The Explorers’ Gate

by Chris Grabenstein

  “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.

  Chapter 36

  “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.

  Chapter 37

  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 throttli
ng 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.

  Our king stood up in his dusty carrying-case slot and peered over at the angry black army assembled on the tabletop chessboard. “Heavens! Is that my brother Ferdinand?”

  “Indeed,” said Willem.

  “My goodness. Ferdy never used to be so belligerent. In olden times, our chess games were invigorating—a keen battle of wits. Now he looks absolutely miserable.”

  “Slaves usually do,” I said.

  “He has them all shackled in chains? Zounds! We must set them free! We must do that which we were created to do!” Our king paused. “Can someone kindly remind me what that might be?”

  “As soon as you’re in your opening positions,” I whispered, “tell the pawn standing directly in front of you to step forward.”

  “One or two squares?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Then tell your bishop and queen to stand by.”

  “Yes! Of course! It’s all coming back to me. The Scholar’s Mate opening, eh? But surely, m’lady, our opponent will see what we’re about.”

  “Maybe. If he does, we’ll adjust accordingly.”

  “TAKE THE QUEEN!” Brent’s pieces growled again. “KILL THE KING!”

  Garrett picked up our box.

  “Put us down, young man!” proclaimed our king. “We have no need for a carrying case. My queen, clerics, knights, and pawns, yea, verily, even our rooks, would rather walk to the battlefield!”

  Good.

  They all looked like they needed the exercise.

  All our pieces took their positions on the tabletop.

  Most were still scratching or belching. The two castle towers coughed and lost a couple bricks.

  “Look sharp!” ordered our king.

  Several of our white pawns rubbed sleep out of their eyes.

  “Would you like to concede defeat now?” Brent asked snidely.

  “No way,” said Garrett.

  He and Brent were seated at the concrete table. Willem and I stood behind Garrett’s bench, Loki behind Brent’s. The statue of Daniel Webster stood beside the table with his hand tucked inside his vest, Napoleon-style.

  “Gentlemen,” said Webster, “are you prepared to wage war?”

  Brent wiggled the sixteen necklace chains tied off to his fingers.

  “We are ready!” pronounced Loki.

  “We are ready as well!” announced Willem.

  “Let the game commence! White moves first.”

  Nothing happened.

  “That’s you, Lame Brain,” Brent said to Garrett.

  “Uh, the pawn in front of the king, move forward one, no, two spaces.”

  The pawn did as it was told, knees knocking together in fear because the black pawns on the other side of the board were rattling their rakes.

  “Pawn to e5!” declared Brent, snapping the leash linked to the piece in front of his king. His half-crazed peasant charged forward and the two pawns were face to face. Brent’s brandished its rusty rake. I think ours wet his burlap pants.

  “Uh,” said Garrett, since he didn’t know what to do next.

  Fortunately, our king did!

  “Bishop?” he said to the piece on his right. “Kindly glide up to c4, old bean.”

  Our chubby bishop made the sign of the cross, kissed his rosary beads, and slid diagonally three spaces.

  “Bishop to c5,” commanded Brent, matching Garrett move for move, just like I hoped he would.

  “You’ve never played this game before have you, dummy?” he taunted Garrett.

  Brent thought he was being clever, playing symmetrically, putting his pieces directly in front of Garrett’s. However, he was also falling into the Scholar’s Mate trap, like I did every time my mom used it on me!

  “The queen?” I mumbled.

  “Silence, Miss Van Wyck!” said Webster. “Coaching from behind the bench is strictly prohibited once play has begun.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Garrett rubbed his face with his big meaty paw and tried to figure out what move to make, which is pretty hard to do when you don’t know the rules of the game.

  “Uh, Queen … uh, queen … the queen should …”

  “Yes, of course, dear,” said our queen, helping Garrett out. “Since the pawn is no longer boxing us in, we shall move diagonally up to h5!”

  Our queen slid across four spaces until it was at the edge of the chessboard, parallel with Brent’s black pawn.

  Loki gripped the top rail of Brent’s bench.

  He could see what we were up to.

  “I say, Brent, you might want to be on the lookout for scholars and mates!”

  Webster creaked down to glare sternly at Loki. “Prince Loki, you heard what I told Miss Van Wyck. There is to be no coaching from the back benchers.”

  “Coaching?” Loki protested, putting an innocent hand to his heart. “Oh, is that what you thought I was doing? Hardly. I was simply advising my young friend to keep an eye out for his scholars and mates.”

  “What?” demanded Webster.

  “Well, some of Brent’s mates, chums from school, scholars you might call them, often frequent this area of the park, so he might want to be on the lookout for scholars and mates. …”

  “He should do no such thing! He should simply play chess!”

  If Brent understood what Loki was telling him, we were toast.

  If not, we would checkmate their king on the next move.

  Chapter 38

  Brent leaned back in his bench.

  He twiddled his fingers to jingle his puppet chains. A horse eked out a choked and sickly whinny.

  “What a cheap, cheesy opening,” he snickered. “The old Scholar’s Mate ploy, Garrett? Oh, perhaps I’ll send my knight into the fray, eh? No. Wait. That’s what you want me to do. Queen Isabella the Short?”

  “¿Sí, Señor?”

  “Scoot your butt over to e7 and protect the f7 pawn!”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  She blocked our play.

  Our four-move checkmate gambit was ruined.

  “My goodness, Isabella,” huffed our queen. “What is that hideous thing wrapped around your neck? A new necklace?”

  “This? No. This is the shackles.”

  “Shut up,” shouted Brent.

  “We are not amused,” our queen continued. “How dare your chess master slap you, a member of our extremely noble royal family, in chains! I am mortified, sister. Mortified!”

  “Make your next move, Garrett!” Brent demanded. “And tell your q
ueen to quit talking to mine.”

  Our queen would not be silenced. “Isabella, you are a slave to this brutish boy?”

  “Mr. Webster?” Brent whined. “Would you please make their stupid queen shut up!”

  “Actually,” said Webster, “a vigorous debate can be quite healthy, especially over an issue as divisive as slavery.”

  “Play on!” demanded Loki. “Enough table talk. Take his queen! Kill his king!”

  Well, if Loki could shout out cheers from behind the bench, so could I.

  “¡Seamos libres, lo demás no importa nada!” I went with the liberator José de San Martín’s famous battle cry.

  Queen Isabella the Short gasped. Probably because, being of Spanish ancestry, she knew what I had just said.

  “The little girl with too much of the hair in her face speaks most true! ‘Let us be free, the rest matters not!’”

  “Come on, dumdum!” Brent shouted at Garrett. “It’s your move! Do something!”

  “Uh, horse-man-knight-thing! Charge!”

  Our knight, which was supposed to move two squares horizontally and one square vertically (or two squares vertically and one square horizontally), galloped straight across the board, leapt over a pawn as if it were a bale of hay, and sidled up beside the black knight in the open space on the back row between the bishop and the rook.

  “Brother! Allow me to set you free!”

  “¡Gracias, mi amigo!” The black knight pulled his choke chain taut with both hands so the white knight, with one fell swoop of his sword, could cut him loose.

  “¡Liberación!” shouted the freed knight, who started using his sword to cut free the bishop, then the rook.

  Meanwhile, Garrett’s other knight barreled across the board to free Brent’s other knight.

  “Stop that!” shouted Brent. “Black knights return to b8 and g8, immediately!”

  “¡Liberación!” all four knights shouted in unison.

  Brent pounded his fists on the concrete table. “Fight, you idiots! Fight!”

  It was too late. The long-separated chess pieces, black and white, all now free, were engaged in a group hug at the center of the board. A bishop opened a jug of wine. A white pawn pulled out an accordion. Kings and queens were smooching all over the place. The fight became a fiesta.