. He is the defender of the crown. He is the winner of the banquet blast.”

“I was mostly just there,” Tootrick said.

The Fart Knight drew himself even taller.

“Then let him prove it.”

The crowd leaned in.

The horse leaned in too.

The knight reached into a satchel at his side and pulled out a single large glove.

It was a challenge glove. Everyone could tell. It was bright red, trimmed with gold, and puffed up at the fingers like a sleepy turkey.

The Fart Knight held it high.

“By the ancient rules of honor, bravery, and extremely dramatic shouting, I challenge Benny Tootrick to a contest of greatness!”