Fool's Mate

The enemy kings command from behind. Above the troops the air is filled with clouds of breath. Fallen snow and ash carpet the great court, as yet untouched, though all around the castle lies ruined in the wake of scattered battles. The defeated gather above in silent witness to this final, definitive clash of arms.

No sound mars the perfect silence.

The kings stare each other down.

Click.

A foot soldier steps out of line. He plants defiant feet, though his face is as white as death. The hush solidifies; the witnesses above pin their eyes on the soldier, then back to the kings, then to the soldier again.

The dark king curls his lip at the rashness of the enemy. No wonder they have a backlog of defeats. Perhaps that soldier moved of his own accord, inspired by the false vantage of the front row. ‘Fool,’ he mutters to his royal consort. Her painted mouth twitches. Their own troops hold their rows in perfect symmetry.

The pale king’s face glitters, reflecting the brittle spear points of his troops. He probably thinks he’s invincible behind his rebels. They’re diversely skilled, but he’ll consider them expendable.

The dark king waits. His armour-bearer stands in front, taut as a drawn wire, anticipating orders and revealing nothing. His dark king is a veteran, victorious in scores of battles to the death, and their pale adversaries are unaware they’ve been riding on luck.

The royal lady glances at her king sideways along her own jet-black shoulder. She cannot afford to lose him – their army will disintegrate without his direction – he needs her expertise to conquer these glistening rebels and she knows he trusts her. Grim laughter wells silently between them: they must give the impression of helplessness, of exposing a weakness to draw the enemy out. She waits one more moment, then bestows a command on the armour bearer like a gift. ‘Advance. Two paces.’

The soldier lifts his chin and steps forward, courage flying like a pennant. He cannot retreat, but he’ll not be sacrificed. His king will see to that.

‘Well done,’ says the dark king from behind. The soldier’s eyes shine.

Across the court, the pale king’s breath quickens. The sweat gathers on his marble brow. He hates this stage, when he’s helpless and his queen trembles with rage. She’s trapped behind their ponderous infantry. They clutter the courtyard, clutter his plans – he’ll have them flogged – they would serve him better out of the way, sacrificed to free his cavalry and the might of his fortresses, the power of his queen. He orders another foot soldier ahead, out of the way of his stamping cavalry.

The dark king smiles –  

His queen charges. Her foot soldier stands proud in the rush of her skirts as she sweeps through, far out onto the court where she beams death down the tunnel left vacant by the ashen foot soldiers, straight to the white king, caught in his own reckless haste, and it’s checkmate.