Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp Page 4

  No, Brendan had thought, the aim of any fight is to beat the other man, however you have to.

  The first attacker brought his sword up, not at Brendan’s chest but at the air between them where he thought Brendan’s sword would meet his. Only Brendan’s sword wasn’t there. He chose instead to impale the man where his breastplate was cinched to his backplate. Brendan took out two more in a similar fashion and now could deal with the fire.

  A recruit ran up with a tankard of water.

  “No, not water.” Brendan stopped the boy before he made a terrible mistake. “Water will just intensify the flames. Get those chamber pots.”

  “The chamber pots, Sarge?”

  Chamber pots were stationed haphazardly along the rampart. The night watch had been using them for the better part of King Epiman’s reign, several months now. Some men didn't like to piss in the wind. Others, well, others liked the way it felt.

  “Yes, the chamber pots,” Brendan said. “We’ll need several.”

  They gathered four chamber pots between them, all with their contents sloshing, then threw the stinking mess onto the fire which promptly dwindled to a smolder.

  “You'll never look at piss the same way again,” Brendan said to the boy but realized he was talking to himself as the boy toppled off the rampart to the dusty street below, an arrow through his back.

  Brendan didn’t have time to mourn. He took stock of what was happening outside the Wall and ran for the signaler. They needed help.

  “We’re done for. Aren’t we?” Peter, the signaler, said.

  “Not yet.” Brendan peered out at the battlefield. With so many men dead or dying, it was hard to tell who was winning. Several skirmishes continued around the Wall, and not a troop from King’s Way had made it through their defenses.

  Not yet, Brendan thought.

  With that thought, he had to admit it was also easy to see who was going to win the encounter. They were outmanned, out-catapulted, and out-arrowed. They were just flat out out-everythinged.

  The enemy had a clear advantage. The well of reserves had run dry behind the Wall in Jersy. Even the barber with his shears and the women with their rolling pins had joined the contest.

  “Do you think,” Brendan stared out at the destroyer in the middle of the Bay, “that maybe they could send a barrage high enough to miss our troops but take out those new ones?”

  Peter shielded his eyes with his hand and studied the battlefield. He counted something on his fingers. “It’s possible,” he said, “but risky.”

  “Right,” Brendan put his hand on the back of his helmet absentmindedly, thinking. “We may have run out of options,” he said.

  “So, that's what you want me to do, Sarge?”

  Brendan peered back again at the destroyer in the Bay. The cannons were poised. The full-rigged ship had three masts and about eighteen sails, all furled. A long-nosed jib pointed into the river and Brendan could just make out the mermaid carved beneath it on the bow. Whether it depicted a real one or one of those make-believe blonde bombshells with breasts, he couldn’t tell from this distance.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  Peter picked up the green flag and made several motions.

  Brendan sighed. He wanted to close his eyes. He took one last look at the battlefield, hoping he wasn’t dooming his men. But the ending seemed a foregone conclusion. Friendly fire was no way to go, but he had to try something.

  Then a flag appeared on the Road ahead—a purple flag bearing the unicorn standard of Dune All-En.

  “Wait!” he yelled at Peter. “Call it off!”

  Peter turned to look at him, not understanding, but then he saw it—the movement on the Road. The purple tunics and the armor. Troops coming down the road—their troops. A regiment called out months ago had finally made their way back to Dune All-En and would now enter the battle.

  8

  A Knife in the Bright

  Bodies were scattered or piled indiscriminately across the field between the wood and the Wall. Whole squads had been wiped out together. Only a small contingent of the Watch remained to protect the open city gate.

  Those that had entered the conflict were so widespread now it was hard to tell friend from foe, dead or dying.

  And on the Wall, Brendan’s soldiers weren’t faring much better. Their ranks were thin along the rampart, and after taking several direct hits from the catapult, the Wall itself was nearly as broken down as Epik remembered it from his first days in Dune All-En.

  Resolve welled up in the halfling’s heart. This battle wasn’t over, not yet. And Epik wasn’t done fighting. That silly flight from those troops was but a minor setback, a brief flicker of panic and fear. Epik squared his shoulders. It was still his duty to protect the city—he had taken an oath.

  The invisibility spell prevented an out-and-out attack on him, but random arrows, well, they were a whole other matter. One whizzed overhead and tangled in tuft of weeds. Another whipped past his ear.

  Epik was like a wraith, unseen. He was but a shadow now amidst the mob of men locked in combat. He could sneak up on the invaders as they fought the watchmen or as they attempted to climb the Wall, and he could stab them with his dagger in their still turned backs.

  It didn’t feel very sporting. No, it felt wrong on so many levels. Of all the instructions that Sir Wallack had given him in the past several months, a few stuck out in Epik’s mind. Jumbled up with the proper way to greet a lady and which knee to use kneeling before the king (the left), which fork to use with salad and which was the spoon for tea, were the tenets of chivalry. The tenets of knighthood: honor, valor, courage. How many was he breaking this very moment?

  But what use is magic, Epik thought, if I always have to be honorable? Was it fair to shoot a fireball at someone if they couldn’t shoot one back? No, of course not, but wizards did that all the time. And, Epik thought, is it fair to be only half the size of anyone else on the battlefield?

  Epik found a soldier alone observing the melee. His helmet was broad and plumed with yellow feathers, his green tunic whipped in the breeze, exposing a broad expanse of backside where the chainmail shirt didn’t quite meet his breeches.

  Epik stalked the soldier, trailing him on his path toward the gate. No need to tiptoe, his halfling feet padded softly on the ground. The gate guards, all embattled with foes of their own, paid this one no mind. Epik waited for the soldier to raise his sword, for him to do something as dishonorable as what Epik was contemplating now.

  Epik unsheathed his dagger. He raised the sharp instrument to head height, even with the man’s waist.

  A twinge of something squirmed in Epik’s stomach. Shame was the right word—and the one that came to mind. He was going to do it. He was going to drive the blade into the man’s flesh.

  He had to. He couldn’t just let this soldier walk into the city unchallenged

  Then a trumpet sounded, and Epik turned. They all turned, every single man, and woman, in the battle stopped mid-swing and mid-parry. Only the arrows didn’t stop mid-flight. Unfortunately, a few of them did find their targets.

  The trumpet came again. A line of cavalry on the Road crested the horizon at a gallop, purple banners streaming behind them. Behind them, hundreds if not thousands of soldiers, all in the purple of Dune All-En. They converged upon the battlefield, trapping the invaders between the Wall and what was left of the guard.

  The reserves of King’s Way did an about-face. Their entire company closed ranks, forming a rectangle of shields, and pikes resting atop them.

  Oddly, the battle didn’t recommence. No soldiers from either side made any further movement, whether to advance or retreat. They watched in astonishment as the horses galloped up the Road to the gate.

  A weathered man with pale freckled skin and a red mustache that turned up at the corners of his lips raised a gloved hand into the air, signaling his cavalry to stop.

  They stopped just short of where Epik stood. The red-haired man searched the sea of sold
iers, possibly for a familiar face, because when his eyes found Todder, they ceased the search.

  “Sergeant,” he said. “Could you bring me up to speed on what exactly is going on here?”

  “Actually,” Todder said, sweat pouring down his face, “it’s um, Captain, now.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” the man said. “I do remember hearing that. I’ve got the courier letter around here somewhere.” He patted the horse’s saddlebags but made no effort to look for the letter.

  Todder also looked searchingly, but at the man’s uniform. He scratched his nose. “It’s um, Commander, uh, Commander, uh.”

  “Lightbody,” Commander Lightbody said.

  “Right-o,” Todder agreed, nodding to himself. “It’s just we’re wearing name tags now, sir. I notice none of you have one.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” the commander sighed. “Listen, can we speed this up a bit? Just get me to the point. What’s going on? Why is there a battle?”

  “Well,” Todder scratched his nose, “I was trying to, uh, figure that out meself. See, they just, um, attacked us, all out of the blue, like.”

  “Well, that does happen.” Commander Lightbody hazarded another look around the battlefield, his horse dancing under him. “You there, General,” Lightbody yelled. “Why is it your forces are attacking Dune All-En? And did you know you’re about to be stabbed?”

  The man Epik had been following spun around, affronted. In all the commotion, Epik’s spell had come undone. He was visible.

  “Well, now I do.” The general stepped away from Epik’s blade, dusting himself as if almost being killed was the same thing as having ants all over his clothes. Then he sighed and said, “I had orders to lay siege on the city. You know how it is, orders are orders. Where’s your general? We need to have a talk.”

  “General?” Commander Lightbody laughed. “We haven’t had one of those in twenty years. I guess I’m the closest thing we’ve got. And what did you mean had orders? Shouldn’t you still have them?”

  “No,” he said. “Not anymore. Now, I’m to discuss a treaty. That is the order the Grand Sovereign gave me to execute upon your arrival.”

  “Grand Sovereign? I thought there was a king in King’s Way. It’s called King’s Way for Avalon’s sake!" Lightbody’s horse began to nibble grass. “And you mean to tell me you knew we were coming? You just let yourselves get flanked like this?” Lightbody waved his hand casually without actually looking around.

  “About that.” The general pointed. Sure enough, down the road, yet another column of troops marched, these in the Kelly-green flags and tunics of King’s Way, blocking the reinforcements from Dune All-En into a sort of ill-conceived sandwich. “Now how about that treaty?” the general asked.

  “All right,” Lightbody said slowly. “We can discuss this treaty. Follow me up to the castle.” He found Todder again and raised his voice. “Captain, you should come, too. And where are all the knights?”

  “Epik here is the last one,” Todder pointed to Epik.

  “A knight?” The commander and the general said skeptically in unison.

  Epik sheathed his dagger. It will always be like this, he thought.

  “Well, then,” Lightbody said. “He should come, too.”

  He raised his voice again. “And there’s to be no more fighting until we say. Lay down your arms. We’ll button this Wall back up. And you will all just wait here. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the cavalry shouted smartly. Out on the field, there were nods and shrugs from all of the soldiers within earshot. Then everyone began to lay down their weapons and enjoy the crisp fall air and the sunshine.

  9

  A Half-dwarf Girl in King Epiman’s Court

  A small contingent of Palace Guards milled about the throne room. K’nexes, the Grand Counselor, paced, immersed in thought. His spindly legs crossed the length of the room and he rounded the half-finished statue of King Doulas the Ninth.

  The elf’s golden locks drooped over his face. He absently bumped the bronze bust of Queen Joanna the Wordsmith and had to scramble to catch it before it clanged to the floor.

  Like most of the castle, the throne room was a testament to the ever-changing monarchy of Dune All-En. It was filled with busts, tapestries, and statues, most of them unfinished. No ruler, in recent memory, at least, had ever lasted longer than ten years.

  King Epiman, on his throne in the center of the room, was stately, if not regal. Gerdy still had trouble with the whole notion of Epiman as king and Myra as princess. But she kept those thoughts to herself.

  Epiman was poring over a piece of parchment on his desk. It was a bit strange. Gerdy always imagined kings slouching back on their thrones with nothing before them but the court.

  And certainly she thought a king might show some concern when their kingdom was under attack.

  But Epiman wasn’t the usual sort. He had a large ornate desk at his throne, and he worked there daily. He drafted proclamations—laws—in his own hand. He read—actually read—letters addressed to him by the commoners or the businessmen or the troops.

  Myra was behind him now, attempting to read over his shoulder. He shooed her away, sending her back to Gerdy in the seating provided for petitioners. Epiman did a lot of that these days, asking Myra to leave him alone, chiding her for her improper demeanor at parties and city-state affairs. It only heightened the princess’ longing for her father’s approval, Gerdy knew.

  And maybe Epiman did care about the attack, beneath his unruffled appearance. A pair of round spectacles rested on the midpoint of his long nose, above his high cheekbones. Epiman’s dark hair, sprinkled with gray, was as thick as an ermine pelt. He grunted impatiently.

  “Could you stop that?” Epiman asked the elf.

  K’nexes stopped in his tracks, lips pressed together, and nodded acknowledgement.

  The sounds of the battle had died off as though it had stopped altogether. There was no booming cannon fire, none of the Wall shattering with each catapult missile.

  Gerdy wanted to run for the door. She was nervous, anxious to know what was happening outside the Wall, and if her friends, especially her best friend Epik, was okay.

  From the door came a commotion, heavy boots pounding, raised men’s voices.

  The doors burst open. The guards inside unsheathed swords, crouching at the ready to defend an attack. There were so few of them, it wouldn’t take long to seize the castle.

  But to everybody’s relief, or at least to everyone watching the door—which was everyone but the king—the men who entered wore the bronze armor and purple sashes of Dune All-En. Led by a red-haired man holding his helmet at his side, they straggled into the room, still talking.

  The man wasn’t familiar to Gerdy, not in the slightest. Neither were his men. But three others caught her eye.

  Two, she knew well. Captain Todder and Epik brought up the rear of the gaggle. The captain towered over the rest.

  As to Gerdy, Epiman’s ascension had taken Todder by surprise. Not to mention his swift promotion to captain. But Todder was managing. The new post suited him, oddly like a wizard who wore business robes to a dinner party. Not dress robes, but he could blend in well enough—and much better than the idiots who wore ugly sweaters.

  Epik however, well, he never looked any part, especially not that of a knight. But there was something else wrong. He appeared troubled. Gerdy waved to him but he didn’t notice, and that made her uneasy again.

  Between the halfling and the captain was a third man, who was even more perplexing. Dressed in green with yellow plumes on his helmet, his chain mail gleamed with polish. His beard was as dark and as thick as night on a face that could only be called meaty. The ill-assorted party stopped before the king’s desk, and the foreign soldier was the first to speak.

  “Good afternoon Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Is it a good afternoon?” Epiman remarked. “General, I have it on authority that your men attacked my city not so long ago. To
me, that makes it a bad afternoon. A very bad one.”

  “Yes, Sire. But you see, I had orders. And as I told your commander here, orders are orders.”

  “Sire, Your Majesty,” Epiman said coolly. “Surely your king didn’t ask you to use those words when addressing me.”

  “No, Sire. That’s true.”

  “What does your king call me? Blood traitor or son?”

  “Both,” the general said uncertainly, uneasy in King Epiman’s presence. In fact, Gerdy could feel it, too. As if Epiman had grown in stature somehow. “The Grand Sovereign calls you both.”

  “Grand Sovereign? Is that what he calls himself now? He always was one to take many titles. But one he’ll never hear from my lips again is Father.”

  "Yes, um, Sire.” The general stepped back, seeming to only now remember he was in a room full of other people. “The Grand Sovereign said he hates the word emperor. But since we took World’s Eye, he, uh, wanted to be called something a bit grander.”

  "Well, it does have the word grand baked right in it, now doesn't it? Tell me, what were the orders he gave you.” It wasn’t a question. Not in the slightest. Epiman brought his elbows to the desk and steepled his fingers, resting the tip of his nose atop them.

  The general scanned the room and caught sight of Myra for the first time.

  “My orders were to, um, attack the city. And then when your reinforcements arrived, to offer a truce.”

  “So, you knew my troops were on their way back from Foghorn?”

  Gerdy saw Epik’s expression change. His eyebrows scrunched together like he was doing a math problem in his head—a hard one with derivatives and xes and ys, along with brackets and one of those logarithm thingies.

  “And what are the terms of this treaty?” Epiman asked.

  “The Grand Sovereign wants to speak to you.”