We retired to a little armory room behind one of the viewing bleachers. And there was my queen.
She smiled “My handsome lion, I do love the armor of my captain of the guards!” I hadn’t seen the paperwork that granted me that title or responsibility. The little chessboard with two pawns opposing each other at D four and five rested on the eternal symbol of vitality. Some kind of locker room bench.
The room smelled sterile and metallic, a hint of rubbing alcohol or acetone or lye, something chemical.
“I see our opponent has moved.” I was dreading how long this game might take.
“Indeed my king” my queen bubbled, “Have you the next move for us?”
Why didn’t she recommend me one? She was the one who seemed to drive this machine. I looked at the board.
I wanted a bishop or the queen to threaten their own, or failing that, threaten their king. I suppose I wanted the checkmate of their king.
“He is going to need to joust soon O Queen” the knight of platinum said.
“Well I simply need our next move for the war.” The white dove, still playing at magical princess, responded.
“What happening has the enemy orchestrated?” I asked.
“They block our actions.” The queen pointed at a chessboard. Two pawns helplessly glared at each other in the middle of the board.
Assuming a chess model of the world… Bishop of steel, was that who he was? Was open to cross the board, but my queen was blocked by the pawn I had moved forward, both knights could move forward. I at least knew legal moves.
Knight steel, would protect my pawn, who was not threatened. Knight platinum would threaten his pawn. Knight steel, also cover the bishop if I moved it up. But it would take our opponent a turn to threaten the bishop.
Was it wise to move a pawn up? Both knights would block a pawn if they moved up. Though it was bad to block other pieces of your own generally. Right? That was common sense? I hadn’t played chess in a while, besides I had uncommon sense. The suits were going to put it on a t-shirt but they weren’t going to keep paying me.
“I do love watching you deep in thought O lion. I am reminded of the philosophers of old. When you win what future shall you build?” Again, she was looking at me like an overgrown teenager. Perhaps she was. I didn’t know the lives of princesses.
I should start a t-shirt making website and convince the suits they could sell their own employees their own t-shirts on it.
“Well o King… is there a lot to consider?” Why was the queen in such a hurry. Better yet, why did we know what black had done. Did this have something to do with the mail?
This one?
I moved left side knight to what would have been C three.
“Right away lord.” Both the queen and the knight of platinum who had prepared me to joust responded.
“I ride tonight.” The knight responded and without any delay he returned to the dimming twilight outside.
I guess my hand had left the piece, I would need to be more careful.
“Is the bishop of the realm the next to move? Very aggressive my king!” The queen interjected.
I picked her up to a squeal. “Help me get my armor on.” I ordered.
“Of course! But help me get mine off!”
Strictly speaking, she wasn’t wearing enough that it needed taking off. I suppose it was a sign of dominance to the more mundanely dressed.
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I was glad that I had ridden before even if I didn’t know what was going on.
I would have been nervous if I hadn’t seen one hundred other tilts today.
The horse was confident, I was confident, and these young men were nervous because the old knight was taking a few champions from among them and leaving them for war.
I was royal guard.
If I had any fears it was that the queen wasn’t a certified armorer, she could have untied an odd string and sentenced me to any number of injuries.
Odd dynamic.
They told me when I was six years old that only one out of five soldiers shot to kill in the old world wars.
I had always known I was one of them. Though as I got older I became less convinced killing the other soldier was a good thing.
The horse cantered impatiently to my side of the fence but under its own armor.
For all the armor, from what I had seen, the game was who was heavier. The knight with more weight, or more ability to throw his opponent sideways would score a proper “defeat” of his opponent. That was, dehorsing the other rider.
It seemed this world did understand some basic impact mechanics. From what I could tell after nearly a hundred tilts, only three casualties, one broken arm, a split collar bone, one punctured set of armor. Everything else, even if it was a broken rib, could be slept off… eventually. Ok maybe a hand or five had been irreversibly harmed in the making of this “morale boosting event” maybe there had been a broken nose or two we didn’t document.
Heaven help the concussions. It seemed likely every unhorsed rider would have at least a minor one.
But that was from impacting the ground, no lances had hit heads, yet.
The rook had summoned maids and mages of light to enact some first aid.
If the magic was good that would be a good thing right?
But still, who was going to be doing the fighting? Certainly not those with broken ribs and a working hand was handy to have on hand. It seemed even magic didn’t work without good sleep.
Gosh I should focus on the tilts, ‘Twas nearly my turn. Those “maids” of light looked so much softer and more pleasant than my hawkish wife.
I was a king but I wasn’t a home wrecker.
New life new me, if all the women were so cute maybe I should be. Wasn’t that the point of being king? Surely I was wasting my time if I was failing at my task of aiding the women of the kingdom.
My turn…
The metal of my armor formed a hard shell over my insulating gambeson, over the chainmail resting over my joints. My “pinch points.”
I may as well have dressed in a mass of rubber tires, felt about the same.
That old rook of servitude waved his hands to start our joust.
And I kicked my horse, (I did in fact own most of these horses) it accelerated.
Instinctively I lowered the lance, only now did I perceive my enemy rider. His own lance was nearly invisible.
Only a few seconds had passed but I had time to think.
I shouldn’t do that here.
I focused on the dust, the pounding of the hooves, the way I cradled the lance and braced it. The armor on each horse.
I had seen some Hollywood scene where the mad prince had skewered the neck of his opponent’s horse.
A dirty trick so Hollywood would have me believe.
Yet here with the real thing the heavy plates on the neck of the horse could cause the lance to bounce, you would miss the counter strike.
You would give your opponent your body on a stick for nothing but a chance to injure his innocent and noble steed.
The lance bounced and my body was compensating without my thinking.
Did I ever tell you I don’t breathe manually? It’s bad form.
I jiggled the lance slightly, just to avoid manually controlling it.
Something told me to shift the lance ever so slightly to my right. I did not fight this urge.
The second of impact was upon us. There was no escape now, only the desire to destroy the opponent.