Paladin_Pawn Read online

  Paladin: Pawn

  Book I of the Chess Quest Series

  Michael D. Young

  Copyright Michael D. Young 2017

  Published by DigiTerra Publishing

  www.blackrosewriting.com/digiterra-publishing/

  © 2017 by Michael D. Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  PUBLISHED BY DIGITERRA PUBLISHING

  www.blackrosewriting.com/digiterra-publishing/

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  To my brothers, in memory of all the summers we went on quests.

  Acknowledgements:

  When you're a husband and father, no book gets written without the full support of your family. I want to thank them all for believing in me and helping me have time to write. I'd also like to thank my amazing editor, Tristi Pinkston, who helped me polish this book into something far greater than what I could have done on my own. Finally, I'd like to thank those who have encouraged me to keep writing and submitting, and hope that you all will love this next installment in my literary adventures.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1: Pawn in the Box

  Chapter 2: Striking It Rich

  Chapter 3: Fire and Ice

  Chapter 4: Good Knight

  Chapter 5: Four Quests

  Chapter 6: Respecting Elders

  Chapter 7: A Breathtaking Race

  Chapter 8: A Damsel in Detention

  Chapter 9: Nemesis

  Chapter 10: Broken Axel

  Chapter 11: Dealing with Fire

  Chapter 12: An Ancient Struggle

  Chapter 13: School Dazed

  Chapter 14: Very Special Delivery

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Pawn in the Box

  Rich trained his binoculars out the window, focusing on the white-and-blue truck winding its way up the street. He knocked his forehead against the glass. Why couldn’t they give mail carriers faster cars? Every day this week, the mailman had let him down. The website had said seven to ten business days. This was day eleven.

  The mail truck finally pulled up in front of his house, and Rich checked his reflection in the window to see if he’d sprouted any gray hairs in the meantime. With the intensity of a sniper, he peered through the binoculars again, tracking the mailman’s every move.

  The squat, balding man wearing shorts and tall socks with his uniform tripped as he left the truck, and Rich’s heart somersaulted. His package was probably marked “fragile.”

  While Rich held his breath, the mailman righted himself and lifted the stack of mail. Rich studied the pile, scanning it for his prize.

  “Bill, bill, magazine, flier…”

  His head slumped against the window. The website had lied. Their ten days were up. His mind jumped to ideas for creative revenge, but then again, how did you get revenge on a website? With his eyes pressed shut and his head against the glass, he wished that he’d picked up some computer hacking skills over summer vacation.

  He opened his eyes a slit to see if the mailman had lumbered off yet, and his head pounded double-time. The mailman had turned and now rummaged in his truck. A few seconds later, he swung back around, clutching a bright yellow box that could only be for Rich.

  The binoculars clattered to the floor and Rich bolted from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door faster than he had ever run in his life. Before the mailman had reached the mailbox, Rich scrambled forward and snatched the box from his hand.

  “Hold on there,” the mailman called out. “Is that box addressed to you? You know it’s a crime to open other people’s mail.”

  “It’s mine!” Rich called over his shoulder and rushed through the still-open door, not bothering to close it. He took the stairs two at a time and reentered his room, barely noticing how hard he was breathing.

  He rummaged around in his top desk drawer for his box cutter. Finding nothing but paintbrushes and old tubes of paint, he settled for the nail clippers he discovered in the back corner.

  With a little extra effort, he sliced through the tape holding the box closed and gazed for the first time on his loot.

  Nestled in a bed of pink and green packing peanuts lay two knights in full armor, complete with lances and steeds. One wore burnished silver armor, while the other wore shiny black. His fingers twitching, Rich lifted the two out of the box, trailing peanuts.

  He grinned as he studied the fine craftsmanship. “I think,” he said, “it’s time for a joust.”

  * * *

  The knight’s armor caught the setting sun, and his horse whinnied and squirmed. “Easy,” soothed the knight, trying to still his own anxiety.

  His blue eyes stared from his open visor, fixing on a solitary target in the distance. They narrowed as he confirmed its identity. There had been many confrontations before, but this would be the final one.

  Without a word, he raised his lance and shut his visor, his ancient armor squeaking in protest.

  In a fluid motion, he spurred his horse forward and brought his lance to bear, leaning into the saddle with grim determination. Giant evergreens towered on either side of him, providing a narrow corridor for his galloping steed.

  From far away, a cry shattered the twilight stillness, sending woodland creatures scrambling for cover. Hurtling in the opposite direction, a dark rider bearing his own lance kicked at his horse’s flanks in a brutal attempt to coax a little more speed.

  The dark knight’s armor, free from dents, blended in with the dark trees. He rarely allowed his opponents’ weapons to get close to him.

  The two horses accelerated, their gazes fixed forward, neither rider deviating an inch from the impending collision. Two lances thrust forward, the knights intent on turning their opponent into a metal-wrapped feast for wolves.

  Lances smashed into shields, and a cry pierced the deepening evening.

  * * *

  “Rich! Come down for dinner!”

  The scene shattered into a million pieces as the voice snatched Rich out of his daydream.

  He rose from the chair and pushed up his thick, brown-rimmed glasses. Leaving the molded figures of the two knights facing each other on the table, he called back a grumpy response. “I’m coming! I’m coming, already!”

  On the way to the door, something caught Rich’s eye. Two boxes about the size of harmonicas sat on his dresser. One was wrapped in shiny silver paper, and the other in black. His mother’s calls forgotten, Rich reached for the silver package and fumbled to find a place to tear the paper.

  And it’s not even my birthday.

  Working rapidly, he peeled back the paper
and lifted the lid, ready for either surprise or disappointment.

  What he felt next was a mixture of both. Inside the box in a black velvet casing lay a hand-carved chess piece, a white pawn. He turned it over in his hands and found that the letters HWW had been etched into the base.

  “My initials,” he muttered. He knew right away that he wasn’t going to put this piece where anyone could see it. They might ask him about his name.

  When he had lifted the lid, a slip of paper had fluttered out. He replaced the pawn in its case and picked up the paper. Squinting in the low light, he made out the words written in his grandmother’s familiar script.

  For Heinrich—you will know when to use it.

  Rich laughed out loud. He already had a chessboard, and all its pawns were working great. And the last thing his social life needed was for him to join the chess club.

  “With a monogrammed piece. That would take me from nerd to übernerd.” He shook his head and replaced first the paper and then the lid. His curiosity piqued, he turned to the second box, picked it up, and shook it as he might a mysterious Christmas present. It didn’t make a sound. He thought his grandmother might have gotten him a black pawn to match the white.

  He unwrapped the paper, and the instant he slid off the lid, a fine black powder exploded from within and hung in the air. Rich jumped back, wondering if this was some kind of prank. It wouldn’t have been the first. Just last Tuesday, Joe Stockton had covered his bike seat with Super Glue, just the latest in seemed like his favorite hobby.

  The sparkling black dust swirled in the air, forming into the shape of another chess piece—a black pawn as long as Rich’s forearm. The lights in the room dimmed, giving it the feel of night though it was still late afternoon.

  Feeling his skin prickle, and his eyes shooting open, Rich stepped forward, thinking that if this were a prank, he’d have to ask how they pulled it off. Usually, he felt annoyed, but looking at this, his stomach filled with dread.

  “You have been challenged,” came a deep voice from within the cloud of particles. “Do you accept?”

  Rich glanced around, trying to see if someone had managed to hide in his room or plant some kind of speaker. This was one committed prankster.

  “Uh, who’s challenging me?” Rich asked. “Are we playing chess? ’Cause I just got a new lucky piece.”

  “Answer yes or no,” came the voice again.

  Rich rolled his eyes and played along. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Answer yes or no,” the voice insisted.

  Rich glanced in the corners to see if he could find a camera somewhere filming him. Even if he couldn’t see it, he decided to give whoever was watching a good show. He bowed theatrically and said in a dramatic voice, “Yes.”

  The dust swirled back into the box, and the lid snapped shut of its own accord. The lights returned to normal, and not a speck of blackness remained in the air.

  “Whoa. That was weird.” Rich tried to open the box again, but found that the lid wouldn’t budge. He’d have to ask his grandmother about both of the boxes.

  His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Rich, I’m serious. Come down this instant!”

  He bounded down the stairs, grumbling all the way. Maybe his mother hadn’t interrupted him on purpose, but it didn’t make it any less annoying. He hadn’t even had a chance to find out what challenge he had just agreed to take.

  A few seconds later, he entered the dining room, where his mother already had their dinner on the table. His heart sank. Beef stroganoff again. He hated beef stroganoff.

  His mother, Helena, and his grandmother, Minerva, sat around the table, already piling food on their plates. His mother was a tall, slender woman with a mass of brown curly hair and dark eyes. While her body appeared to be in shape, her extra-pale skin and the deep bags under her eyes told a different story. Rich’s father had been declared missing in action in Iraq two years ago, and his mother hadn’t been the same since.

  His grandmother was a full head shorter than her daughter-in-law, with deep green eyes. A crown of snowy hair billowed out around her head, and her wrinkled face always looked pleasant, though often tired.

  Rich slumped down and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher next to him.

  “Well, well, well,” his mother said. “Look who decided to show up. I’ve been calling for five minutes!”

  Rich shrugged and scoped out the table for redeeming factors to the meal. He moved on from the green beans and settled on the croissants. He grinned. Even stroganoff might be bearable next to a few mouthfuls of buttery goodness.

  He reached out a hand, and gave a cry as it was swatted back by his grandmother.

  “Ah, ah, not yet. We haven’t said grace.”

  “And,” his mother added, “you need to finish your stroganoff first. I’ve tried a new recipe this time. Maybe you’ll like it a little better.”

  Rich sighed and slid the glasses from his nose. Maybe if he couldn’t see what he was eating, it would go down easier. He also knew better than to voice the thoughts that ran through his mind. Stroganoff sounded more like the name of a disease, or some wicked ogre from a fantasy book, than an enjoyable dinner. He bowed his head as his grandmother said grace, and then reluctantly offered his plate and allowed his mother to dish up a generous helping of the lumpy, gray glop.

  He ate in silence, reminding himself that every spoonful would be another step closer to the promised reward—and a chance to ask his grandmother about the strange presents. It wasn’t as if she had given him a gift card to the mall. He wanted to ask her when they were alone.

  He let his mind wander so he barely tasted the food.

  Croissant. That might be a cool name for a knight. A French one, at least.

  His mother and grandmother chatted, and for a moment, he might as well have been in the next country instead of in the next chair.

  His mother’s voice changed tone, and it took a moment to realize that she was talking to him.

  “Rich, I asked you how school was today.”

  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. School was even worse than stroganoff. Instead, he shrugged. “About the same—you know, tried to ignore people making fun of me and to avoid the ones who want to stuff me in lockers, and in between, I managed to pick up a few things about math and science.”

  His mother’s face reflected a mixture of concern and annoyance. “Seriously? Why would they make fun of you? You’re such a nice person.”

  Rich sighed at his mom’s naiveté. In junior high, “nice” got you stuffed in a garbage can. “Oh, the usual—the hair, the glasses, the name.”

  His grandmother’s hand slammed the tabletop. “What’s wrong with your name? It’s been in the family for generations, and it’s been good enough for all your ancestors.”

  Rich gritted his teeth. This was nothing new. His grandma was full-blooded Austrian—and quite proud of it—and had insisted that his parents carry on the family tradition of naming their firstborn son appropriately. Rich was not short for Richard, or even Richmond. It was short for Heinrich.

  The name “Heinrich Wulfrich Witz” might be great for a famous composer, but in junior high, it was a death wish. Nobody cared about heritage there.

  Probably because all their ancestors were barbarians.

  His days were filled with calls of “Heiny-Rich” and other comments as to the financial status of his rear end. His middle name was no better, as it sounded too much like a rich wolf. He never let on that his last name meant “joke” in German.

  It wasn’t just the name, either, but the whole package. He wore thick glasses, had talked with a stutter when he was nervous until six
th grade, broke the curve on most tests, and came to school half the time with mismatched socks or his shirt on backwards. In short, he was the perfect target.

  There was no explaining any of this to his grandmother—or his mother, for that matter. They wouldn’t understand, and might be offended if he tried. He decided to fill his mouth with another bite of stroganoff, avoiding having to make any response by chewing instead. He nodded and managed half a smile. His grandmother went back to studying her green beans.

  “What about that nice girl... Angela, wasn’t it?” his mother asked. “You two hit it off last year. Is she in any of your classes?”

  Nodding while chewing his bite of food, Rich then answered without enthusiasm. “Sure. She’s pretty nice. But it’s like there’s a score. Bullies: fifty. Nice people: one.”

  “I still say that’s something,” his grandmother added.

  Rich cleaned the rest of his plate and stuffed himself with croissants until stopped by a gaze so stern, it might have given Medusa a run for her money. He was about to sweep his plate from the table and off to the sink when he glanced at his grandma and froze.

  She had suddenly risen to her feet, and her face looked as if the FBI had landed on her doorstep with an arrest warrant. Her hands trembled, and her fork clattered to her plate. Rich’s mother stood, placing a nervous hand on her mother-in-law’s back. “Mutti, are you all right? Can you talk?”

  Rich had only heard his mom use “Mutti,” the German equivalent of “Mommy,” on one other occasion, and that had been when she though his grandmother was having a stroke. The woman blinked several times, as if trying to fight off sleep. Her hand moved to her chest and then fell to her side. Her face, already a good deal paler than theirs, had gone a shade usually reserved for corpses and brand-new bed sheets. A single word formed on her lips, but she spoke so softly that they couldn’t understand. It sounded like someone’s name.