Light glinted off the battlefield crown of the White King. Sweat threatened to sting his eyes. He surveyed the mess.
Most of his foot soldiers lay fallen behind enemy lines. His battle emplacements crumbled, the result of a constant exchange with his antithesis, the Black King. Fires still burned in the remains of the catapults. Moving them to the front to protect the white royalty had only stalled the inevitable, it seemed. Others had been tricked by the Pirc Gambit, but the Black King pressed forward.
A sound of a horse galloping violently assaulted the king’s thoughts.
“Sir! They’ve broken through our main line. It’s time for -” A gurgle escaped the White Knight’s lips. As he and his horse collapsed in a heap, their bones sunk into the red grass. They appeared as ghosts behind the Black line of defenses. The knight held up his hand for the White King to see and lowered his head. He let his hand fall and shoulders slump.
Standing where the horse and rider once were on the battlefield presided a gaunt woman dressed all in black. Her long evening gown of a get-up flowed as she glided forward, her skinny, spindly fingers caressing her scepter.
“So, King-y, how are things?” She gave a cruel laugh.
She’s right there. Perhaps I could capture her unawares, thought the king. His muscles became coiled springs.
“I would reconsider. You really do need to think two steps ahead of your enemy, dear. So predictable.” The Black Queen waved her scepter, pointing it behind her. The White King looked past her shoulder. To the back right and back left of her were short men in tall, pointy hats. They grinned as they simultaneously wringed their hands in expectation.
The woman threw her head back in a cackle. She raised her arms and spun with a giggle. Her eyes became slits as her head whipped back towards the White King.
“Mate?”
