The horses circled the pitch and lined up where their opponent had been.
Squires handed each knight a new lance, the flag waved, and the horses were sprinting once more. Sir Lucas attempted the same move, aiming for Sir Dom’s chest this time. Sir Dom moved his shield, and Dom’s lance was much truer than before. Instead of red sparks, a steady green flame licked the entirety of the pole until it met square in Sir Lucas’s belly, engulfing the other knight in green fire.
Lucas threw himself off his horse who bolted toward the crowd of commoners. The knight did a sort of panicked dance before attempting to roll on the dirt. But the flames would not smother. Finally, two jesters dressed in bright yellows and greens ran from the tunnel. They had painted faces and bells dangled droopily from their hats, jingling with each step. The two jesters doused him with buckets of water, putting out the blaze and hauling him off the pitch on a litter. The fact that they took several wrong turns and spilled the man back to the grass several times was comical to the crowd.
Epik’s skin crawled as he wondered about Sir Lucas’s flesh and then worried about his own. What had he got himself into? No, what had King Epiman gotten him into?
“What a way to start the tourney, eh, folks? The Indomitable Knight wins by way of a knock-off. Next up, Sir Thaddeus the Bold versus Sir Byron. I have to say I’ve been looking forward to this one for some time.”
Epik cowered through several more matches before the afternoon sun began to wane, and the beer sellers began to run out of ale.
Each jouster had their own flair, their own sort of magic—even their own sect of supporters wearing their colors and singing songs devoted to their knight.
At an opening before one of the last competitions of the day, Epik gathered the courage to speak with the Grand Sovereign who acted as if he enjoyed the jousts as much as the commoners.
Epik chose his words carefully.
“Sire,” Epik said, most of his fear of addressing the man was figuring out what he should call him. “Would it be possible for me to prepare for tomorrow’s joust? It’s just... It’s been a long journey. I’m afraid my form may have diminished.”
The Grand Sovereign looked at Epik a bit skeptically but nodded. “By all means, of course.” A thin smile curled the edges of his mouth. “I want you to do your best tomorrow. Your very best.”
Epik motioned for Sir Wallack and Todder to follow him. Todder did so immediately, but Wallack hesitated as if he wanted to stay and watch.
“He’s your pupil, ain’t he?” Todder groused at the old knight.
Where Sir Wallack had girth, Todder had height—and girth. The knight frowned but grudgingly came with them down to the tunnels.
“You rode the horse only this morning,” Sir Wallack said. “And after all that riding to get here you won’t have lost any form. What are you talking about?”
“It’s not the form I’m worried about,” Epik said grimly. “I need your help looking through some books at the castle. We need magic… Stat!”
21
Watership Up
The sun set over Dune All-En like the passing of a swift—one second it was noon, then three o’clock, and the next thing Brendan knew the sun was gone—over the distant horizon.
From the edge of the rampart, above the gate, Brendan took one last look out to the road and the mingled troops surrounding the city. A smattering of campfires glowed as some of the soldiers from King’s Way shared food and conversation with the stranded troops and the Watch of Dune All-En.
There was no fighting. In fact, Brendan was sure he heard merriment and song which only worked to dampen Brendan’s spirits further. He climbed down the ladder, walked past the Rotten Apple and the burnt remains of that old wizard’s shop across from it, then through the city to the castle to make his nightly report to the king.
There will be no treaty, the king’s words reverberated in Brendan’s mind. But did the troops know that? They didn’t seem to.
Epiman was eating at his desk. He hardly glanced up when Brendan entered the room. “Is it that time already?” he said in his nasal drawl.
Brendan nodded then realized the king was still looking down and couldn’t see him. “Um… yes, sire. It is.”
“All right. Well, go on.”
“I guess,” Brendan started. “Well, I guess there’s nothing to report. It’s all status quo. The men, ours included, just sit there all day, all night. You’re sure there won’t be a treaty? If that’s the case, shouldn’t we prepare somehow?”
“That’s why I have a commander of an army and a captain of the Watch.”
“Sure,” Brendan said reluctantly. “But I haven’t heard a peep from Commander Lightbody. And I’m just… acting captain,” he finished, even more reluctantly.
“Are you just acting?” Epiman put his fork and knife down on the plate with a small chink.
The question came as a surprise. It didn’t feel like acting. It felt like real work.
“I... I guess not.”
“Good!” Epiman’s cold blue eyes peered over his spectacles and found Brendan’s. “So, tell me your plans.”
Brendan found the words somewhere, words he hadn’t expected to be there at all. They just began to flow from his mouth. “Well, it’s not exactly a plan. It’s an idea,” he said. “I was thinking how useful the navy ships can be when they’re in the harbor, their cannons and all that. But there’s a problem.”
“That they’re generally out at sea?”
“Exactly,” Brendan said enthusiastically. “So, I was thinking: what if there were ships that floated on the air? That would be useful. More than useful. It would be downright the best thing ever to happen to combat.”
Epiman looked thoughtful. “That does sound useful.”
Brendan’s anxiety grew. He reached for the words, but the words were no longer there. This was where his notions ended. “There’s just the one problem,” he said.
“They don’t exist?” Epiman said, not unkindly.
“Yeah, that.” Brendan was dejected. Exhausted. He felt as if his energy was drained somehow.
Epiman slipped a piece of parchment from a drawer. He drew his quill and dipped it in ink.
“Do you know about investing?” he asked.
Brendan shook his head.
“Well, I have two business associates. One builds small canvas balloons, and the other, light sailboats. They have nothing in common, save this: They both owe me a favor.”
Epiman tore a small rectangle from the top of the parchment. He handed it to Brendan.
“Tell them I sent you.”
22
The Bad Beginning
The roar of the Coliseum was muffled slightly below the seats—ever so slightly. Still, the earsplitting sound of people as they cheered, stomped, rang bells and sounded horns reverberated through every available space as Epik led Buster down the tunnel and out toward the grandstand.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
Epik sighed loudly but was the only one to hear it—to feel it. It had been a long night, a really long night, interrupted briefly by the feast.
It turned out Sir Wallack couldn’t read very well. So, he flipped through the pages looking at the pictures attached to each spell (when there were pictures). And Todder kept getting sidetracked with spells he knew his granny could do. The best they had found was a bit about thunder and lightning.
But it was something Epik could use, and right now he would take about anything. What had King Epiman gotten him into? Had he known all along that this was to be Epik’s fate?
Boom. Boom. Clap.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
Epik stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. Sir Gallad rode up astride a black stallion. He, too, stopped at the mouth. From here, Epik felt even more inadequate. Half a man. Half a knight.
A few onlookers outside of the tunnel saw Gallad’s metallic red armor, a contrast from the emerald green Epik was used to seeing on the knights of King’s
Way. A chorus of cheers rang out to encourage him, and the knight waved up at them.
“I’ll sign your bosoms later, lass,” Sir Gallad promised with the arrogance of a schoolboy jock. Epik briefly pictured Frank Biggle, his longtime nemesis back at the Hog’s Toot Saloon. “Better mount, Sir Epik.” Gallad said. He sounded cordial— quite unlike Frank Biggle. But the knight was about to rip Epik to shreds in the joust, of that Epik was sure.
There was no time to question. No backing out. Epik would do this for Gabby, for his father. It was his time to do something on his own for a change. Even if the world weighed on Epik heavier than a stack of Sir Wallack’s books.
Speaking of whom, the old knight ran up the tunnel. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.
Todder put his palms out for Epik to step into and hoisted the halfling up into the saddle; he gave Wallack a hard look. “What were you doing?” Todder asked.
“Had to see a man about a horse.”
Todder shook his head, unimpressed. “You know that idiom doesn’t work so well when we’re around horses all the damn time.”
“Hmm… You’re right. Let’s just say last night’s feast got to me. And it might get to me again later.”
Epik grimaced at the thought.
“Do you have any last-minute tips?” Epik stole a look at the knight. Sir Gallad, not Sir Wallack. Definitely not Sir Wallack—every time there was any incident of matter Wallack tended to have the urge to poo.
The red knight smiled cheekily. “Don’t die,” he deadpanned, then Gallad pulled down his visor and spurred his horse into motion.
Epik tried to do the same, but it took several kicks and a slap on the backside from Todder before Buster headed out to the jeers of the crowd.
Just the day before, the field had been covered with fresh sod, but today there were already jagged grooves of dirt dug into the ground beside the tilt—the fence separating the horses when they ran.
A spike of adrenaline surged through Epik’s body when he heard the chants louder than ever. They weren’t for him, but he felt it all the same. The raw emotion of the crowd coursed through the Coliseum.
Then he heard them. The chants. The ones directed his way. Whether it was because he was from Dune All-En or because he was a halfling, the crowd had taken a dislike to him.
They began to sing.
Small man, you should feel down.
We say, small man, you’ll be on the ground.
We say, small man, cause you’re in a new town.
There’s no need to be jousting.
It’s fun to slay a halfling today.
It’s fun to slay a halfling today.
Buster trotted once around the pitch before taking the position opposite Sir Gallad.
The clamor of the crowd died to dull roar.
“Welcome,” the announcer’s amplified voice boomed. His words echoed around the Coliseum. “This year, we have the pleasure of hosting our friends from Dune All-En. Their knight, Sir Epik, hails from a small piece of land called the Bog. In this second day of competition, we begin with Sir Epik Stout versus our very own Sir Hendry Gallad.”
A chorus of boos emitted from the crowd at Epik’s name but were quickly overshadowed by the applause and chants for Sir Gallad.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
Boom. Boom. Clap.
The cadence began anew.
Todder ran up with Epik’s half-sized lance. Epik gripped it tightly and held it in the air vertically.
Now there was laughter.
“How’s he going to joust with that wee thing?” An onlooker asked.
“Same way you dilly with your wee thing!” Todder defended Epik.
“Now, now,” the announcer said. “We will treat our guests with respect. That’s an order from the Grand Sovereign.” Any lingering booes fizzled out.
“Now,” the announcer said, “Let’s get ready to baaaaaaattle.”
A flag waved, barely visible in the narrow slit of Epik’s visor. It must have indicated something because the black stallion under the red knight leapt forward. In less than seconds, the horse was at full speed. All of this before Epik could even nudge Buster into motion.
The pony cantered down along the tilt. Epik’s legs squeezed the saddle, as tense as the rest of him. He held up his shield, blocking most of his chest from any direct contact. Sir Gallad lowered his lance. Epik did the same. It happened so fast, Epik forgot to use any magic at all.
Blue sparks flickered across Sir Gallad’s lance. Buster had never reached full momentum, still cantering slowly as he passed the other horse.
The blow was like a lightning bolt, only with more force. Epik rocked back; his left foot slid out of the stirrup. But thanks to his small stature, he was able to dig his heel into Buster’s side and correct himself before falling off of the pony completely.
That wasn’t to say he was okay. The shock raced down every nerve ending and up every vein. He was sure his heart had stopped at least twice. But it was over, and they were on the other side of the stadium.
Epik sighed, relieved to be alive.
“One lance to Sir Gallad,” the announcer boomed. “One point.”
The audience clapped approvingly. Perhaps they’d expected Epik to fall and were taken aback that he hadn’t. Buster turned slowly. “And we’re off to the second lance.”
This time, Buster remembered his training. He sprang from the starting line, tipping Epik back in the saddle. Dizzied, Epik at least remembered magic this time. He tried to conjure up that lightning or that thunder or anything.
Nothing.
Again Sir Gallad lowered his lance, tendrils of icy blue swirling with the motion. And again, the lance struck Epik’s shield dead center. It threw the halfling back on the horse with all the force of a stampeding rhino throwing a small bolt of lightning. Epik’s lance hadn’t come near the knight in either round. Todder still held a spare, unneeded.
“Do something, lad,” he yelled.
Buster turned again.
Magic, Epik thought. He could do magic. Why was he letting himself be tortured like this?
“Another lance to Sir Gallad. Maybe we’ll see something new this last round.” A guffaw rippled across the arena at the announcer’s joke.
Buster, like Epik, knew the end in was sight. The pony turned and started before the flag. It waved slightly, and Sir Gallad’s horse was off as well.
The red knight heeded the suggestion of the announcer. He brought the lance down and this time a green flame burst from the tip. Epik remembered the previous day’s match. The vision of Sir Lucas engulfed in flame sent a bubble of fear to his stomach.
Magic, Epik thought. Magic, Epik begged the back of his mind to switch on. It did, but it fused with the fear in his belly.
Epik and Buster vanished. And strangely, Gallad’s lance went straight through him. Epik couldn’t even feel its heat.
“Whoa,” the crowd gasped as one. Utter silence followed.
The announcer cast about for something to say.
“Well,” he said. “I haven’t seen that one before.” He looked over the arena to the Grand Sovereign who shrugged. All eyes scoured the grounds for Epik. Even the Grand Sovereign looked down with suspicion. But Myra took him by the shoulder, and he righted himself, nodding, smiling, acting as if nothing was wrong.
Behind them, Gerdy waited anxiously.
“Sir Gallad wins, er, I guess, two points to none?” the announcer asked. There was little applause. The people in the stands were bewildered.
Epik kept the spell going, urging Buster onward and out of the stadium. They slithered through gates and between people as if they weren’t even there at all.
Epik’s racing heart slowed. “Good boy,” he told the pony, patting Buster’s invisible mane. He moved the reins, and Buster trotted through the deserted streets.
Invisibility had a strange effect on the pony. Buster had always felt judged unfairly by his size—like Epik. But invisible, the pony could be anything. He could be
powerful. He could be fast. Or so it seemed because Buster burst into a determined gallop that Epik had never before seen. They sped through the streets with no goal in mind.
They both just wanted out.
“Buster, the invisible horse,” Epik said encouragingly. “If only all your friends at the king’s stables could not see you now.”
Epik had half a mind to just race out of the city. His tournament was over, although he knew he had one more match—the elimination round. But he’d acted in such a cowardly manner. What help could he lend the delegation now? Per usual, Epik’s heart guided him with a reassuring tug, and with a shake of the reins he turned the pony back toward the Coliseum.
As they went, Epik stared at the space on the road where their shadows should have been. And there it was again, a Shadow trailing them, gliding along the walls, skipping over the dirt, struggling to keep up.
Epik slowed Buster, and the Shadow kept going, momentarily unable to see or sense them.
That was true of the Shadow… But not of someone else.
Kavya, Epik’s brown-eyed servant girl, was standing in the middle of the street. Her hands were raised to bring Buster to a halt.
Buster, adverse to confrontation, began to veer away from her.
“No, it’s okay,” Epik said, unsure if that was true. As Buster slowed to a stop before her, Epik searched for the Shadow again, but the Shadow was gone.
“You can… You can see us?” Epik asked her.
Kavya shook her head. “No, I cannot see you. But I can feel your magic. I could sense it coming this way.”
“Oh,” Epik grunted, even more baffled. He undid the spell, and horse and halfling appeared, along with their shadows. “Does that mean you’re a—”
“No,” she cut him off. “It means just that. I can sense magic. It’s a talent I’ve been given.”
“Okay.” Epik was uneasy. She really was pretty. And he was ashamed for what he had just done. And he wanted to know more about her. And he wanted to know how she could sense magic.
Knowing is Halfling the Battle: An Arthurian Fantasy Romp (Epik Fantasy Book 2) Page 10