The Last Knight

To say it was a dark and stormy night would be a gross understatement. It was colder than a witch's kiss, wetter than a spring swamp and blacker than a tax collector's heart. A sane man would have been curled up in front of a fire, with a cup of mulled wine and a good boo-, ah, a willing wench. But not me. I was out in it. I'm squire to a hero.Con artist Fisk doesn't like working for anyone-much less a madman who claims to be a knight errant, a profession two centuries out of date. But he c...