The Explorers’ Gate (15 page)

“You skipped practice today!”

“It's the day of the match, Coach. I need to conserve my energy. Even though I don't think it'll take too much energy to whoop that!”

He flicked his head sideways to indicate Brent Slicktenhorst, who was decked out in his standard uniform: khaki pants, a blue blazer, button-down shirt, and preppy tie. He was not wearing a shiny-stretchy wrestling outfit. Loki stood beside Brent, hands clasped behind his back. They were both wearing pointy-coned red hats.

They were both also smirking.

“They've got something up their sleeves,” I said. “Or hidden under their hats!”

“They better not,” said Willem earnestly. “It is expressly forbidden for the combatants to bring foreign objects into the ring.”

I noticed a small wooden carrying case sitting on the ground near Loki's feet—most likely a first-aid kit for when Garrett clobbered Brent.

“Where are the two appointed champions?” boomed a deep voice.

The jumbo-sized statue of Daniel Webster strode majestically across Bethesda Terrace. Daniel wasn't the dictionary Webster; this Webster was the eloquent orator from the mid 1800s who firmly believed in “Liberty and Union, Now and Forever, One and Inseparable”—the words inscribed on the base of his monument.

“Wrestlers? Kindly identify yourselves!”

“Here I am!” said Garrett.

“Yo. Over here, chief,” said Brent.

“Are you both prepared to serve as champions to your chosen kabouters?” asked Webster, the way a preacher asks questions at a wedding.

“I am ready to defend Prince Willem's people and his claim to the throne,” said Garrett, very formally.

“Likewise,” said Brent. “Only, I'm down with Prince Loki!”

Webster hooked his thumbs under his vest.

“Where, then, are my monkeys?”

The two bronze monkeys from the top of the Delacorte Music Clock scampered across the plaza toting a big bronze bell. They dropped it in front of the fountain and cocked back their arms, waiting for Webster to give them the signal to bang the starting bell.

“Gentlemen?”

Webster motioned for Garrett and Brent to move into the center of a circular pattern of terrace tiles near the entrance to the arched Arcade. Garrett towered over Brent by at least a foot. He was also twice as wide and looked four times stronger.

“We will follow collegiate rules,” said Webster. “The victor and his team shall be awarded a ten-minute head start in the Crown Quest!”

I quickly did the math.

If, somehow, Brent won, Team Loki would earn the ten-minute bonus. Subtract the eight minutes we'd won for ninepin and Loki's crew would have a two-minute jump on us for the race through Central Park to find the kabouter crown.

If Garrett won, we'd have an incredible
eighteen-minute
lead for the final leg.

“Champions?” droned Webster. “Shake hands!”

The boys did.

“Monkeys?” Webster raised his arm. “On your mark, get set …”

“Wait!” shouted Loki.

“Yes?” said Webster, arm locked in its upright position.

“This is not a proper test!”

“Pardon?” said Webster.

Now Willem stepped forward. “What do you mean, cousin? This is the test as ordained by the presiding authority, the Wise Woman of the Pond.”

“No, cousin,” said Loki, smiling slyly while stroking his chin beard. “According to the official transcript of the proceedings at the Pond, and I quote …” He snapped open a sheath of parchment. “‘One child from each team shall face off in a battle of courage and strength to see which prince possesses the fiercest defenders from the mortal realm.'”

“That is why they are to wrestle,” said Willem. “It has always been so in the second round.”

“Perhaps, cousin. Perhaps. But, just because it is the way it has always been done does not make it the
right
way to proceed.”

“Have you no respect for tradition?”

“Certainly. That's why we bowled last night. Tonight, however, we must determine which of us possesses the fiercest defenders from the mortal realm. The question, dearest Willem, is not who commands the loyalty of the biggest galoot, the mightiest oaf, or the brawniest ox.”

He gestured toward Garrett each time he said those snarky things.

“If the brute strength of one solitary warrior is the true measure of this second test, then you and your beefy blockhead here win, hands down. In fact, I am willing to concede defeat in this arena and grant your side the ten minutes associated with the wrestling tournament!”

“You are willing to forfeit the match?” asked Willem skeptically.

“Yes. Provided, of course, you agree to a second competition this night—a
true
test of courage, strength, and military leadership. Because, Willem, the next king will need a mortal who can command an army of troops to defend our cherished homeland.”

“I can do that!” bragged Garrett. “A lot better than Brent, anyway!”

“Hang on,” said Coach Krunk, putting his fist to his stomach to stave off his heartburn. “This sounds like some sort of weasel deal, here.”

“I don't care!” shouted Garrett. “I can handle anything those two weenies throw at me!”

“Easy, Garrett,” pleaded Willem.

Garrett didn't listen.

“Whatever your challenge is,” he said to Loki, “I accept it!”

Willem closed his eyes. Me, too.

I just had a feeling that Coach Krunk was right: This would definitely turn out to be some kind of weasel deal.

“My challenge is quite simple,” said Loki. “Garrett Vanderdonk and Brent Slicktenhorst shall each command a force of loyal soldiers who will go to war against each other. The victor shall receive a bonus of
twenty-five
minutes for the Crown Quest!”

“War?” said Willem.

“Can you do that?” I asked.

“Man wars against man all the time,” said Webster, his arm still pointing skyward.

“But can you change the contest once it's started?”

“If both parties agree and I, as presiding judge, find the proposed contest to be an acceptable test fulfilling the Wise Woman's mandate, then, yes, we can do as Prince Loki proposes.”

“Fine,” said Garrett. “Whatever it is, I'll do it!”

“Prince Willem?” said Webster.

“I am not convinced it is in our best interests to …”

“I am!” said Garrett, his face filled with rage. “And this is
my
round. Don't forget who brought you
wee
people over here to America in the first place!”

Willem looked hurt but he dipped into a slight bow. “As you wish, Garrett.”

Actually, Garrett looked like he wished he could take back what he had just said. But he couldn't. He was about to apologize to Willem when Loki stepped forward.

“Fine! Willem receives a ten-minute head start for winning wrestling and now we move on to the second phase of the second round to see who picks up the twenty-five minutes!”

“So, uh, what's the challenge, Loki?” Garrett mumbled.

“Simple, really.” Loki bent down to pick up the wooden case near his feet. “Sadly, it is impractical for us to wage a real war on such short notice. Therefore, I propose that Garrett and Brent engage in a board game that brilliantly simulates warfare and all its complexities!”

He snapped open the two latches and flipped up the lid.

I heard angry snarls.

“Chess,” he said. “Living chess.”

Inside the box, I could see black chess pieces, about four inches tall, battling with one another from their foam slots. The knight reared up on his horse and slashed a broadsword through the air. An emaciated pawn, dressed like a medieval serf in a dirty burlap sack and leggings, jabbed at his neighbor with a rake. The neighbor lashed back with a hoe.

Loki forced the lid shut.

“I trust you still have the white set, cousin?” he sneered at Willem. “The one Kroll the First brought over on the storm-tossed ship?”

“Of course. But it hasn't been used in ages. The descendants of Kroll have all been pacifists.”

“Really? What a pity. Shall we adjourn to the Chess House?”

Willem turned to Coach Krunk. “Kindly summon forth the royal chess set.”

“Not for nuttin', Prince, but I …”

Willem calmly raised his hand to silence his advisor. “Garrett has already accepted their challenge.”

“I'm sorry …” Garrett stammered. “I didn't know …”

Willem smiled gamely. “Be of good cheer, Garrett. I am quite confident we will, in the end, prevail! For our cause is righteous and just!”

Loki and Brent brayed with laughter.

Garrett, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to cry.

“Hey, Mister Garrett-o? You gonna lose—big time!”

The statue of Christopher Columbus couldn't resist heckling us when we reached the southern edge of the Mall on our trek to the Chess and Checkers House just beyond the Dairy.

“Loki gonna win; Willem gonna lose!”

Columbus made rude noises cupping his hand under his armpit while pumping his elbow up and down. The guy was totally immature. No wonder he found America when he was looking for India.

“I am so sorry, you guys,” said Garrett. “That Loki ticked me off! He made me so mad, I couldn't think straight.”

“Yes,” said Willem wisely, “such is his way. It's also why my father made him Commissioner of Sewers and Drainpipes. Loki is not, as you might say, a real people person.”

“His chess set looked pretty fierce,” said Garrett.

“Indeed. I suspect Loki and Brent have been brutalizing the pieces. Whipping their warriors into shape for today. Using draconian discipline …”

“‘The beatings must continue,'” I remembered out loud. “That's what Loki said last night, when he met David Drake!”

“I thought he was talking about whipping Brent's hiney,” said Garrett.

“No! He was toughening up his troops because he was already planning on switching to the chess competition.”

“I suspect you are correct,” said Willem. “My cousin is extremely devious and cunning.”

“And I played right into his hand!” said Garrett. “I
am
an ignorant oaf, just like he said.”

“Nonsense!” Willem replied. “Your only fault, dear friend, is that your bravery and courage know no bounds. For this, I cannot rebuke you; I can only sing your praises.”

Coach Krunk, who had used the kingdom's swiftest underground canal boat to scoot up to the castle and fetch the first King Kroll's chess set, was waiting for us inside the Chess and Checkers House clutching a dark oak crate with tarnished brass clasps. It was about the size of my dad's toolbox.

“How fare our soldiers, Coach?” asked Willem.

“Not great. Dey ain't been out of da box and on da board in years. Most of dese shlubs only know how to do tree tings: eat, sleep, and repeat.”

He propped the box on a bench and snapped up the clasps.

I saw sixteen drowsy white chess pieces in green velvet nooks. The bishop was nibbling caramel popcorn out of his bucket hat. The knight's horse (more of a slump-backed nag) was leaning over the wall between slots, nuzzling into the bishop's miter like it was a fancy feedbag.

“Ahem.” Willem cleared his throat. “King Charles?”

“Hmmm?”

“It is I, Prince Willem.”

The tiny king scratched his belly and stretched into a gaping yawn. “Zounds! What time is it?”

“Time to take to the field, sire!”

“Hmmm?”

“We need you to do battle with Prince Loki's chess pieces.”

“What?” the queen yawned. “Do not be ridiculous. We have not skated across the board in ages! Why, I cannot even remember which way I am supposed to move.”

“Any way you like, dear,” said her husband, the king.

That's when several of our peasant pawns, who looked like overstuffed burlap sacks of grain, started rolling sideways in their velvet beds to pass gas.

We were
so
going to lose.

Brent began placing his snarling black warriors on one of the game tables in the Chess and Checkers House, standing them in their proper squares.

The peasant pawns in the front line were rattling their rakes and hoes like an angry mob in a Frankenstein movie. The king and queen, standing side by side, were muttering curses and throttling each other. Brent finger-flicked both his bishops in their pointy miter hats, causing the two holy men to use all sorts of words you don't usually hear in a church. Then he took to teasing his knights: snapping their tiny visors shut, tugging on their horses' tails, making the angry steeds buck their ironclad riders out of their medieval saddles.

“When you fall off a horse,” he screamed at his knights, “you need to climb back on!”

I felt Garrett tugging at my jacket sleeve.

“Nikki? Can I ask you a quick question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you really know how to play this game?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome! Give me a few quick tips, and bam! I'll jump all his pieces and make him king me!”

“Um, that's checkers, Garrett.”

“Oh. Doesn't matter. We're gonna win!”

“I'm not so sure about that. You said Brent's captain of his school's chess team. I'm guessing he must be pretty good or Loki wouldn't've picked him for this round.”

“Perhaps,” said Willem, gesturing toward Brent, who was now flogging a peasant with a ballpoint pen. “However, the young man knows nothing about motivating his troops.”

“What are we going to do?” we heard Brent yell at his chess pieces.

“TAKE THEIR QUEEN! KILL THEIR KING!”

Brent had wrapped necklace chains around all his pieces, including the horses. The chains were looped around his eight fingertips, which he manipulated like a mad puppeteer.