But it’s not my cunning he craves.
It’s my suffering.
I withdraw my hand and jam it under the table, thinking furiously. My wits and chess skills are no match for Lord Loss’s. I’ve tried all I can to upset his game plan and disturb his style of play. But what if the answer doesn’t lie in the game? What if I can compete with him on an emotional level and undermine him that way?
Thinking —
→ He’s a parasite.
→ He feeds off the misery of others.
→ He takes delight in my failings.
Observing —
→ His smile, how it grows as my mood dips.
→ The glow in his eyes when I run out of ideas and break down in tears.
→ The eagerness with which he attacks, then withdraws.
Wondering —
→ What would happen if I robbed him of his grisly satisfaction?
→ How would he respond if I cut off his supply of desperate grief?
I close my eyes. Forget the boards, the game, Lord Loss. Think about Dervish and the speed with which he pushed me into this encounter. He could have prepared me for this in advance, told me about Bill-E and Lord Loss, worked with me on my weapons and chess skills, just in case he ever had to use me. But he didn’t. He dropped me in it. No training or commands, except one simple, core piece of advice — don’t act — react.
Understanding clicks in. My eyes snap open. I’ve been going about this the wrong way! Thinking, plotting, planning — those are all the things Dervish told me not to do. He warned me to obey my instincts, let the magic flow, react to the lunges and parries of the demons. He was talking about hand-to-hand combat, but why shouldn’t those guidelines apply at the chess board too?
I recall the way he launched into the game. No hesitation. No long study of the boards. I assumed it was because he had his game plan set clear in his mind before he sat down — but perhaps he didn’t have one at all!
“Grubitsch?” Lord Loss asks, fake concern in his expression. “Are you well, my young friend? Can you continue?”
I stare at him wordlessly for a long, pregnant moment.
Then I laugh.
“Of course I can!” I boom, startling the demon master. “Forgive me for the long delay — I was trying to remember if I left the light on in my bedroom before coming down.”
“What?” he blinks.
“Dad hated it when I left the lights on,” I tell him, casually moving my queen on the middle board forward, presenting her to Lord Loss’s rook. “Electricity bills don’t pay themselves, you know. Your move.”
Lord Loss stares at me, astonished, then down at the board. “That was an unwise choice,” he mutters. “Born of haste, perhaps?”
“No,” I smirk. “I knew what I was doing.”
“You can retract the piece if you wish,” he says.
“Really?”
“It is not normally allowed,” he smiles, “but I will make an exception. Take your queen back. Recalculate. Choose a wiser course of action.”
“Very kind of you.” I pull the queen back six places to her original position, pause a moment — then move her forward into the exact same spot as before.
Lord Loss’s face darkens. I throw my head back and rock with laughter.
“You would be well advised not to try my patience,” he hisses.
“To hell with your patience,” I jeer. “This game bores me. You bore me. Take my queen or drag things out — I don’t care any more.”
“You wish to concede defeat?” Lord Loss asks with undue eagerness.
“Nope,” I chuckle. “You’ll have to come take me. And if you don’t — if you play it coy, like you have been – I’ll chase you. I’ll give you no option but to rid me of my queens, rooks and bishops. And you know what I’ll do then, old friend? I’ll giggle! I’ll guffaw! I’ll positively explode with every last scrap of mirth I can muster!”
“You’ve lost your mind,” he croaks.
“No,” I smile spitefully. “You’ve lost your juicy meal ticket. I won’t play the sad, bewildered victim any longer. You’ll never feed from me again. You can kill me, but you won’t squeeze one further drop of pleasure from me, not if you keep me alive for twenty lifetimes!”
The demon lord’s jaw trembles. His eyes flare with pale red light. The snakes in his chest slide under and over each other in a sudden frenzy. Then he reaches out, pushes his rook forward with a stubby, ill-shaped excuse for a finger, and knocks my elfin queen from the table.
In response, I look him straight in the eye — and laugh.
SPIRAL TO THE HEART OF NOWHERE
→ Lord Loss surrounds my king on the middle board — checkmate. I giggle as my king melts. While it’s still bubbling, I move a knight forward on the board to my right, then sit back and twiddle my thumbs, whistling tunelessly.
“This show of indifference does not become you,” Lord Loss says stiffly, attacking my knight with a pawn.
“No show,” I smile, switching play to the board on my far left, shoving a rook deep into enemy territory, barely thinking about it, not pausing afterwards to check my opponent’s response.
“This is ridiculous, Grubitsch,” Lord Loss says. He fakes an encouraging smile. “If you throw the game away, you throw your life away too. You are already two games down. You cannot afford to lose again. You must concentrate. If not, you and your uncle–”
“Chess is dumb,” I interrupt. “Like all games, it’s silly and pointless. People who take it seriously are fools. I’m sorry, but I can’t pretend to respect your foolishness any longer, regardless of what’s at stake.”
The demon master’s lips peel back from his sharp grey teeth. “I could reach across and crush you into a million pieces!” he hisses.
“But that won’t silence my laughter,” I giggle. “Have you moved?” I lean forward to advance a pawn on the board to my left.
“Leave that alone!” he shouts. “I haven’t had my turn yet!”
“Well hurry up,” I tut. “I’ve wasted enough time on this rubbish. Let’s get it over and done with.”
Lord Loss trembles. Starts to say something. Catches himself. Mutters darkly and takes one of my pawns on the far left board. Before he’s placed it on the desk, I push forward the pawn on the board to my near left, and once again fall back to studying my thumbs, twirling them mindlessly, thinking about summer, TV, music — anything except Lord Loss, his familiars and chess.
→ Lord Loss isn’t smiling any longer. His features are contorted with hatred. He takes long, agonised pauses before each move — not to drag the torment out, but because he’s unsure of himself.
I think about cracking jokes or singing songs, but I don’t want to go overboard. Indifference is infuriating enough. He’s unaccustomed to opponents showing no interest in the match or their fate. He’s had long, delicious decades of pressure contests, feeding off the anxiety of those he faces, growing strong on it. He doesn’t know how to cope with a vacant, yawning teenager.
I don’t play blindly, but I play recklessly, pushing forward on all three boards, taking wild chances, surrendering myself