Hatter
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
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
www.dcolemanbooks.com
Cover Design by Jodie Coleman
[email protected]
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 wi
th. 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.
“If ye move, she falls!” Graybear was yelling, though a whisper could have been heard. He held his sword toward Chism.
Saya noticed something below her and looked down at the drop of more than twenty-five paces. Luckily all of Graybear’s attention was on Chism.
Don’t give it away too soon, silly girl.
Chism planted the spear tip on the floor and started whittling the other end with his knife. “It’s a shame I had to leave my uniform in camp, or you’d see by the Circle and the Sword that I represent King Antion. Unfortunately, negotiation isn’t my specialty.”
His knife made a scraping sound on the hard wood of the spear handle.
Swihp, swihp, swihp.
“I’ll free the girl if ye promise safe passage to the Domain.”
Chism shook his head. “Here’s my offer: the girl goes free and you die on this spear.”
“If I die, she dies! And what will yeer Elite Captain say when ye tell him the girl could not be saved?”
This was why Chism hated negotiating. It never led anywhere.
Swihp, swihp, swihp.
The foolish girl continued to peek at the ground, but Graybear had forgotten about her. If she moved carefully she could easily inch back to the tower and dive to safety. But the stress of the ordeal held her frozen in place.
Not much longer, Child. The child was only five years younger than him.
Chism yearned to pierce Graybear’s heart, but focused on carving as an outlet. Blood from the patch of missing hair trickled in front of his ear and onto his bare chest, but he paid it no mind. Anger was all he felt.
When a rough likeness of the Circle and the Sword emerged from the grain of the wood at the round end of the spear, Chism felt enough time had passed.
“This is the last time.”
He walked toward Graybear, who stepped off the plank, sending Saya plummeting. The girl’s shriek was joined by a woman’s horrified squeal from below.
Graybear attacked. Chism blocked two sloppy strokes then ran him through. He held onto the end of the spear and felt his anger bleed out along with Graybear’s lifeblood.
Released from his rage, Chism peered over the parapet wall. Saya and her parents clung to each other at the top of a large pile of straw and quilts. The duke and duchess had built an impressive mattress in the short time.
Careful of the people below, Chism broke the rough-carved Circle and Sword off the end of the spear and dropped it over the parapet. The boy anxiously retrieved it, then smiled and waved up at Chism.
A rare smile softened Chism’s face.
Chapter 2
Purpleful
Hatta walked into the town of Shey’s Orchard at the time in the morning when it’s impossible to tell the difference between what the eyes see and what the mind perceives. For him, it was little different than any other time of day.
Change was uncomfortable, agonizing sometimes, but he couldn’t stay in Frenala. And T’lai wasn’t an option after his brother left.
The rhythmic sound of gravel distracted him from what lay ahead in the new town.
Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch.
A merchant startled him with a casual ‘good morning’. Hatta smiled genially, nodded, and pulled the brim of his traveling hat down. By the time it returned to its natural position he was past the store.
The inn was easy to find. Even an illiterate could recognize the sign with a bed and dinner bowl.
A stocky man was dusting an oak shelf in the front room and whistling when Hatta slipped in. The tune was Dipping Dipping Caterwauler, and Hatta sang along softly. The man didn’t notice until Hatta broke into a pleasant harmony.
“Well hello then. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“And thanks be for that,” said Hatta, “or you may have stopped the whistle sooner.”
“I’m Tellef.”
“Hatta, Sir, and pleased to be meeting you.” He smiled briefly. “I’ll be in need of a room and some boarding please.”
“You won’t find finer lodging anywhere in Shey’s Orchard.” The stocky man chuckled and smiled warmly. “Of course, this being the only inn, you’re unlikely to find poorer lodging either.”
What a delightful man to meet as his first friend in a new town!
A young man entered carrying firewood under both arms. Eighteen? wondered Hatta. Nineteen? A couple years younger than Hatta, in any case. With a strong underbite he had a surly look, like a bulldog with the countenance to match.
“Brune, make sure the first room upstairs is ready for our guest before you bring in the rest of the tinder.”
Brune nodded, then oomphed as he dropped the wood into a rack. He looked over Hatta with open derision.
“How do?” Hatta asked. He started to extend his hand but drew it back. Brune’s scrutiny made his feet want to squirm and he stared at them so they’d remain still.
His purple boots always made him smile. What was more wonderful than purple leather? The color compleme
nted his double-thick, blue cotton pants. Not many people wore blue clothes, or purple for that matter. Hatta’s garish clothing usually put people in an easy mood. The extra attention it drew was offset by the positive response. And he was always dressed well enough for occasions of any formality.
But he had no idea how to charm people who despised him from the first glance. Luckily, when he looked up from his boots the boor was gone.
“How long will you be staying?” asked the innkeep.
“Longer than a short visit and shorter than a long time.” His smile came more naturally now that it was just him and his friend. From a pocket inside his maroon coat he took out approximately half his coins. “Will this cover until I find a more permanent domicile?” The coins were mostly coppers, but there were a few silvers as well.
“With coin to spare. I’ll see that what’s left over is returned when you leave.”
“And perchance would you know of work to be had? I’m an assiduous worker. It means I work hard.” Another smile so the innkeep didn’t think him supercilious.
“If that’s the case you’ve arrived at a fortunate time. Aker’s daughter is to be married tomorrow and he’ll need someone to replace her in the mirror shop.” The innkeep told him where to find the mirror maker.
“I’m obliged for the advice. By your leave I’ll get settled then.”
Before returning to his dusting, Tellef said, “It’s a pleasure having such a fine lad in Shey’s Orchard. I’m at your order.”
When Hatta reached the top of the stairs, Brune was closing the door to the first room. “So are you supposed to be some kind of minstrel or traveling jester?” Brune demanded, looking over his attire with obvious disdain.
“No,” answered Hatta, feeling tense. If there was an introduction he could give that might befriend Brune, Hatta didn’t know it.
Brune didn’t speak, just continued to stare, so Hatta added, “I care for colors quite a bit.”
Hatter Page 1
