Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp

by William Tyler Davis

  Epik pursed his lips and looked down at the dusty ground. “I can try again,” he said.

  “Do try,” Dom said. “I don’t mean as a knight you don’t need to have mercy. I just mean you can’t show mercy to your opponents.”

  Epik worked to dig out his feelings, to find the hidden anger buried somewhere inside. Why didn’t Gabby ever teach him this approach?

  Epiman, Epik thought. It’s all Epiman’s fault. He made these things happen. He caused the pain. A bubble of heat rose in Epik’s throat. He took hold of it. He found the storm. Blue tendrils of energy hissed down the lance.

  CRACK!

  Sparks rained on the straw man, singeing him at the chest and through the back.

  “See, you should trust me,” Dom grinned. “Just because we’re competitors doesn’t make us enemies. We’re only opponents on the pitch.”

  “What about the fact that we are enemies?” Epik asked. The elation of the magic still coursed through his veins. It made him want to do it again and then again after that.

  “What the Grand Sovereign does with his army isn’t my concern. I harbor no ill-will toward you or your kingdom.”

  “And you’re a knight?” Epik said snidely, the anger hot in his blood.

  Sir Dom laughed. “No, our days on the battlefield are done. I’m a tourney knight. This is it for me.” He spread his hands. “And most of it is pageantry. Here, watch.”

  Sir Dom mounted the horse. He rode at the practice target, brought down the lance, green flame flickered into existence from the vamplate—the sphere protecting his gauntlet like the guard of a sword. The flames engulfed the coronel (the crown-shaped piece at the tip). The lance hit the target dummy on the chest, immediately setting it afire. Green flames covered its every inch.

  Epik glared at it. He had seen this before. The anger inside him was replaced by the cold, numb feeling of watching Sir Lucas writhe in pain.

  “Phhh,” Sir Dom sighed loudly. “It’s nothing. It’s not what you think it is. Touch it.”

  “Touch the fire?” Epik asked skeptically.

  Dom nodded. “Touch it!”

  Cautiously, Buster trotted over to the stuffed man. Epik eased from the saddle, near to the flame. He put his hand out. The hand felt no heat. He went closer, allowing the fire to graze his skin. And closer still until his hand was touching the canvas body of the dummy. He withdrew his hand and the flame went with it, flickering and spreading with every movement. He felt nothing. No pain.

  “Pageantry,” Dom said. “It’s all pageantry. Well, except when it’s not.”

  Later, they stabled the horses and were walking together to the Coliseum.

  “But I don’t get it,” Epik said. “I made lightning. I put holes in the straw man! Couldn’t someone get hurt?”

  “That’s true,” Dom nodded. “But you can get hurt playing any sport. This is no different. I’m not saying it’s not dangerous—it’s still jousting after all. I’m just telling you it’s a show. And you should treat it as such.”

  “But…” He shook his head, and a new anxiety found him. He was a spectacle within a spectacle.

  They walked up the Coliseum’s tunneled walkways to another box on the nobles’ side of the arena. There, the other knights and a few high lords were seated. And the tournament was in full swing. It was the last day of the first round. Then the brackets would be separated by losers and winners until the final day. At every contest, a knight dropped from the winner’s bracket to the losers, and an elimination match would take place.

  Epik would face one of today’s losers, whoever lost in the bout between the Golden Knight and Sir Puckett the Rad who rode a chocolate draft horse, enormous and sturdy with white sock markings on his legs. Sir Puckett was clad in the traditional metal armor—as plain as it gets. He had the slight girth of a young Sir Wallack.

  The Golden Knight was as opposite as was possible, mounted on a shell-white horse. Both the knight and the horse were armored with polished gold accoutrements. The knight was angular and tall, broad-shouldered.

  “He’s new, like you,” Sir Dom pointed at the Golden Knight. “I never knew he existed. Until today that spot read To Be Determined. I’ve never seen him in court, nor at a feast. This is the Golden Knight’s first bout for all I know of him. You’ve met Puck. He was the one with about fifteen dinner rolls on his plate.”

  Epik remembered the roundish knight hiding a chin, maybe two, under a burgundy beard.

  “Puck doesn’t usually last too long. His father was a tourney knight. I don’t think Puck has even half his skill, but the crowd loves a legacy. And,” Dom smiled, “they sure love to see him fall.”

  Sure enough, on the second lance, Puck was knocked off his horse by the Golden Knight.

  “There wasn’t much magic in this bout,” Epik offered.

  “No,” Sir Dom agreed. “There wasn’t. Not everyone can do a lot of magic. You can see the tip of Puck’s lance. He was trying to perform a wind spell.” Tiny tornados kicked up swirls of dust around the fallen lance beside Sir Puckett, flat on his back, being nibbled at by his horse. “I can’t be sure, but that Golden Knight, it looked almost like his blows were double, maybe triple the force of a usual lance. Possibly a strength spell? They can go unseen. But that’s a spell that wins tourneys. I use them myself from time to time.”

  Wind spells, strength spells, Epik made notes of things to look up in his books. There were so many different forms of magic, and even this was a limited set. Epik had barely scratched the surface of what a wizard with fully-fledged powers could do.

  “In our last joust of the afternoon,” the announcer’s amplified voice began. The crowd booed and began to throw food out on the pitch. “I know. I’m ready for more action, too. But fret not, the commoner’s feast will take place tonight in the market square. And we’ll be back tomorrow for elimination action.”

  The announcer repeated, “In our last joust of the afternoon, we pit old rivals. Sir Lamorak versus the Archer.”

  The knights rode out of the tunnel together. Sir Lamorak on a powerful blood bay horse, armored to match in reds trimmed in gold. The Archer wore green, the color of the kingdom, like Sir Dom, but with arrow sigils on his shield and chest plate. They leered at each other through open visors. Each had a crowd of commoners supporting them; they made rude comments at their rivals, throwing food and insults equally.

  “These two are the best of friends,” Sir Dom said, clapping.

  “Friends?” What Epik saw down on the pitch was entirely contrary.

  “Pageantry—I told you. It doesn’t mean they don’t hate each other in the joust.” There was a gleam in Sir Dom’s eye. “Speaking of, I have an offer for you. Let’s say we meet on the pitch.” Dom motioned to the brackets on the board. “Most likely, it would happen in the final.”

  Epik eyed the board. He nodded, nonplussed.

  “I know you think it’s a stretch,” Dom said, reading him. “But let’s say it does happen. I offer you this: I’ll allow you one lance to take freely. I’ll put aside my shield. I’ll stay my lance. And you have one shot free at my chest.”

  “All right,” Epik said, skepticism growing.

  “In return, the next lance is mine. You stay your lance. You move your shield. A lance for a lance. What do you say? It’ll make things interesting.”

  “It sounds like suicide,” Epik said.

  “Perhaps.” The knight peered down at the pitch, waiting for the joust to start. “But allowing you to go first, it’s suicide for me as well. You could take me out on the first lance, easy.”

  Epik rolled his eyes, something he realized he hadn’t done so often lately—not since leaving the Bog where he and Fatty Cheapskate were together daily.

  “What do you gain from this offer?” Epik asked. There had to be a catch.

  The flags waved the two knights into battle. Sir Lamorak brought down his lance. It began to vibrate, pulsing back and forth, only an inch or two but so fast it was a mere blur. The Ar
cher realized what was happening, and rather than be stung by the pulsing blow, he and his horse teleported forward, missing the strike entirely.

  “Ahhh,” the crowd and the announcer bellowed.

  “He took a page from your book,” Dom said.

  “No points awarded,” the announcer announced. Across the arena, the announcer’s lips pursed in boredom. He looked down at his notes. “Tomorrow’s lineup is stacked with competition. It looks like the Indomitable Knight is up against Sir Gallad while newcomer Sir Epik Stout rides against Sir Puckett. That should be an interesting bout,” he said offhandedly.

  Sir Dom cleared his throat. “There’s much for us both to gain. I want to make things interesting. I always win. And I don’t mean to come off as boastful—I just always do. For you, well, I think you’ll find that you’re made of more than you think. Do you accept my offer?”

  Epik tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His eyes strayed over to the Grand Sovereign’s box. Myra looked bored next her grandfather. Sir Wallack and Todder peered at the pitch. But two seats next to them were empty.

  Down on the pitch, the knights had their visors up and were arguing, finally returning to their places.

  Epik clicked his tongue.

  “I accept,” he said with only a sliver of reluctance.

  “Excellent. Now let’s watch. They usually put on a good show.”

  It was true. This round was even more spectacular. Sir Lamorak’s lance glowed red hot before an orange flame burst down the length of it. Long before it found its mark, the Archer’s lance was in motion. It sprang away from the knight, careening down the tilt to meet Sir Lamorak’s chest.

  “Nice!” the announcer approved. “Two points to the Archer.”

  So, that’s how he got his name, Epik thought.

  And again, visors were up, and words were spat. When the two men readied once more, it was Sir Lamorak’s blow. He hit the Archer with the vibrating lance he had used before, knocking the knight off his horse but taking a glancing blow on his own shield, an attempt at lightning.

  “Good show folks, we have ourselves an old-fashioned draw. Three points apiece. Oh ho ho,” the announcer said. “What’s this? It looks like Sir Lamorak isn’t happy with a draw.”

  The knight had unsaddled his horse. He took a broadsword from his squire, unsheathing it in a quick motion. Then the sword caught fire.

  The Archer, flat on his back began to kick his heels in the dirt, scooting away. He found his feet, staggered back to his squire, and drew a longsword.

  “Is this allowed?” Epik asked Sir Dom.

  “Oh yes, hand-to-hand melee. It’s not required in the first round. But it’s what happens in a draw. Where did you learn your joust rules?”

  Storybooks, Epik thought—ones where the knight almost always won on the first or second lance.

  The two knights faced each other in the center of the pitch. Sparks flew from Sir Lamorak’s sword with each blow. The orange flame flickered side to side with every swipe. At the edge of the arena, the jesters readied buckets of water. Finally, Sir Lamorak caught the Archer on the side of his chest plate, and the knight fell, writhing in pain. He lost his sword from the next blow as he tried to protect himself from the ground.

  Sir Lamorak extinguished his sword, and he used it to lift the other knight’s visor playfully. Then he put his boot on the Archer’s chest, raising his sword hand to the applause of the audience.

  “We have ourselves a winner. Sir Lamorak moves on to the winner’s bracket.”

  27

  The Truth

  Strange dreams plagued Epik’s sleep. Par for the course, really. Ever since getting to know the magic within him, Epik’s sleep had been less than restful. Tossing and turning through the night, he woke in the morning with the strange feeling of magic lingering in the back of his mind—the way it had when Gabby had first tested him.

  Epik remembered Gabby’s words, “there’s always magic in the magic shop.” That was why he had returned so many times—why he found those books. And it was true; he did always feel that just on the tip of his brain feeling of magic stirring, even in the burnt down husk of the magic store.

  But here in King’s Way, it was different. Magic was different. Epik had hardly felt it at all. Sure, around some around the knights, Sir Dom, but not around the Grand Sovereign who by all accounts was supposed to be the greatest dark wizard alive.

  Epik went down to breakfast where Sir Dom ordered more food than Epik’s nervous stomach would agree to hold.

  “Not hungry?” Dom asked. “I was only joking yesterday. Really, I thought halflings ate about ten meals a day.”

  “Seven,” Epik said. “Can I ask, where is everyone? Why don’t all the knights come down for breakfast?”

  “Oh, well, not many knights live here in the castle. Most have homes and families. If Puck lived here, you’d see him down at the table for sure.” Dom grinned. “But he lives in a fine villa down near the market square.”

  Epik hung his head over his plate of eggs. Sir Puckett was his competition.

  “Don’t worry,” Dom said. “You’ll do fine. Puck’s a pushover. I’ll tell you one thing he doesn’t like: fire.”

  “Not many people do.”

  “Fair enough.” Dom scooped a forkful of eggs.

  “So, you don’t have a family?” Epik asked casually.

  Sir Dom’s chewing slowed. His eyes stayed on his plate. “I’m not going to talk about where I draw my emotion, but that has something to do with it.”

  “Sorry,” Epik shrunk in his seat—a feat for a halfling.

  They ate in silence for a while. But then Epik heard something. Sir Dom’s whisper, his voice so hushed that Epik had to prick his ears to hear the words.

  “I forgot to mention something to you yesterday. There are some in the kingdom with loyalties to Prince Gabriel. Some willing to give their life.”

  “Prince Gabriel?” Epik meant to whisper, but it came out an exclamation.

  Dom shook his head in agitation, his eyes searching for anyone in the hall that had ears and was using them.

  “Your king,” he whispered, “Epiman. I believe he might go by his middle name now. But here we knew him as Prince Gabriel.”

  “Gabriel,” Epik whispered but louder than Dom could countenance. The knight gave the halfling another look. “Sorry,” Epik mouthed.

  “Now you catch on.” Dom sighed. He turned his attention back to his plate. Still in a whisper, he said, “Have you thought about the deal? You’re still good with it, right?”

  Epik nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.

  He went upstairs to change. Kavya helped him into his armor. Epik had polished the copper to a bright shine.

  “Here,” she said, “for luck.” And Kavya bent down and kissed him, not square on the mouth, but with parted lips brushing his. Her lips wrapped his top lip in a warm and wet embrace. The sweet smell of her skin filled Epik’s nose and lingered there for a while after.

  Kavya stood up and smiled shyly.

  “Thanks,” Epik said, mouth agape. “I do need luck. I could really use a moonstone right now,” he said, almost to himself.

  “A moonstone?” Kavya touched briefly at her neck but quickly moved her hands back to her sides. “Why?”

  “Well, to ward against magic.” Epik shrugged.

  Kavya’s face tilted sideways. Her eyes scrunched questioningly. “Moonstones do not ward against magic. They are magic. Moonstones, what’s the word… They boost magic. Amplify it.” She touched at her throat once more and pursed her lips. “Moonstone may protect from a blade or lance, but not magic. Now that I think on it, maybe you should wear one.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you know about moonstones?” Epik’s tone was almost rude—incredulous certainly. He didn’t know why.

  “Epik,” Kavya said, hurt, “I know about moonstones.” She had fire in her eyes. “What do you think of slaves?” she asked him. “You think we should be slav
es?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Then why do you have me help you get ready for the joust? You could put armor on yourself.”

  Epik faltered. It was true. Why had he asked her for help?

  “Because,” he said. “Because I like you.”

  “You like me. But you don’t believe the words that I say.”

  “No,” Epik shook his head, “it’s not that.”

  “Time to go!” Kavya pointed at the door then led him down in silence.

  At the parade, Todder and Sir Wallack waited with Buster.

  “This damn pony didn’t want to come out of the stall,” Sir Wallack groused.

  “The old knight had to feed him his breakfast,” Todder said with a slight grin meant only for Epik’s eyes.

  “I’ve got him from here.” Epik mounted the pony, patting his neck. “Remember the training?” he asked. “Actually, I have an idea. Will you trust me?”

  Buster snorted a reply.

  “I’ll take it,” Epik said, believing that he and Buster had found some sort of compromise.

  It was much like the parades of the days’ prior, if less jovial now that each bout meant something—someone would win and someone would be out.

  Some knights battled for the prize money, winning meant keeping their nice houses and luxury. But most were there for glory, not money, and glory was everything.

  Or, it was to Epik. He wanted to return to Dune All-En a champion. He wanted to save the kingdom. He wanted to be a real knight.

  They circled the arena then waited in the tunnel for the first joust to take place. The crowds were more invested now, invested in their knight, not just in the spectacle. Most wore their colors with pride. And there were still louder chants and cheers.

  A deadly sword, a lance of gold,

  a horse that bucked beneath his load;

  a steady hand, and magic bold,

  that’s what Sir Daggon’s showed.

  Sir Wallack and Todder bickered, jockeying for a position to watch from while Epik calmed his nerves. He buried them in their usual spot in the pit of his stomach. He would need them shortly.