Hatter
Hatter
Hatter
by
Daniel Coleman
Hatter
Published by the author at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Coleman
Print copies of this book are available through the author’s website
Cover Design by Jodie Coleman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Acknowledgments
I can’t thank my writing group enough. Eric Bishop – my companion on the road to writing. Nancy Felt – the reason I now preemptively remove pesky dangling participles. And EA Younker – I still hear her voice in my head when my writing gets lazy. The feedback from my beta readers was invaluable: Natalie, Amber, John, Maree, Matt, Ashley, Heather, and April. Double thanks to Liz Dorathy, Veronica Beynon, and EA Younker for the detailed, painfully honest critiques. John Berry – the closest thing I have to a mentor. And Jodie – my cover designer, example of creativity and high standards, and beautiful wife.
And to you, Reader. In the words of Hatta, “I thank you.”
Chapter 1
‘13’
Despite the chill morning, Chism dropped his plain tunic on the ground and approached the estate bare-chested. His treasured uniform, which he earned only three weeks before, lay folded carefully in camp. Counting steps came naturally as he walked with palms open and arms outstretched. The men holding the duke for ransom wouldn’t be threatened by an unarmed fifteen year old, especially one as slight as Chism. They had no way of knowing they were about to take prisoner one of the most dangerous people in the kingdom.
After counting one thousand steps, he was approximately halfway to his goal. A stone tower rose alongside Duke Enniel’s wooden estate nearly three times as tall as the rest of the buildings. The asymmetrical structure annoyed Chism, but was forgotten when the duke’s ten-year-old daughter came into view standing on a makeshift plank at the top of the tower. In the event of a rescue attempt, the plank would be released, sending the girl to her death.
Anger swelling, Chism clenched his fists but still held them out. A hard man with graying hair kept watch behind the girl. The bushy hair and beard gave him the appearance of a great unyielding bear, more beast than man.
“I see yee’ve not brang the ransom!” Graybear yelled. “Walk away if yee’ve no desire to see the girl’s brains dash on the dirt!”
Chism fed on his anger, but didn’t allow it to show. “I’ve come to surrender,” he lied. “I’m cousin to Duke Enniel and offer myself in order to render comfort to my captive kin.”
Graybear relayed the message to someone over his shoulder. A cold wind bit Chism’s naked chest and back as he stood waiting for an answer. Though he knew the scar tissue had no feeling, the wind nipped the ragged ‘
13’
carved into his lower back. “Chism the chicken”, Father had loved to call him. But he preferred Chism the challenger.
Or Chism the chilled if they leave me out here much longer
, he thought.
Graybear finally received instructions and shouted, “If this be any type of trick yee’ll be filled with arrows before ye can turn. Yee’ll be granted quarter to enter, but yee’ll not leave until the ransom be paid.”
Two bows were visible through arrow slits in the tower. Chism didn’t speak or flinch. The man-door opened and a pair of bearded brutes in studded leather armor pulled him roughly inside. The door slammed and Chism was violently dragged into the keep.
“Look, the boy’s a
13,”
said one of the men, laughing. “It’s right here on his back.”
“I could’ve told ye that without seeing the mark.” They chortled rowdily.
The scar labeling him a
13
was a lie. Chism knew he looked like a runt, but he was far from useless.
Let them think I’m worthless. It’ll make killing them that much easier.
Even better, because of the mistaken opinion that he was insignificant, they didn’t even search him.
But that was small consolation for the chafing hands on his bare skin; he hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him for years. Resisting the urge to fight them off would be the hardest part of the mission. Though they were twice his size, he could kill the shaggy men at will. Most men equated size with skill, and Chism always used that to his advantage. He fought the urge to overtake them, only for the sake of the duke’s daughter and son, hoping they both still lived.
With one man clutching his hair and the other squeezing an arm much harder than necessary, Chism entered the receiving room of the estate home. Duke Enniel sat in an unadorned chair with his wife, Lady Tanet, in an identical chair at his side. They were shackled hand and foot, and multiple bruises and cuts made it clear they had been treated roughly. Chism’s colorblindness made it impossible to tell the age of the bruises.
Most likely a combination of old and new
, he thought.
Chism cursed inwardly when he saw that their son was not in the room. That changed the entire plan.
One thug stood over the duke, holding a half spear to his heart. Shortspear was a perfect name for that one. His full attention was on Duke Enniel; he didn’t even glance at Chism. The only other person in the room was a black-haired ruffian with a beard longer than any of the others, marking him as their leader. How appropriate that he was almost as unintimidating as Chism. Even so, he stood a head taller than Chism.
Longbeard approached him, manacles in hand. “How nice of ye to join us. It appears the ransom just increased. I’m sure yeer family would rather see ye returned whole, rather than piece by piece.”
He secured one shackle to Chism’s right wrist with a greedy grin. Chism was frozen with indecision. If he acted without the duke’s son present he risked the boy’s life, but if he allowed himself to be shackled he might not be able to overcome his captors.
The boy’s life is more important
.
Chism offered his left wrist. As Longbeard reached for it, Shortspear shifted his stance, revealing the frightened face of a boy clinging to his father’s chair.
Pent-up anxiety escaped in a flood of relief; the whole family was accounted for. The relief only lasted until he noticed the boy’s eyes framed by bruises and cuts on his forehead and lip. His sunburned skin was peeling and his glazed eyes stared at something far away. Even the tense scene wasn’t enough to perk him up.
Chism snapped.
The second manacle never touched him. He spun and dipped away from his captors, swinging the shackle in an arc like a ball and chain. Longbeard took it on the top of the head and crumpled, still in the motion of reaching for Chism’s wrist.
In the same movement Chism withdrew the two knives hidden at the back of his thighs. One flew silently into Shortspear’s throat, finally distracting the man from his vigilant watch over the duke.
The spear clacked against the stone floor at the duke’s feet—a jarring sound in a still silent chamber.
Two men dead, two more to deal with. The knife in Chism’s hand was already moving toward the man at his right, sheathing itself in the bandit’s chest at the same moment the man’s sword cleared his scabbard.
The last guard standing gawked at the clump of curly black hair in his hand. His grip had been firm before Chism pulled away. He barely had time to register his danger when Chism’s knife ended him.
That was the last time
, Chism thought.
None of the ruffians lived long enough to raise the alarm. But Chism wasn’t done. Rage still burned within him, nothing a few more dead men and a rescued girl wouldn’t satisfy.
He knelt, removed a small key ring from Longbeard’s belt, and wiped his knife, then walked to where the boy stood and handed the keys to the duke without looking at him. Chism tousled the hair of the wide-eyed boy. Touching hair wasn’t the same as skin.
“Everything will be fine, boy. I’ll stop the men who hurt you. And your sister will be fine as feathers in no time.”
He bent and pulled the dagger from Shortspear’s neck.
“Four of my sentries survived,” said the duke. “They’re bound in my quarters. They can help you rescue Saya.”
Chism shook his head. “They’ll get in my way. If we alert the men guarding her, they’ll let her fall.”
“But you’re just a boy,” argued Duke Enniel. “How can you hope to, to…” Looking around at the carnage he gulped, then nodded. “I’ve been to the tower. You’ll need a coded phrase to get through the door at the top. Knock twice and say ‘fortune, fortune’.”
“How many are there?” asked Chism, hoping for an even number.
“Two on the stairs and two with Saya.”
Perfect.
“Here’s what I need the three of you to do.”
After giving the duke instructions, Chism picked up the spear then crept into the hallway. As he climbed the stairs the only sound was a ruffian breathing as he kept watch through the arrow slit. The last sound Heavybreath heard was the sucking air from his own cut windpipe.
Amazing how some sentries watch only one direction.
Chism braced the body so it wouldn’t clatter down the stairs. The second bowman was dispatched just as easily.
A heavy wooden door blocked the exit at the top of the stairs. Chism felt angry enough to punch through it, but forced restraint. With spear in hand, he knocked twice.
Someone asked, “Who be ye?”
Hoping his voice wouldn’t crack, Chism uttered, “Fortune, fortune.”
The grubby man who opened the door was greeted by Chism’s spear point sliding in between his ribs.
Chism’s casual walk into the morning sunlight belied his raging temper. The top of the tower was circular, surrounded by parapets. A plank extended between two of the crenellations. Graybear, the only enemy remaining, stood on the near end of the wide board; Saya stood on the far. Graybear’s weight was the only thing keeping the girl from falling. She was sunburned and scared, just like her brother. If Chism had his way no ten year old would ever suffer like her again.
