The Devil is in the Potato

By Benjamin Descovich

Fenton dreams of winning Jillian’s affection. But, how is a peasant to compete against a tourney of knights in shining armour? With only two coppers in his pocket and a lucky vest, he needs a plan ... and his best friend.

This is a short story—fresh forged for fantasy readers who desire a light hearted adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Descovich
• Release date: Mar 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311207104

Benjamin Descovich

Benjamin Descovich is the founder of ethicalwriter.com and works everyday writing the seeds to grow a better future. He is a passionate environmentalist, social justice advocate and holds a degree in Political Science. Born in Australia and well travelled through Europe and Asia, he has been spoilt with inspiration for his fiction. While the dramatic landscapes, political intrigue and epic battles will captivate your imagination, the dragons and magic take your breath away.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Devil is in the Potato

A hammer struck glowing iron, pounding out a rhythm that yielded a harvest of blades from a neat stack of ingots. The heavy scent of manure and straw from the stables mixed with smoke from the smithy. Fenton glazed over, surrendering to daydreams of knighthood, while he leaned on a shovel by the hitching post, lulled by the warmth of the forge reaching across the lane.

Sun glinted off armour; damsels called his name and foul beasts were vanquished. Jillian Farlow was straddled behind him on a great steed. Her arms clutched and her body tensed in excitement as they galloped through fields of wild flowers.

Fenton caught himself grinning. Jillian was endowed with many appreciable features, including strong arms for slapping boys who grew too interested in her inheritance. Fenton had never been slapped by Jillian, although he had also never summoned the courage to speak to her, let alone get close enough to earn such wrath.

A long hiss woke the youth from his fantasy. The smith pulled the now quenched blade from the water and glared at Fenton. What the hells are you staring at?

Fenton gaped in silence.

Well?

All done, Smith. Sorry I was just, ah, thinking about …

The smith’s muscles bulged through grime and sweat. Thinking, my arse. What’s to think about? If you’re done muckin’ out, then bugger off and help your poor bloody mother.

Smith reached into his apron and threw Fenton a copper tab. Fenton caught it, put aside the shovel and set off home, thinking all the while about what he would say to Jillian Farlow.

Tomorrow would be different; this time he’d make a good impression when she came to Hawthensfield for market. He had a new haircut and a horsehair vest for luck. His best friend, Temnas, had a running bet that Fenton would remain unseen by Jillian’s sweet brown eyes, lucky vest or not.

***

Fenton arrived at the market before dawn, just in case Jillian came early. He passed the time chatting to vendors as they arrived and even helped some of them set up their stalls. After speaking with every vendor and any accompanying friend or relative, Fenton felt a little awkward walking around the market. Despite having exhausted all topics of conversation and worn out any reasonable excuse for loitering, he didn’t want to appear snobbish. Each stallholder received a warm smile and a wave every time he made a circuit. The market was not substantial and his passing frequent. The traders from out of town likely thought him the village idiot.

Better a well-mannered idiot than a churlish one. This, his mother’s wisdom, was clear on the issue and had been repeated more often than he agreed with, for Fenton would have rather not have been an idiot at all.

Two young girls giggled as they passed him, turning and staring unabashed with hysterics at his discomfort. Fenton retreated from the midday sun and sat in the shade of an old willow. He removed his lucky vest and dusted it off, folding it with care and placing it on