With an effort I tear my eyes away from Dervish and the demons and stare at the pieces lined up in front of me. Assessing the damage. I immediately note that the game on the far right board is beyond saving — that’s where Lord Loss took Dervish’s queen with a bishop. The game on the centre board also looks like a lost cause, with white down both knights and a bishop.
“Depressing, isn’t it?” Lord Loss sighs, looking more miserable than I feel. “Dervish was not at his best tonight. His fear for you affected his game. I warned him about that, but he would not listen.”
Lord Loss picks up the queen he took from the far right board and toys with it. “It’s your move, Grubitsch,” he says, “but take your time. There is no rush. Study the pieces. Plan a campaign. Search for openings.”
I reach towards a rook on the board to my immediate left. Pause. Withdraw my hand without touching the piece. “Can I move any piece, on any board?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I run an eye over the five boards again, then pick up a pawn on the board to my far right and move it forward a space. The battle’s already lost on that board, so I might as well start there and treat it as a warm-up. Hopefully work my worst moves out of my system.
“Ah,” Lord Loss nods. “A cautious approach. Very wise, young Grubitsch.” He moves a knight forward and checks my king. “It will make no difference to the end result, but at least you may lose with some dignity. Perhaps that will provide you with a glimmer of comfort when you and your unfortunate companions roast tonight in the fires of my own personal hell.”
→ It takes Lord Loss nine moves to checkmate me on the far right. When he wins, my king melts into a foul-smelling white puddle. Lord Loss picks up the board, snaps it into pieces and tosses it aside.
“Then there were four.”
→ Sweating. Fidgeting. Trying to concentrate on the boards. Eyes constantly flicking to Dervish and the demons, locked in slow-motion combat.
I’m trying to keep play confined to the board on my left — taking the contest one game at a time — but Lord Loss won’t oblige. He makes a few moves on that board, then switches to another, then another.
Though I have a free run of the boards, I can’t make more than one move on any board until Lord Loss has replied to it. So, if I make a move on the middle board, and Lord Loss then moves a piece on the board to my far left, I can’t make a second move on the board in the middle — I have to wait for Lord Loss to move one of his pieces on it. He’s tied by the same rules as me, of course, but it feels like the odds are stacked in his favour, as if I’m the only one restricted.
I’ve played chess like this before, but not often, and not recently. Dad tried me on multi-boards when I was younger, saw I wasn’t able to maintain my focus, so worked on improving my individual game. Perhaps he’d have tested me again when I was older — if he’d lived.
It’s impossible not to think about my parents and Gret. Did Dad sweat this much when he faced the demon lord? Was Gret half-frozen in time, like Bill-E is now, unaware of what was occurring, but somehow sensing doom? Did Mum lose limbs to the familiars during the fight?
I move a wizard-shaped rook across the middle board. The game here seems lost, but I’m taking it slowly, hoping a route to victory will present itself.
“Oh dear,” Lord Loss says, and my stomach sinks. He takes one of my pawns with a bishop, exposing my queen. I’ll have to move her now, but that’s going to leave my king vulnerable. Any half-hopes I entertain of winning on this board vanish.
“So sad,” Lord Lord whispers, red eyes glowing dully. “To lose nobly is horrible — but to carelessly throw the game away…”
“Stuff it,” I half-sob, knowing he’s right, hating myself for surrendering so cheaply.
“You can concede defeat now, if you wish,” he says. “I have no heart, but if I had, there would be room in it for mercy. I will let you–”
“I said stuff it!” I roar, cutting him off. I brutally push my queen to safety, then turn my thoughts away from the board in the middle and focus on the three on which I still stand a slim chance of winning.
→ Lord Loss doesn’t finish me off on the centre board, but chooses instead to flirt with me on the others, toying with me, threatening my major pieces, letting me escape, then slowly moving back in for the kill.
I’m playing through tears, fingers shaking, breath rasping in my throat. It’s not losing that I despise, but doing so in such a humiliating fashion. I ignored Lord Loss when he spoke of losing with dignity, but now I understand what he meant. To crumble at the moment of truth, to allow your opponent to psyche you out, to defeat yourself by playing dreadfully — that’s a million times more sickening than coming, competing and being beaten fairly.
“I could chase you for ever, Grubitsch,” Lord Loss murmurs, once again sliding a queen backwards on the board to my left, when he could have pressed on with her and ensnared my king. “Perhaps I will.” He smiles with evil pleasure. “Time can barely touch us here. I could make this game last an eternity.”
I respond by moving a pawn sideways on the far left board. A blind move, born of exhaustion and resignation.
“I’m afraid that’s an illegal move,” Lord Loss says, putting the pawn back on its original spot. “But I’ll overlook it this time. Try again.”
“Why don’t you just finish it?” I scream, picking the pawn up and throwing it straight at the demon’s face. The pawn sticks in the flesh of Lord Loss’s left cheek. He leaves it there a moment, while blood pools around it, then pries it free and places it back on the board.
“You should be grateful that I procrastinate,” he chuckles, pressing a finger to the fresh cut on his cheek, then licking it clean of blood with his long grey tongue. “This is your final ever game as one of the living. It’s only fitting that it should last a lifetime.”
→ Hitting brick walls. Every time I advance, Lord Loss drives me back. Every time I go after one of his pieces, he smoothly evades capture. Every time I fall back and group my pieces around my kings — inviting him on, in the hope he’ll get arrogant and make a mistake — he circles like a vulture, patient, cold, mocking.
My temper rises and drops from minute to minute. I scream at him, turn my back and refuse to play, then give in and beg him to end the torment.
Through it all he observes me with a slight, cutting smile, which spreads during my darkest moments, as he feeds on my sorrow with relish.
Since my cause is hopeless, I spend more and more time watching Dervish battle the familiars. He seems to have the upper hand — the pair are wounded in many places — but Vein and Artery are still active, tracking him, probing for weak spots.
“A nasty nick,” Lord Loss notes as Artery makes a pass and catches Dervish’s left hip. Blood sprays into the air in slow motion, each drop vividly visible from where I sit. Dervish’s lips press tightly together into a pained wince.
“I think your uncle might succumb before you do,” Lord Loss says, reluctantly taking one of my pawns. “As brave and resourceful as he is, he cannot continue for ever.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I snarl. “To see him fail. To be able to pin the blame on him and make him feel guilty. I bet you’d tell him I was enjoying great success on the boards — torment him before you let your slaves finish him off.”
Lord Loss beams ghoulishly. “You see through me, young Grubitsch,” he purrs.
“I’m starting to,” I mutter, and return to the game. I’m reaching forward to move a knight when I pause, thinking about what I’ve just said. I am starting to understand how Lord Loss operates.