Along the western edge of the field he saw a mound of fresh dirt, four paces wide and twenty four across. A mass grave. He estimated more than fifty but less than a hundred.
What meaningless loss of life and abuse of the populace. He pictured Hatta’s body, hacked and rotting under the berm and knew he not only had to keep Hatta alive but also prevent him from even seeing this. That didn’t give him much choice as to where to stage his rescue.
Without another glance at the tragic scene, he returned to his horse and set off to the north without a plan.
An hour north of town, Chism left the road for a vantage point. The legion still ambled south. It was amazing they ever arrived anywhere at that pace.
Far ahead of the main body rode two men with three horses, much too relaxed to be scouts. The hat on one and pale tousled hair on the other were unmistakable
With relief Chism thought, Hatta and his dumb luck. I don’t know how he does it.
***
“Indefatigable,” said Hatta, adjusting his superb traveling hat.
Pondering, Ander said, “Fatigue means tired. Fatigable is able to tire. Defatigable would be unable to tire, Indefatigable means not unable to tire, or able to tire.”
“Yes! But it doesn’t mean that at all,” said Hatta.
With a nod Ander said, “Indefatigable.”
“Prison and jail are the same, right?” asked Hatta.
Ander nodded.
“So a prisoner and a jailer are the same, right?”
“I suppose they should be, but they’re actually opposites,” said Ander.
“Yes! And what about inflammable. It means something burns easily and quickly.”
“That’s what flammable means, too,” said Ander. “Inflammable should be the opposite of flammable. Very good, Hatta. You’ve given this some thought.”
“It’s just that perfidy does not agree with me, and words that mean what they don’t say, they bother me. But I noticed you can lie like a grey cat can meow.”
Ander barked a laugh. “And you spew the truth like a man with the scour purges.”
“I thank you,” Hatta said. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but assumed it was a compliment.
They were a few hours south of the Whites on the Northern Spoke. Hatta wanted to travel north, the direction Chism had fled, but Ander said that would be too suspicious. They needed to take the message for Queen Palida and find the main body of the White Army. Or at least act like that was their intent. So they plodded south, nowhere near the path his brother was on.
Scraping came from the slight curve ahead. Ander heard it too, and took the lead. The sound was familiar but out of place on the vacant road. They slowed to quiet their approach, and the sound continued steadily. Ander held his spear ready.
Thwish, thwish, thwish, the rasp continued.
Ahead of him on the path, Ander lowered his spear and said, “Well, if it isn’t the fish that swam away with the hook.”
Chism, whittling unproductively on a stick, stepped onto the road. “I don’t know how you do it, brother,” he told Hatta.
“Mostly I try to do something else and it just happens.” Greetings were so much more pleasant than farewells, no matter how brief.
They resumed their travel southward while Hatta and Ander told about being conscripted then charged with a new duty. Before they reached Selvage, Chism explained the plight of the town, and made it clear he wanted to avoid it. But when Hatta heard about the people in trouble, he knew he could do something. Even if it was something that seemed insignificant, there was some way he could ease suffering.
I just wish I had a plan before stepping in blindly sometimes, thought Hatta.
Surprisingly, Chism and Ander didn’t disagree. With an exasperated sigh Ander said, “It’s hard to argue when I’ve nowhere to be.”
Hatta urged his horse forward and Chism and Ander followed. I never thought I’d be a leader.
As they approached Selvage, they wandered through a verdant landscape, but the animal life seemed subdued. Very few birds flew, and Hatta didn’t spot any critters scurrying. A tension hung in the air, and Hatta did his best to ignore it, focusing on his freedom and the clear road ahead.
There were fewer people going about town than when Hatta passed through two months before. When they reached the wabe in the center of town he realized why. A procession was preparing to depart, and many of the townsfolk were loading wagons with all manner of crafts: brass candlesticks, multi-colored rugs, fabrics and clothes—mostly brown and other earthy colors—and even some uninspired mirrors. None of the crafts was seen in abundance, as if everyone in town brought whatever items of value they could find.
Chism and Ander pulled up short to observe the convoy, and Chism asked, “Notice anything odd?”
Hatta looked more closely. The wagons were well matched, light brown oak, but the horses varied considerably. The contents of the wagons had been loaded unsystematically, not grouped by type of wares, and late arriving citizens piled objects in wherever they fit. Still nothing too unusual.
“They’re almost all women,” said Ander.
Distracted by the wagons and items they contained, Hatta hadn’t noticed. There were more than twenty women. Maybe as many as forty. He wasn’t quick with numbers like Chism. Among them he could see less than five men.
As was their custom when they encountered groups of people, Chism took the lead. He approached the first wagon where a stocky woman who resembled a pig in shape and coloring was shouting orders to the rest of the convoy from where she stood on the seat.
“What’s all this?” asked Chism in his straightforward tone.
The woman looked over the three—Hatta pulled his hat lower when her gaze scraped across him—and said, “Just because they took our men, we aren’t about to shrivel and die. We’re off to trade for provisions.”
“We can help!” said Hatta, raising his arm to be noticed from behind Chism and Ander. He heard Chism groan, but from what Chism had told him, these people needed assistance.
Looking inconvenienced, the woman answered, “It’s a kind sentiment, but a boy and a madman will just eat what little food we have without scaring off a lone, crippled bandit.” Pausing to consider Ander for a moment, she added, “The soldier’s welcome. If the hair’s any indication he’s got a fair amount of experience. But you’ll not be wanting to separate, I assume.” Without waiting for an answer she scolded a boy for dragging a finely carved rocking chair through the dirt.
If he and Chism weren’t welcome, Hatta would still do what he could. After dismounting, he retrieved a rucksack of food from the supply horse and laid it in Ander’s lap. Untying his heavy coin purse Hatta held it up to the woman as an offering.
Like a pig on a perch she looked down and demanded, “What’s this?”
“Coins,” said Hatta. “And Ander has food of his own for the journey; he won’t need to drain your rations.”
Before the woman could reach down for Hatta’s purse, Chism snatched it out of his hand and Ander exclaimed, “Don’t give up the barn and farm with the bull, lad! Especially a bull that’s not yours to barter over.”
Sometimes Ander made the strangest statements. It made no sense, but he seemed to be saying he didn’t want to accompany the group. “But Chism and I aren’t welcome, Ander.”
“I haven’t said I won’t go,” said Ander. “But if I’m the feastday goose, I’ll at least have a say as to how I’m trussed and when I’m cooked.”
Chism removed some coins then tossed the purse back to Hatta. “Do what you want with those. I’ve kept enough to provide for your needs for a while.” Hatta didn’t see the point. He’d always provided for himself in the past, full purse or not.
How can Ander not see that they needed him? Unsure how to convince him, Hatta waited on Ander, who looked at Chism. A raised eyebrow, a nod, a slight shrug. Something passed between the pair, but not out loud.
“I may be a sheepdog abandoning the flock to tag after a
lamb, but I’ll accompany you,” he told the woman, and Hatta rushed to grasp his hand in congratulations. Ander scooped up Hatta’s coin purse and said, “I’ll see that this is used properly.”
Hatta knew he would.
“Good luck,” he told Ander. “I’ll see to saving the kingdom finally. Perchance I might do something about this war.” It was more goodbye than he was comfortable with and unfortunately they still had to reload packs, dividing possessions and such. It was agonizing after already bidding farewell.
When he and Chism walked out of the town on their own feet, Hatta felt as free as a rabbit in a field. Somehow he even convinced Chism to allow Ander to keep all three horses to help with the wagons, since the armies left too few for the daunting task.
Chism said, “If it takes us longer to get wherever you’re leading us, we’ll stay out of trouble longer. That suits me fine.”
With nothing more than what they could carry on their backs, he and his brother continued their journey.
No sooner were they past the town limits than Chism detoured to the east and picked his way through the silent forest. He gave no explanation, and Hatta didn’t ask for one. Chism had followed him blindly enough; Hatta could return the favor for a while. A mile or two later, Chism led them onto a road heading east.
When darkness began to fall, Hatta still felt proud as a puffed up bullfrog. He was with his brother again, and they’d accomplished something.
The next morning when Hatta woke, Chism wasn’t in his bedroll. Hatta found him nearby on a small outcropping of rock staring across a prairie.
“I still don’t know how you do it, Hatta, but it’s always something big.” Whatever Chism was referring to, he had led them east the previous night, not Hatta.
Joining him on the boulders, Hatta looked to the southwest. A shallow valley spread out for miles and miles, the morning light painting a fresh picture. Then he saw what Chism was looking at. Surrounding the empty basin were soldiers. Red-uniformed on one side, white-striped on the other. Hundreds? Thousands? More?
“How many are there?” he asked Chism.
After a moment of consideration, Chism answered flatly. “All of them.”
Chapter 25
Final
The Kirohz Valley pressed into the landscape like the imprint of a giant, oblong bowl. Stretching miles from brim to brim, uniform prairie grass covered the floor. Green and bending in the breeze, it flowed like a molten meadow, bristly trees lining the rims of the valley like bursts of green fire.
But the natural beauty was marred by the revolting sight of two armies camped just inside the tree lines to the north and south. The Red army of Maravilla camped on the left, led by Cuora and Markin. To the right, on the north side of the bowl, was the combined army of the Twelve Provinces. Their uniforms varied in color, but all featured a wide streak of white paint across the chest.
The scene in front of him eclipsed the sum total of every confrontation of Hatta’s life, and he wanted nothing to do with it. But the nauseating feeling would stay with him if he left now.
With thousands of men assembled on either side it had the potential to be such a momentous occasion. He imagined the cities that could be built, the art that could be produced, and the love and brotherhood that could be fostered. The possibilities were limitless. However, these men hadn’t come together to build or create, but to destroy. They had come to fill the bowl with blood and bodies.
Fighting a wave of nausea, Hatta leaned on his brother’s shoulder. Surprisingly, Chism didn’t pull away, though Hatta felt him tense. There was no outstretched hand or offer of encouraging words, but at least Chism didn’t let him fall.
“What are we doing here?” asked Chism, and his tone said he would rather be anywhere else.
After such a long journey there was no reason to avoid it. Forcing a smile, Hatta said, “If I were to wager a guess, I’d predict saving the kingdoms.”
Closing his eyes, Chism drew a deep breath. Hatta had no idea what emotions Chism was struggling with, but the inner tempest was obvious. “You’re a hatter. What could you possibly do?”
“That I haven’t figured out. My mirrors helped me to a place where I met some of the people who people think are powerful. People who would make decisions, I suppose.” Glancing between the two armies arrayed to do violence, it was difficult to make up his mind. “I suppose I might start by delivering this message to the White Queen.” Struggling to rally enough courage, he told himself, “I am the White Messenger, after all.”
The first step toward the Whites took effort, but each succeeding one came easier. Before long, it was all downhill.
With a string of curses under his breath, Chism rushed past and stood in his path. “Hatta, I don’t know what goes on inside your head sometimes, but it’s clear you don’t always know what’s real. You have your reasons for what you do, but nothing good can come from walking into that valley. For either of us.”
Chism had never mentioned Hatta’s instability. Of course he’d seen it over the years, but it was comforting that they never had to talk about it. With it finally out in the open there was no reason to explain or excuse. “You’re right, brother. I have no idea if it’s fact or fancy, but I’ve waited this long to find out and I know only one way to do it.” He considered freeing Chism from the obligation to accompany him, but knew it would be pointless. Either he would come or he wouldn’t.
Stepping around his brother, Hatta threw himself to the wolves, walking into the valley and toward his glorious, uncertain fate.
From behind, Chism muttered something else about madness. Hatta heard Thirsty’s blade seesaw against its scabbard and knew his brother followed, ready for what lay ahead.
War. Killing. Violence. Foul concepts. He might as well attempt to fathom the stars in the sky.
***
With everything to lose, Chism followed his brother’s meandering steps. Hatta knew Chism’s head carried a high price, but most likely didn’t consider the consequences of entering the battlefield between the two armies. Duke Jaryn and his Provincial forces would not show any mercy, and Chism didn’t plan on holding back if he had a chance to sway the outcome of the day. Hatta might go to the butcher like a sheep, but Chism was going like a bear.
Though the message Hatta bore was intended for Queen Palida, he angled left, toward the camp of Queen Cuora. As usual, he took the most indirect route possible.
Within a quarter hour, sentries challenged them as they approached the eastern edge of the encampment. At the sight of weapons, Hatta shied away and stopped, but Chism continued, striding confidently past the drawn swords. He said, “I’m personal bodyguard to the Queen of Hearts.”
Hatta sparked up at that. Keeping Chism between him and the armed men, he said, “Yes! He’s the Red Knight.”
Red Knight, thought Chism. How absurd. But either because of Chism’s confidence or Hatta’s ridiculous title, the sentries lowered their weapons and allowed the pair to pass.
Once past the outer guards, they walked freely through the camp. The first men they saw were career soldiers in matching uniforms—cooking, mending tents, sparring, and tending to all sorts of camp duties. Though he’d never been part of a large war campaign, Chism knew the layout was by design. Conscripted soldiers from across the kingdom would make up the interior of the camp. The career soldiers would be stationed around the exterior, each with the duty to keep watch for deserters, not uncommon in such an army despite the threat of hanging.
The next group of soldiers wore mismatched clothes, their shoulders stained with paint. Chism couldn’t make out the color, but on this side of the battlefield it had to be red. A few young men tussled as a dozen others of varying ages looked on. Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them until Hatta, deep in concentration, pointed out a face he knew.
“Cull,” said Hatta to himself. “Something cull.”
“Mikel,” said Chism, and realized the tough young men wrestling were St
efen and his family. He’d bet his horse on it, if Ander hadn’t led it off. The young man Chism worked with in Mikel’s orchard looked at ease with his rough relatives. True to form, out of the thousands of soldier’s in Queen Cuora’s army, Hatta wandered upon the men from Shey’s Orchard.
“Hello, Mikel!” said Hatta. “Imagine meeting you here of all places.” In the pleasure of seeing a familiar face, Hatta seemed to forget exactly where here was.
“Hatta, Chism,” acknowledged Mikel, glancing back and forth. “You two are acquaintances?”
“No,” said Hatta before Chism had a chance to speak. “We would be brothers. Ever since Chism was born, anyway.”
“Is that so?” mused Mikel. “I’d sooner expect a bird and a fish to be kin than you two.”
A burly man with a staff approached. Speaking to himself again, Hatta said, “Shelf, shellef, Tellef! How would you be this fine day?”
“As well as any conscript could be, I suppose.” He looked at the exuberant Hatta with skepticism.
Realization dawned on Hatta’s face. “Oh. You two are…that is to say, you’re here involuntarily.”
Mikel laughed sardonically. “That’s painting it in bright colors, lad. If it weren’t for penalty of death not one of us would stay. Except maybe Hass and his family.” He motioned to Stefen’s group, who had taken up sparring with staves.
“But you’re no soldiers,” said Hatta.
“That matters little to the nobility,” said Tellef.
“If you’ve no desire to fight, why do you fight?”
Hatter Page 21
