Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp

by William Tyler Davis

  “Can I see it?” Gerdy asked.

  “No, I left in my room in Dune All-En, didn’t I?”

  “What?” Gerdy stopped abruptly. “You read it that day—after he said not to?” Gerdy felt the sting of shame that she too had been tempted to read the scroll early. But she had resisted. She read it in her room just after her bath.

  “It’s just a note,” Myra said. She had a point. “What did yours say?”

  “It said I’m to pretend that we’re not involved and to act as if I’m your handmaiden. Then it said something odd, in a weird sort of scribble.”

  “Yeah,” Myra nodded, “just like the notes he used to leave on my bed at home. What did that part say?”

  “To keep you, Myra, you, in my heart.”

  “Really? That is odd.” Myra turned to another booth and said, jesting, “Well, since you’re my handmaiden, then whatever I buy here you get to carry back up to the castle.”

  “Thanks, Mye. Love you, too.”

  They stopped at a booth twice the size as most of the others. All of the clotheslines converged here, where they zip-lined to the stall. Fleeces, wools, cloth, all manner of hides and furs were hung inside, making it a maze of textiles, not unlike the market itself. Some were sewn together into cloaks and blankets, but most were there ready for the making.

  “I could use some cold weather attire,” Myra said, ducking under a rather lively looking mink.

  Gerdy wished the gold earrings hadn’t been fake. A thick hide of bear or wolf or some strange hybrid was draped around her shoulders. The two girls skirted the edge of the market in search of a swift route back to the castle.

  “You’re sure I won’t look silly? I could take it back.”

  “If it’s this cold now,” Gerdy panted, “then I’m sure when we leave, this will not look silly. Practical, maybe.”

  “Speaking of, I need to find something for the tournament.”

  “I’m sure the clothes you have will do.”

  Myra stopped at a baker’s cart and picked up a croissant. “Aren’t these those things Epik likes? How long do you think he’ll last?”

  “How long do I think he’ll last where?”

  “In the tournament,” Myra said, matter-of-fact. “We were just speaking of it.”

  But Gerdy didn’t have long to ponder the question. Not even enough time for it to click that Epik was entered into the tourney. A woman ran up the dusty thoroughfare between the stalls. Her screaming sobs pierced the low roar of the market crowd.

  First, she ran to a man about ten feet in front of them. She grabbed at his shirt, but he pushed her off.

  Undeterred, the woman turned to Myra.

  “Oh miss, oh miss!” She pulled on Myra’s headscarf. The woman’s reddened eyes beseeched Myra with an expression of sorrow that Gerdy had only ever seen like of once before—when Epik had lost his father and his mentor, both in a matter of hours.

  The woman’s cheeks were streaked where her tears had cut the dust on her face.

  “Oh miss,” she said. “Have you seen him?” The woman held up what Gerdy at first thought to be a carefully rendered sketch of a boy, but upon further inspection, the details were too rich. It wasn’t a drawing but something more, something Gerdy had never seen outside of a book: a photo. “Have you seen my boy? He went missing yesterday.”

  Myra backed away, but the woman was having none of it. She didn’t mind being dragged along the street. She held tightly to Myra’s scarf. “I don’t want him to end up like the others,” the woman sobbed. “Not like the others.”

  Then it was over. Catarina stepped between them. She pushed the older woman away and snatched the picture from her hand.

  “You dare accost the princess!”

  “No miss,” the woman pleaded. Now realizing her mistake, she fell to her knees, bowing in Myra’s direction.

  But it was too late. The green of the guards flashed behind her. They dragged her away by the elbows.

  Catarina tore the picture to shreds, scattering the pieces on the chalky ground at her feet. The woman wailed at the casual cruelty, still crying, still pleading her case.

  “We’re going back now,” Catarina said.

  Myra nodded.

  “But what happened to her son?” Gerdy asked. The words just slipped from her mouth.

  “It’s nothing,” Catarina said, coolly. “He’s probably off with his friends. You know the way kids like to give their mothers fits.”

  “But what will happen to her?”

  The question went unanswered as the servant pushed past Gerdy and took Myra gently by the elbow. “Miss, we must go back to the castle now.”

  Myra’s eyes pleaded with Gerdy to stop questioning. Gerdy could see that Myra was sorry their trip had ended this way.

  Gerdy was, too. Two weeks of barely talking had put a Myra sized hole in her heart.

  20

  Lord of the Joust

  Epik was greeted the next morning by the servant girl, the same as the previous day. She tucked her chin into her chest, smiling in greeting, then shied away as Epik was dressed only in undergarments—a white linen shirt and shorts. He had laid out several formal options on the bed, and his armor was stacked neatly on the floor.

  Do I need it? he wondered.

  “You don’t ride today,” she said.

  Epik had been mistaken the night before, thinking her shy smile rude. She wore it as constantly as Epik typically wore the broad smile that his friends had come to know and love.

  “I… um… I don’t?”

  She shook her head; understanding dawned in her smile. “I think that one.” She pointed to an ensemble of jacket with purple and gold trim and suede riding breeches.

  “Sure,” Epik finally returned the smile. “This one.”

  She looked away as Epik finished dressing. Her hair was fine and dark. She had a freckle high on her cheek that attracted the eye. The girl was slender and short for a human. Epik’s brow reached her waistline where his eyes again tried to focus and it was his turn to look away shyly.

  “So, the joust, right?” Epik asked.

  “Yes, joust,” the girl said. Her accent was heavy. It wasn’t like the others, not like Sir Dom’s thick brogue or the Grand Sovereign’s nasal style. She led him from his room and down the spiral stair of his tower.

  “And we’re just going to watch today, right?”

  Epik knew little about what was about to take place. He was allowed out that morning with Sir Wallack and Todder to see to Buster and the other horses. There was some mention of the tournament by a squire who had lingered at the stables, interested in the newcomers. The boy claimed Epik was seeded to go the next day. But what the tournament had to do with plants, Epik and the others were unsure.

  “Yes, you will just watch today.”

  “Are you from around here?” Epik asked.

  “No,” she said sharply. “The Grand Sovereign, he took slaves from World’s Eye as his own.”

  “So, you’re from World’s Eye?”

  “No,” she corrected, “from across the sea.” With a hand to her chest, she said, “You, Epik. Me, Kavya.”

  “Kaav-yaa,” Epik said slowly and deliberately—to get it right. “How long have you been here?”

  “Several months,” she whispered, but turned away as they met the rest of the party waiting inside the castle’s grand entrance.

  Across the sea? Epik wondered. He had never heard of anything from across the sea.

  Kavya joined the other servants. Only Myra’s yellow-eyed girl remained abreast of the party. She bowed her head politely then motioned for them to follow her outside the castle.

  The streets were crowded to capacity, with multitudes more people than the day before. The same brown hazy brown dome hung over the city, imbued with the stench of thousands of people who needed a bath. Epik had had another bath that morning. He took to smelling his own armpits for relief. They were piney and fresh smelled like fall.

  The delegation wa
s led away from the eastern thoroughfare that brought them into the city. A Coliseum towered above the buildings around it in what Epik decided was the most central place in the kingdom. It looked new, unblemished. From this vantage, he could just make out the rest of King’s Way on the other side of the hill.

  Around the castle were the homes of nobles—mansions, manors, and grand homes. But down the hill, the dwellings became squalid. The peasants’ homes weren’t made of stone. Most were just ramshackle huts. They would provide little shelter from any element whether it be rain, sun, or cold.

  “Why does he let his subjects live like that?” Epik asked no one in particular.

  Wallack grunted beside him. “Well,” the old knight said, “it’s not much different from those kids down in the park in Dune All-En, is it?”

  “I mean,” Epik started. “I guess not. But—”

  “This is their own doing,” Sir Wallack said rudely. “Should have been born to noble families if they wanted nice things.”

  “How could they…” Epik trailed off. Sir Wallack had gotten ahead of him, looking eager to get to their destination.

  “Don’t mind him,” Todder said softly. The captain pointed to the crowd ahead of them in the street. “Whatever they lack in comfort they make up for in enthusiasm.”

  The thoroughfare ended at another street where they met what looked like a parade. Knights in armor of all colors rode high atop powerful steeds. Between them, young squires waved banners and streamers. Still more people flocked behind, singing and cheering while onlookers waved and chanted on each side of the street.

  “Get ya brackets, here,” a man called to them from a cart parked haphazardly in the middle of an alleyway. “Mark ‘em correct and turn a silver dollar to a thousand gold.” He bore a strange resemblance to a fire-retardant cloak seller Epik had met once in Dune All-En.

  “Brackets?” Epik asked.

  Todder just shrugged.

  The man was handing out yellowed pieces of parchment. And everyone seemed desperate to get their hands on one.

  The crowd thickened around the Coliseum. But the lemon-eyed servant led them around and past several guards who nodded at her in turn, and soon they found themselves in a crowded box of seats with the Grand Sovereign. It looked over a perfect view of the checkered lawn of a jousting pitch, freshly painted with white lines dividing the field from the pit where the squires stood and yellow lines marking where each horse would start.

  The noise was a steady roar as people mingled and took seats. Then the Grand Sovereign sat on the throne like chair in the center of the box and everything was readied to begin.

  The outside of the Coliseum had been crowded, but it couldn’t rival the inside which was brimming with person upon person clamoring for a view of the joust. On one side were the nobles, in seats and boxes. Even they were packed in so tightly elbows touched the ribs of each neighbor. On the other side of the stadium were row upon row of stands where the commoners did just that, they stood.

  Between the commoners and the pitch, men in yellow tunics, beating sticks at the ready to prevent any of the common folk from getting out of line or trying to make a run for the pitch.

  Children were climbing the beams to get a better view, some all the way up to the rafters. They dangled their legs fifty feet above the crowd—but at least they were sitting. These might be the best seats in the house, but there was one child whose sleeve had turned crimson from patting his nose dry.

  The Grand Sovereign’s box was high above the other nobles. Both Myra and her grandfather perched atop throne-like seats. They looked down at the edge of the box while the others, Epik included, were seated beside or behind them.

  Sir Wallack tried to claim the last remaining seat along the ledge, which would have forced Epik back without any chance of a view to the field. Todder was having nothing of that; he stepped up for the halfling.

  “Let’s sit over here together, good knight,” Todder said jovially. It was the ‘good knight’ bit that sold the old man.

  Epik’s view was better than decent. He did have to sit on his knees and lean toward the ledge to see, but compared to the other side of the arena, men and women alike stretching and climbing for an obscured and uncomfortable view, his was without a doubt one of the best.

  In Dune All-En, Epik had attended one tournament and it wasn’t at all like this. There were plenty of people crowded in seats, but the vibe was altogether more subdued. Still, he had watched the knights do battle with a zealous heart. In the storybooks of his youth, a knight won honor and glory in the joust. Deep inside, Epik had craved that, too.

  In reality, the knights of Dune All-En were not all that chivalrous. They had shown Epik little courtesy. He had scrimped to glean any nugget of information, learning that sitting on a horse was one thing but steering one into combat while carrying a shield and a lance was a something entirely different.

  “You will be part of the parade tomorrow,” Kavya said. She pointed up to a large board on the left side of the Coliseum. There, each knight was listed and paired against another. Some had given names which read like his: Sir Epik Stout against Sir Gallad. Others were listed by nicknames: The Indomitable Knight. Still others were demarked by the color of their armor alone: The Knight in Black, Red Donned, and another that read TBD.

  Epik noticed one of the nobles had one of those yellowed pieces of parchment from the man in the street.

  “Can I see that?” he asked.

  “All right,” the man said. “Here, you keep that one. I’ve got two. Fill it out. It’s due before the first elimination match.”

  Now Epik could see what the word brackets meant. The knights were bracketed together, separated by day and seeded with numbers where the names would trickle down. Only the winners advanced. Finally, on the last day of the tournament, the last two knights would joust.

  “Thanks,” Epik said. “I joust tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “That’s right. First round is three days. Then elimination begins. That’s these numbers here.”

  Epik nodded. “So, double elimination?”

  “Right.” The man pointed above the semi-final rounds. “Here’s where it truly gets interesting.”

  The noble perked up in his seat. The parade was making its way onto the pitch. Each knight upon his steed along with squires and joust officials, men with flags, and one man amongst them dressed in a fine black suit.

  The man waved up to the crowd, and a chorus of cheers shook the arena. They knew him. They liked him. He went to the middle of the field as each knight took a lap and went down into the tunnels on either side of the Coliseum.

  The crowd quieted.

  A squire handed the man a small box which he held up to his face. Anticipation building, the crowd seemed to quiet further. There was an electricity to the air in a place where there was no electricity just yet.

  Then the man said, his voice rising to a crescendo, “Let’s get ready to baaaaaaattle!!!!”

  The arena went absolutely nuts. The Coliseum shook beneath Epik’s seat as ear-splitting roaring and stomping erupted beneath him.

  “Our first bout of the two hundred and twenty-second Harvest Tournament...” the announcer paused for effect, “...in the red corner, jousting from the Shadow Sea of Foghorn, we bring you Sir Lucas, the Gray Knight.” There was a trickle of applause.

  “Up against our very own—in the blue corner,” the announcer smiled, you could see the sparkling from the top box, “he really needs no introduction, but I’ll give him my best. Hailing from the heart of King’s Way, just up the road from this very coliseum, undefeated with a hundred and twenty-six wins, fifty-eight of those coming by way of knock-off, and two wins by hand-to-hand combat, the reigning JOUST CHAMPION of the Reeeealm!

  “The… INDOMITABLE… KNIIIIIGHT!”

  If the crowd was loud before, the tumult was deafening now. They had a favorite, and Sir Dom was it. The Indomitable Knight rode out to thunderous applause. He wore green arm
or, the same emerald as those of King’s Way. His horse was as black as night but with green armor scales overlapping down her neck, a green saddle, and green fibers woven in her braided tail. She reared up, pawing at the air, revealing every sinew of muscle as it flexed under her gleaming coat.

  Time passed in a blur. The knights’ lances were readied by their squires, and they were off. Sir Lucas, in dull grey armor astride a spotted stallion, lowered his lance. Sir Dom did the same.

  Epik was ready for the blows to be taken—the points to be awarded. He knew how this would go. No, he thought he knew how this would go.

  Something was off. Something was different about the lances. White light erupted from the tip of Sir Lucas’s lance and struck Sir Dom’s shield with an explosion of energy and light.

  But the knight in green was far from outdone. Sir Dom’s lance flickered with bolts of red energy arcing like lightning across the pitch. This lightning hit Sir Lucas precisely mid-chest and juddered his body in the saddle in spasm.

  The crowd cheered heartily as Sir Dom was awarded two points for the blow and Sir Lucas only one.

  “An excellent show of form by The Indomitable Knight,” the announcer said. He had moved to a box above the commoners, similar to, if shabbier than that of the Grand Sovereign.

  Epik looked around. First, to the crowd who acted as if nothing much had happened. Well, that wasn’t true—they cheered raucously but not any differently than before the bout.

  Epik caught Gerdy’s eye. They exchanged nervous looks, both having realized this wasn’t just a joust… but a magical one.

  To Epik’s surprise, neither Myra nor Sir Wallack were dismayed by this in the slightest. Their eyes were locked on the field below. Only Todder displayed any shock or disbelief, gaping down at the pitch.

  This wasn’t what Epik had expected at all. Magic was his only advantage against men. An even playing field wasn’t going to be even for a halfling knight. His insides quivered with the realization.

  The horses circled the pitch and lined up where their opponent had been.