Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp

  Knowing is Halfling the Battle

  Epik Fantasy Book 2

  William Tyler Davis

  Edited by

  Ellen Campbell

  Illustrated by

  J Caleb Clark

  Copyright © 2018 by William Tyler Davis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN-10: 0-9991153-1-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9991153-1-2

  To Jenn, my rock, who among other things grants me the time to be silly and write these things down.

  Contents

  Part I

  1. An Abundance of Bonging

  2. War and Not Peace

  3. The Pony and His Halfling

  4. Going Naval

  5. A Squall of Swords

  6. Divergence

  7. A Series of Fortunate Events

  8. A Knife in the Bright

  9. A Half-dwarf Girl in King Epiman’s Court

  10. The Road

  11. Endless Nights

  12. After Dark

  Part II

  13. Goodbye Day

  14. Brewonomics

  15. The Emperor’s Trim

  16. Words of Ill-Radiance

  17. The View from the Lower Seats

  18. Masquerade

  19. Weaveworld

  20. Lord of the Joust

  21. Watership Up

  22. The Bad Beginning

  23. The Giver

  24. Lords

  25. And Ladies

  26. Kindred Spirits

  27. The Truth

  Part III

  28. It

  29. The Fault in Our Shadows

  30. Blood Magic Fiends

  31. Love in the Time of Tournament

  32. Catching Fire

  33. Snuff

  34. Epik’s Shadow

  35. Thief of Time

  36. A Memory of Enlightenment

  37. The Chamber of Secrets

  38. Voyage of the Unnamed Treader

  39. A Game of You

  40. My Sister's Keeper

  41. The Lightning Knight

  42. Mortal Engines

  43. Attachments

  44. Fool's Quest

  45. Epilogue: In the Next Epik Fantasy

  Footnotes

  Also by William Tyler Davis

  Acknowledgments

  Build a man a fire, and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.

  Sir Terry Pratchett

  Part I

  To the sorcerer, magic and emotion are one and the same. A magician must learn not to wear their emotions on a robed or cloaked sleeve, but instead, to utilize and bind it with magic, as needed.

  - On Emotion

  The Art of Sorcery, Vol. 1: Fundamental Magicks, 2nd Edition

  Doland Knuth

  1

  An Abundance of Bonging

  The sky was sapphire blue—the preferred color on bright, sun-filled fall days, with the bitterness of winter still well ahead. The birds burbled happily, springing from branch to branch amid the majestic reds, oranges, and yellows—funny they turn to brown so quickly after finding the ground.

  In the wood outside the city, those brown leaves crunched noisily where heavy men with heavy boots made heavy footfalls.

  The city bustled behind its well-fortified wall, recently repaired—the crushed-in bit on the east side crushed no longer. It stood as high and as well-guarded as the rest of the Wall.

  Dune All-En, a city like no other1, where humans, dwarves, elves, and even a few goblins lived in harmony. And, of course, one halfling called it home.

  Epik’s throat burned with the fire of a thousand suns. Well, maybe not a thousand suns but at least one or two. His tongue swept his mouth, feeling like the sandpapery tongue of a cat, dry and without any attachment to him at all.

  “Could I have a sip of water?” he croaked.

  “No. Water is for the weak. Are you weak?”

  Epik knew the right answer. And he knew the honest one. His shoulders burned. His neck, too, was afflicted by pain and stiffness. Becoming a knight was proving difficult. Even more difficult than he had imagined at the outset, and Epik hadn’t taken his oath lightly. He had known a knight’s duty was to protect the realm, to quest in far off lands, and to fight.

  But his body was sore in places he never knew muscles existed, like between his shoulder blades and the lower arch of his back. There was also a tender spot on his thigh just above his knee. It ached now as Epik tried to prevent his legs from shaking.

  His neck had never been so stiff and immobile. Lactic acid built up at the base of his spine and spilled through the rest of his body.

  Yes, becoming a knight was proving much more difficult than he had ever expected… And different, as well.

  “And it’s ‘may I.’” Sir Wallack stuffed a napkin into the frilled shirt currently straining to conceal his girth. “Now have another bite of that chicken.”

  “I don’t think I—” Epik managed to say in spite of his cottonmouth.

  Sir Wallack cut him off. “I didn’t ask if you wanted it. I told you to eat up. Now, eat!”

  Epik sought the darkest piece he could find. For skin. For fat. But the chicken breast in front of him was absent of anything useful to his dry mouth, including flavor.

  Yes, the ordeal of becoming a knight was contrary to every storybook notion Epik had ever had. There was far less fighting and a good deal more eating.

  “Come now,” Sir Wallack said. He stood and strode behind the halfling. Epik couldn’t see what he was doing, but he could guess. And he was right; yet another thick book was added to the growing stack above his head. His neck wobbled momentarily. “One more bite!” Sir Wallack barked.

  Eating usually quite suited the halfling inside Epik. While he had tried to snuff out his other halfling tendencies—things like being afraid of heights, fights, and women—he had always let his stomach play a significant role in his affairs.

  But his stomach grew weary of being overfed. Half-dazed, Epik eyed the fork and stuffed the chicken in his stubborn mouth. It felt like a scoop of sand. He struggled to gather enough saliva to swallow. The goblets behind the cutlery just out of reach glinted entrancingly. Each of the vessels had its own purpose, he knew, but of the four, only water was filled.

  “You’re slouching again,” Sir Wallack chided. “I can barely see your head over the table as it is. Perk up, boy. There’s only one bite left.”

  Epik straightened his spine, his neck still straining against the stack of books leveled on top of it—the only books he had ever loathed. Right now, he was ready to return to his room, to his books, and to his friends, Gerdy and Myra.

  “Much better. We’ll make a knight of you yet, boy.” The old knight laughed heartily. Sir Wallack may have been grizzled and fat, but he was stately with it. There wasn’t a hair out of place in his well-kept beard or his slicked-back hair curling under against his blubbery neck. The knight’s brown eyes met Epik’s. “I was like you once, boy,” he said, smiling, then left Epik’s view.

  “I highly doubt that,” Epik managed after clearing his throat. Shreds of chicken were adhering to the passage between his mouth and stomach. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no. It’s okay,” Sir Wallack said airily. “Obviously, I didn’t mean that I was ever a halfling or anything of that s
ort. But I was eager—too eager. And headstrong, like you. I didn’t think any of this mattered: which fork to eat the fish with, which spoon is for tea or soup. And maybe it doesn’t matter, really, but it’s gotten me out of a few sticky situations. Tell you what, lad. I know you want to do what real knights do. Your riding’s coming along. How about we enter you in the next tournament?”

  “Really?” Epik asked, a hint of his usual cheeriness bubbling up. “Do they let ponies into the joust?”

  “They will if the king tells them to.”

  Right, the king, Epik thought.

  It had been four months since Epik had vanquished the wannabe king, Nacer, the old king’s Grand Counselor. Months since he had been dubbed a knight by the new king, Epiman.

  Epik now stayed at the castle by request of the king. Mostly, that meant attending parties and feasts at court and learning etiquette from Sir Wallack. Some days, Sir Wallack and the squires taught Epik how to ride on his horse—well, his pony. Epik had even practiced fencing when he found a willing partner, usually his friend Amber, a street urchin he’d helped save from trolls that had attacked Dune All-En.

  His nights were spent with Gerdy and Myra who also graced the castle at the king’s pleasure. These past few months, Epik had given the king a wide berth. He didn’t trust Epiman. Epik was certain that the man, the king, had a large hand in Epik’s own father’s death.

  First, Epiman had recruited his father to bring a damage, that is, a family, of mountain trolls to the kingdom. Then, Epiman had hired the ranger, Collus, to kill his father and cover up the whole conspiracy.

  Coe hadn’t really wanted to kill Epik’s father. At least, Epik didn't think so, but after his father had flashed a dagger in the ranger’s direction, what choice did Coe have? The ranger had shot the other halfling, Epik’s father, with a crossbow.

  Over the past few months, Epik had visited the mound of dirt in the wood between Dune All-En and the Tenzing mountains, his father’s burial place, often. Several times, he used his newfound abilities, his magic, to make himself invisible and journey through the wood unhampered.

  Epik was searching for answers to questions he never dared speak aloud. Why was his father working for Epiman? And why did Epiman have his father killed?

  Now, Epik carried his father’s dagger at his side. Well, not his father’s really. Epik’s father had stolen the dagger from Gabby, a wizard who just happened to be Epik’s former mentor—his roommate for a brief time. Gabby too had fallen into some sort of trap, dying as he tried to protect Epik.

  The charred remains of Gabby’s magical supply shop were all that was left of Epik’s mentor, save a few fire-retardant books the halfling had found in the rubble.

  Epik went there often too. Gabby once told him, “There’s always magic in the magic shop.” And it was true; the shop was where Epik best felt the magic inside him.

  “The king wants me to joust?” Epik asked.

  “Well, he hasn’t said as much. But he does ask after you—wants to know how your training’s coming along. I mean, I told him there was only so much I could do with a wee person—no offense. But he tells me that your height won’t matter at all. I’m not exactly sure what he means by that. Do you have any idea?”

  “The king wants to know about my training?” Epik whispered.

  The room was pin-drop quiet. Sir Wallack seemed about to expound on what he had said or perhaps answer Epik’s whispered question. But at that moment, a faint tolling found its way to them. Epik pricked the tips of his pointed ears.

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  “Is that another drill?” Sir Wallack asked. “That’ll be twice this month.”

  “No, it’s two rings for a drill. That’s three. Count them.”

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  “This is the real thing!” Epik was stunned.

  Sir Wallack skedaddled toward the main castle without another word.

  “Where are you going?” Epik yelled.

  “I have to see a man about a horse,” the old knight called back.

  “But your horse, it’s with mine at the stables.” Epik shook his head, spilling the books, and watched the old knight run. He snatched the goblet of water and drained it gratefully. When it was gone, he leaped off his chair and tore from the room, his napkin still dangling from his neck.

  A short distance away, in one of the castle’s three towers, the girls were having a tiff.

  “We’re always in a bit of a tiff,” Gerdy huffed at Myra. The half-dwarf girl, Epik’s best friend in the world, was sprawled on the bed like she was making a snow angel, her dark frizzy hair fanned out over the pillow. The gray tabby cat the girls had found after the trolls attacked the city lay curled against Gerdy’s neck. They both watched Myra through half-closed eyes.

  Something felt off between them, though Gerdy couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was.

  “Sanchez, do you have to purr like that?” Gerdy asked.

  Immediately, the cat stopped purring.

  “Aw, don’t treat him like that,” Myra said. “Here kitty, kitty.”

  “He has a name. Use it, please. He’s not a Kitty. He’s not Kitty Sanchez. His name is Sanchez.”

  Myra, across the room, pursed her lips. Gerdy love-hated when she did that. Gerdy love-hated a lot of things about Myra, who was in her undergarments—Myra’s entire arms were exposed from the shoulders down and her smooth legs bare from mid-shin. It drove Gerdy mad.

  Myra’s skin was as golden as the sun and matched exactly the tiara that adorned her perfect head. Everything about her was polished, primped and perfect—everything Gerdy was not. Myra was a princess through and through.

  And after all this time, months and months spent at the castle, Gerdy couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong.

  As a couple, they were taking things slow. Well, as slow as Myra would allow Gerdy to go. Part of Gerdy’s heel dragging was inspired by the novelty of liking someone and having them like her in return, but most of it was that Gerdy wanted the sun down and the candles snuffed out before exposing anything under her smock to Myra’s green-blue eyes.

  And something felt off.

  “Did you borrow this dress?” Myra asked. She snatched a green dress and pulled it halfway out of the wardrobe for Gerdy to see.

  “No,” Gerdy shook her head. “I didn’t borrow it. That’s the one you begged me to wear to dinner with your father last week.”

  “Well, I wouldn't have begged you had I known you’d rip out the seams.”

  “I can’t help that I have hips.”

  “Pshhh.” Myra snorted. “You’re always on about my hips. Well, I can’t help I have the naturally slender frame of an elf. If you don’t like it—”

  “I never said I didn’t like it,” Gerdy cut her off. “I said, ‘I have hips.’”

  “You, um, what’s the word? You implied it.”

  “I most certainly did not,” Gerdy said, flustered. She sat up and got out of bed. Sanchez leapt to the floor. It was going to be one of those days again, one where nothing she said or did would be right.

  At the Rotten Apple, her dad’s tavern, Gerdy had heard the men use the word henpecked. She had never truly understood its meaning, not until now.

  “What do you want to do today?” Myra asked, already over the dress and searching for another row.

  “What we do every day.”

  “No,” Myra said sharply. “I’m bored with that. I can’t stay in this castle another day. It’s not even fun to watch Epik at the stables. He hardly ever falls off the horse anymore.”

  “Then what do you want to do?”

  “I asked you first.”

  Gerdy sighed. “I want to do whatever you want to do.”

  “You always say that, but it’s never true. You mope about. It doesn’t matter where I take you.” Myra jerked out another dress. “I guess we can go watch Daddy’s new counselor at court.”

  “K’nexes?” Gerdy as
ked.

  “Yeah, the elf. Dad says he’s doing a fine job. We’ve almost tripled the Watch.”

  “All right,” Gerdy said. “We can do that—if that’s what you want.”

  “No,” Myra shook her head. “Not really.” She shoved the dress back in the wardrobe and pulled out a pink one with a pleated skirt, the bodice cinched alluringly at Myra’s infinitesimal waist. “I guess we could go down to the harbor.”

  “So you can flirt with the sailors?”

  “Maybe I just like to see you get jealous.” She smiled at Gerdy, a smile that made her heart flutter. Traitor, Gerdy thought at her heart.

  Myra was always doing things like that, putting on a show, turning all of their more serious moments on their head; it was part of what Gerdy loved about her.

  “Maybe you just like the attention.” There it was. Gerdy didn’t know why she said that. Why couldn’t she just let it go?

  “I do not!” Myra was affronted. She changed course and slipped on the gown. “Okay, sometimes I do. But don’t tell me you don’t like attention. I see the way Epik hangs on your every word. You love it!”

  “No. What he does is called listening. You should try it sometime.”

  “What’d you just say?” Myra asked, but she was looking out the tower window. The bodice still hung open, the laces trailing limply from her fingertips.