Hats of War
By David Franklin
Captain Nyphael Sanduin stood alone
on the smoking battlefield. Behind her lay a series of hastily dug trenches,
the last lines of defense before the ponderous walls of Castle Symia. Before
her stood the fiercest unit of battle mages that the Gattlebrontian Horde had
to offer. Atop each head was firmly tied… a Hat.
The sorceress
grunted, her disdain thick as a she-boar. “Their
Hats are silly,” she admitted. “Some are even downright ridiculous. There’s
enough power in those Hats to punch a hole through Symia’s wall in half a minute.” They had tried to
push back the Horde, and not only had this morning’s advance been decimated,
but they had lost nearly all the ground bought with yesterday’s casualties.
Soon the Horde would begin their own advance…
Nyphael only realized her fists
were clenched when blood began to drip off her scarred knuckles. Raising her
hand before her face, she chuckled mirthlessly. Her robes billowed and snapped
in a sudden cold breeze, and her own Hat pressed flat against her raven hair.
The Captain shivered.
“Am I
afraid?” She shook her head, smiling. “No need for fear when I still can do this!” she bellowed as a bead of
brilliant white swirled and cracked in her palm. The fuzzy pink bunny ears on
her head wiggled and danced as she channeled their power. Just a little longer
now, and the supply wagon would arrive with a crate of Dr. Seuss Hats, more
than enough power to heal the wounded and give the Gattlebrontians a fair
fight. Until then…
Her eyes
sought and found the enemy commander’s battle standard in the distance. The
bead of light swelled, filling Nyphael’s hand which began to blister. Never had
she held this much power at once before. “It
may kill me to release it,” she thought, “But at least that monster will finally be ash upon which my horse may
shit.”
She closed her eyes. “Forgive me, Gamelstanson.” He had been
a fool to propose, certainly, but she was foolish enough to want--
Suddenly a scream like a
thousand tortured souls filled the air, and Nyphael threw herself to the muddy
ground before a gout of black flame passed narrowly over her head, singeing her
hair and reducing her bunny ears to ash. The light in her hand popped, dimmed,
and faded away.
“Damn, that’s the best chance we had,” she thought, casting aside
the ruined hair piece. “What kind of
headgear are they packing to be able to cast Hellfire like that, and from such
a distance?”
She lifted her head from the muck
just in time to roll to one side of a bolt of lightning intended for her, and
in the same motion she found her feet and dove back into the trench. The smell
of burnt flesh rose well above the sandbags, and Nyphael felt her gorge rise
for the thousandth time. But there was no time for that.
“Captain!”
It was Raselflats, the company’s radioman. “Captain Sanduin, sir… uh, I’m
sorry, I mean ma’am. I mean…”
Nyphael
grabbed the weasly man’s collar.
“Skip it, Raselflats! What news? Did any
survive the press?”
“Our intelligence was wrong,
Captain! The enemy is thick with
Hats, powerful ones. I personally
counted several dozen Propeller Beanies, twenty or so Fool Caps, and—
“Any Caps have bells on?” Nyphael
interrupted.
“All of them had bells, Captain! I- I don’t know how they’re getting
them, but they’ve got them!”
“They must have slipped the
embargo...” The Captain grimaced, cutting fissures in her jagged face. “What
else?”
"Well, I didn’t see it myself,
but Lt. Zanzilar swears their commander wields Hellfire with the silliest Hat
he’s ever seen! Hecate’s nipples, the silliest!”
She blanched. “So that’s who it was.” Nyphael squashed her fear before it reached
her face, if only for Raselflats’ sake. “Surely you’re mistaken. Zanzilar once
faced down a Polka-Dotted Clown Hat with nothing but a Fedora and won. What
kind of Hat did he say it was?
“He wouldn’t say! Gods damn me, the
lieutenant’s just been rocking back and forth in his own filth ever since, his
eyes wide as elephant tits!” Raselflats’ breath choked. “If someone like him
cracked, what chance have I?” and he began
to giggle with fear.
“Chance?”
said a voice from the west side of the trench. “Chance is to be summed after
everything’s dead that needs killing.”
Gamelstanson
trudged toward the pair carrying a crate in his left arm. He wore his red
half-cape over his right shoulder. This had been a bright contrast against his
yellow foam Packers Cheese Head just this morning, but now the latter had now
gone completely grey, its power spent. As he walked, the Hat’s elastic strap
snapped, and the entire piece fell into the mud. Gamelstanson continued as if
he did not notice. He smiled at his commander.
“Is that not
so, Captain?”
Nyphael
sighed and noticed that she had been holding her breath until now.
“Sounds
right, Private.”
The man’s
smile faded. “And there’s killing aplenty more to do.” He set down the crate
and leaned against the trench wall.
“What have
you there, Gamelstanson? Oh gods, is that our Seuss Hats?! I thought them not
due for hours yet?”
“Aye, Miss.
The wagons took new horses from Benkenshire and made full speed to our
position. This—“ he paused to catch his breath suddenly, but recovered and
smiled. “This is what kills them and wins us!”
“Raselflats,
a crow,” said the Captain, her hand outstretched. The excited radioman fumbled
the requested prybar several times before Nyphael finally snatched it from him
with a mock growl. He saluted, an anticipatory grin splitting his face despite
his embarrassment. She cracked open the wooden crate in one motion.
Gamelstanson
and Nyphael stared at the contents, and their smiles died.
“What… what
is this?” she finally said. “These were to be Seuss Hats…”
“Yet they
are party Hats, Miss… A hundred count. Light blue, conical, sturdy plastic, and
‘It’s your birthday’ writ on front,” he said flatly, his breathing increasingly
labored.
“We cannot
use these,” replied the Captain coldly as she replaced the lid.
“Cannot use
them?! Why the Three Hells ever not?” squeaked Raselflats. “These are perfectly
silly! And there are more than enough for all our Magic Folk to wear!”
“I agree,
Captain,” added Gamelstanson, his voice still even.
“Still your
tongues!” bellowed Nyphael. “We’ll find another way! There must be another way—“
“There’s no
other way, Niffie!” cried Gamelstanson. He gasped once, and his knees buckled.
The Captain’s anger evaporated. “Private,
what ails you? Gamelstanson, what’s wrong?”
“What’s
going on?” wailed Raselflats. His ears perked up as he received a transmission.
“Sweet Agrippa’s ghost, they’re coming, Captain! The Horde is advancing! We
need those Hats now!”
“Be silent,
Raselflats!” cried his captain.
“Niffie.
This is unbecoming… But I am flattered… that you remembered my birthday.”
Raselflats
was dumbfounded. “Your birthday—but the hats won’t be silly if we’re wearing
them on your birthday! They’ll just be appropriate… Oh gods, we’re powerless!”
“I don’t
actually think… it’ll be a problem for much longer, friend,” gasped Gamelstanson,
whose eyes rolled in his head as he attempted and failed to stagger to his
feet. Nyphael’s eyes sought for an explanation until she realized that his
uniform was doing its job. She rushed over to the man and began to untie the
red cape over his right side.
“Now now, Niffie. Patience… There
will be time enough to undress me… once the fighting’s all done…”
“Shut up!”
His right arm was gone. The scorch
marks of Hellfire pointed out the responsible party, and while the spell had
cauterized the wound, Gamelstanson was fighting shock.
“You have
to let me go, Niffie. I swore I’d always protect you, and right now, this is
the only way I know how. And not just you. Every man here.”
“Gamelstanson, please don’t speak
that way! You’ll live to protect me still, and I, you. We could… we could share a life together.”
Gamelstanson beamed, and a trickle
of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “That sounds grand, Captain. I can
see us now. I can see us. What a lovely birthday present you’ve given me. Thank
you Nyphael.”
Raselflats head peeked over the
trench. “Captain! They’re closing in! We need your orders now!”
“Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me.” Gamelstanson crooned
waveringly, his eyes smiling so sweetly that Nyphal did not notice his left
hand drift into his back pocket, did not notice him unfold the cardboard pirate
Hat. She did not notice, for she had begun to sing softly with the man she
loved.
“Happy
Birthday, dear Gamelstanson, Happy Birthday to—“
It was the only kiss she would have
to remember him. As they drew apart, she saw the white skull and crossbones
against the black field, the symbol of death against his receding chestnut hair.
She saw his index finger against his temple. She saw how he had distracted her,
but it was too late. Weak as a cardboard Hat was, this one was still silly
enough for…
“—Me.”
A muffled boom, and Gamelstanson’s eyes went slantwise as his spell scrambled
the contents of his skull. Nyphael did not scream. She did not lift her head
and howl at the darkness. The darkness would not care.
She stood.
“How many
men have we left?” Her voice was low.
“Ninety-four,
Captain,” said Raselflats. He peered over at the body. “Captain, I…”
“Distribute
the Hats.”
“Captain,
there are one hundred Hats. How shall we use the leftover ones?”
“There will
be none left over, Raselflats.”
Nyphael put
on a party Hat. These Hats were incredibly silly to wear when it was no one’s
birthday. She felt the power flood into her appropriately. But it was not
enough. Upon the first she stacked a second Hat, and she staggered as the power
increase tenfold.
“Are you
insane?!” yelled Raselflats.
She added a
third and cried out in pain. It felt as if her eyes would burst from the
pressure behind them.
“Stop!
Stop! No one’s ever survived even double-Hatting! What are you thinking,
Captain? You don’t stand a chance of channeling that much power!”
She added a
fourth Hat, and her back arched and quivered and finally snapped like a twig at
the lumbar. She crumbled.
She pulled herself up to the crate
and added a fifth. Her eyes disappeared in light, which shone out of her face
like twin suns… Between which, Raselflats noticed, were two thin rivulets of
steam rising into the air, tears which would never fall.
“I’m
thinking…” said Nyphael. Her voice seemed to come, not just from her mouth, but
everywhere. “I’m thinking that Chance is to be summed after everything’s dead
that needs killing.”
She added
the sixth.
