by Jack Conner
“Should we give him a few more minutes?” one of his subordinates asked. “Or should we hog-tie him to a pole and tote him to the Throne Room in style?”
The leader smiled. “Door number two.”
On his orders, they burst into the odd flock’s room and found, to their dismay, nothing.
“Shit,” another subordinate said.
“You!” snapped the leader. “Go to the Throne Room and tell our lord that Ruegger’s escaped. We’ll stay here and sniff out any hidey-holes.”
“How could he escape? The only possible way out is—”
As one, they looked toward the corpse-chute.
The leader swore. “If they killed themselves on our clock, we’re screwed. Go on, you,” he snapped at the subordinate, “get yourself to the Throne Room. Better to be caught acting incompetently than to be caught in a lie.”
“But we can’t tell Roche Sarnova the truth!”
“Trust me, he might—might—forgive incompetence, but he would not forgive ... creative gaps, or stretches, shall we say, in what really transpired. So go.”
The subordinate went. However, when he arrived in the Throne Room, he was extremely relieved (if also surprised) to find that Ruegger, for some enigmatic reason, was already there.
“Hog-tied, indeed,” he muttered.
* * *
When it was time to go, Ruegger and Danielle walked hand in hand through the halls, up the stairs (choosing the longer route, rather than the elevators) and into the Throne Room. Ruegger noted the crowd tonight was larger than for any of the previous chess matches, and noticed too Roche Sarnova’s look of interest when he saw that Ruegger and Danielle had arrived sans escorts. Several soldiers stirred, apparently recognizing the oddity of this, and glanced back and forth from the odd flock to the Dark Lord as if awaiting orders to arrest the vampires. Roche Sarnova just smiled, nodded to the odd flock, and said not one word about it.
“This is it,” Danielle said.
“Here we go,” Ruegger agreed.
He squeezed her hand. They kissed, and she moved off to a seat reserved for her on the front row. Behind the several rows of fold-out chairs, on two sides of the impromptu arena, reared large representations of chess boards. Once the game was underway the magnets that represented the pieces would be moved so that those in the audience who couldn’t actually see the main action could follow along. As he moved down an aisle toward the little table in the midst of all the shades, Ruegger noticed that he was the first of the duelists to arrive.
He lit a cigarette, took his spot, and waited.
He scanned the audience, interested in the faces of those who would witness the forthcoming spectacle. There was Harry (Ruegger nodded), there was Kharker and Jean-Pierre, sitting together (again, Ruegger nodded; both nodded back). There was Sophia, sitting next to the albino, there Cloire, next to Harry (she, shockingly, gave a smile and a thumbs-up sign). The rest of the death-squad waited, too, he knew, readying their ridiculous failsafe plan, which struck him at the moment as monstrously funny. Lastly, on the front row, was Danielle. She neither smiled nor nodded. At least, at first.
He gave her a slight wink, and then she smiled. It proved a grim one, though, and he understood. After all, if he did defeat Kiernevar, he would possibly be dooming the man who’d saved her from the Balaklava’s designs in the room of the Tree. On the other hand, the assassins had declared that they intended to spring the lunatic themselves, should he fall, so Ruegger felt no guilt. He wondered where the assassins were. Of course, they probably had many eyes in attendance.
How many gathered in this room were their zombies? Ruegger could find no obvious chalgid minions, except perhaps for a small group of hooded monks (and religious shades were hard enough to come by, let alone a group of religious zombies), whose robes would possibly conceal their fetidness. They did not have to be fetid, though; if Junger and Jagoda kept them well fed, they would look not unlike any other shade.
Ruegger let himself slip into a meditative state, forcing his mind to be at its sharpest and yet relaxed at the same time.
About the time he had to stub out his cigarette in the little stone ashtray on the fold-out table, Kiernevar, alone and wearing his long trench coat to conceal the feces across his emaciated torso (but which did nothing for the smell), strode cockily into the room, down an aisle and, with a look to the Dark Lord, sat down.
To Ruegger, Kiernevar seemed like the likeliest zombie he’d seen yet—and with the smell of his own feces to cover him, who would know?
Kiernevar’s unshaven angular face stared back at him, eyes blood-shot and confident.
The referee began to speak, building this match into great heights of mythology, but Ruegger tuned him out. Instead he watched Danielle, and his odorous foe. Danielle did not smile, and this time he didn’t attempt to make her. The referee continued to babble, presumably so that the bettors would have time enough lay any final bets. Idly, Ruegger wondered who the favorite was, and decided he knew. Still, many would have bet on him, if only to reap the rewards of a long-shot. Ruegger thought that perhaps he should’ve laid money on himself; he wondered if Kharker had wagered anything.
Kiernevar’s large dark brown eyes fixed intently, hideously, on Ruegger, but the vampire resisted the lunatic’s psychological warfare, if that’s what it was.
At last, the referee finished his song and turned toward the Dark Lord. Roche Sarnova leaned forward in his throne.
“Kiernevar,” he said, “are you ready?”
“Kiernevar,” repeated the lunatic, “is.”
“Ruegger, are you ready?”
The Darkling nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“Then, gentlemen, may the best man win.”
The war was on.
* * *
Kiernevar won the closely-monitored toss; he was white and Ruegger black.
Kiernevar moved first, sliding a pawn out two spaces in front of his king. Ruegger duplicated the move, which was risky, depending on how skilled his opponent was. It was a feeler play.
The lunatic pulled out a bishop, and Ruegger smiled; apparently, Kiernevar was setting up a four-move victory, which meant that the werewolf was greatly underestimating his foe. Of course, anyone experienced in chess would recognize the move for what it was, so it posed little threat, except that it forced the Darkling into a defensive posture early on.
Be that as it may, there were precious few defenses against the move. One of these was to move his left knight, and this is what the vampire did, blocking Kiernevar’s would-be next move, which would’ve been to bring out his queen.
Kiernevar brought out his queen anyway, despite the fact that his attack had been foiled. Ruegger groaned; this might be a long game.
It wasn’t.
As the game progressed, Ruegger was stunned at how quickly his opponent moved. It was almost as if the lunatic didn’t think before lifting a bony hand to the pieces, shoving them casually across the board. It was almost as if he never even looked down at the board, which was largely true. Mainly, Kiernevar’s dark eyes bored straight into Ruegger.
The only sound in the room was breathing, moving pieces, and the occasional member of the audience buying a beer or a pack of fresh-roasted peanuts.
It unsettled Ruegger how much time he took formulating his moves in comparison to the supernaturally quick Kiernevar. In a way, Ruegger felt upstaged. Also, Kiernevar was constantly on the offensive, leaving Ruegger little chance to start an initiative of his own. Thirdly, Kiernevar made absolutely no mistakes. Fortunately, his moves often led nowhere, took him down strange nonsensical patterns that allowed Ruegger a little (if only a little) breathing room. Then the lunatic would snap a cocky number and back the vampire up again.
Ruegger was a skilled player, though. Forty minutes into the game, he was only at a disadvantage by one piece, a bishop. Other than that error, he and Kiernevar held the same pieces. They had swapped a few pawns and one set of knights, but that was it.
St
ill, Kiernevar drove on relentlessly. Once Ruegger had moved, the lunatic’s hand instantly shot up and slid a piece of his own.
It went on like this for an hour and a half, at the end of which both parties were far from even with Ruegger now at a disadvantage by one bishop, one rook, and two pawns. At this point, he admitted to himself that Kiernevar’s unerring confidence had eaten away at his morale. He sucked in a breath, lit another cigarette, and arched his neck so that he could stare up at the ceiling three stories above.
A beautiful mural, he thought. He’d seen it several times before, but had really paid it very little attention, being more interested when he entered the Throne Room in the Dark Lord rather than the trappings of the room.
However, this time his eyes fell upon the likeness of a figure he’d never taken the time to notice before—a tall, blond man with noble blue eyes and an aristocratic nose. He stood, capes swirling about him, atop of one of the battlements the castle.
Ruegger didn’t know the man’s name, but it made no difference: he knew this man. Oh, he knew this man very well. He had only seen him once, a long time ago, but his pale features were seared like a brand into Ruegger’s mind. The Darkling could never forget that face, that bearing. Instantly, he realized who this man must be. The Ambassador, Roche Sarnova’s dearest friend. Who else could hold such a prominent position on the mural? And that could only mean that Sarnova didn’t know.
Black spots flickered in Ruegger’s vision. Suddenly he felt unsteady.
Dear gods.
He wondered how many of the eyes on him had followed his gaze to the mural above. How many had seen what he’d seen? None, he suspected. If the Ambassador’s true identity had been known, Ruegger would have heard about it by now. Which left him in a strange situation. Should he continue this game or stand up and confront the Dark Lord with the truth here and now? The latter would probably not be a wise course of action; he’d be thought a desperate man, a man looking for a way out of a losing battle.
Maybe I would be.
He stubbed out his cigarette, glanced over Kiernevar’s shoulder to Danielle, who (if his count was accurate) was working on her eleventh beer. Her peanuts, however, remained where they had been. She peered at him curiously, and he could only give a small shrug in answer. How could he explain?
With a new determination to win this stupid game, Ruegger examined the stone chessboard and moved a piece.
From there, he was able to swing the game more in his favor, finally placing his opponent on the defensive. Still, Kiernevar did not waver, did not pause, just raised a skeletal arm and moved his pieces, all the while drilling holes through the Darkling with his eyes. Ruegger hadn’t seen his opponent blink since he’d entered the room.
Ruegger slew both Kiernevar’s bishops, snatched up a rook and two pawns. Things were definitely going his way.
Kiernevar changed tactics, started playing conservatively, which destroyed the vampire’s momentum. As it turned out, Ruegger’s come-back lasted all of twenty minutes. After that, Kiernevar resumed the offensive.
Ruegger gritted his teeth and played on. They were now basically even, except that Ruegger held the advantage, if only by his last bishop. Other than that, he and Kiernevar shared the same pieces: four pawns, a rook, a knight, and the king and queen.
He must eliminate Kiernevar’s queen. He’d tried several times, but each time had been out-maneuvered. This time he must be successful, as the lunatic used his queen to devastating effect.
Ruegger set about a plan. At present, Kiernevar’s queen was in a position that, at the same time protected two of his pieces, a knight and pawn, and also threatened to launch into a certain offensive routine at the slightest excuse. Ruegger, sacrificing his bishop, forced the old bitch into retreat, killing the knight and being taken by the pawn.
Now Ruegger was at an advantage only by a knight, which—in conjunction with his own queen and a pawn—he used to corner Kiernevar’s queen. The lunatic’s rook barreled out of the shadows and crushed Ruegger’s knight, an error on Ruegger’s part, but still the Darkling pursued the evil queen, luring her into the waiting pawn, using his own queen as bait. If Kiernevar refused the offering ...
He didn’t. He sacrificed his queen for Ruegger’s. In the aftermath, his rook murdered Ruegger’s pawn.
Ruegger had expected the losses but had gladly suffered them in order to be rid of his enemy’s queen. In the process, he had now become the one at a disadvantage, if only by a pawn. He now had three, whereas Kiernevar had four. Other than that, they both had a rook and, of course, the king. Now it was a race to see who could get their pawn to the enemy’s side first. When the pawn came to rest at the far end, it would become a queen. Ruegger couldn’t allow Kiernevar to acquire another queen.
He didn’t.
At the cost of two pawns and his rook, Ruegger slew one of Kiernevar’s pawns and brought his final surviving servant to the opposite end of the board. Now he had a king and a queen, that was it. Kiernevar had a king, a rook, and three more pawns, two of which had come very close to Ruegger’s own end.
Ruegger forced Kiernevar’s king into check … and kept him there. During the brief intervals when he let the king out of check, he brought his own closer to the nearest pawn. Eventually, when the white pawn did reach Ruegger’s first row, the king in black cut the new queen down before she could move even once.
There were still two white pawns to go, and the king couldn’t hope to reach them in time. So, knowing that he could not venture any nearer the ivory minions without encountering certain death, Ruegger’s king began a retreat.
Ruegger didn’t allow the pawns to go any further. His queen swooped down and killed one, but before it could try for the last one, Kiernevar’s rook assumed a protective posture.
Ruegger put the enemy king in check again. And again. At no time could he allow the king to escape, for that would free up Kiernevar’s pawn, which was only two squares away from achieving royalty. However, he could not kill the king with just a queen, as the king could always back away. He had to bring his own king into play in order to corner and trap the enemy, but to do that would mean delaying his queen’s assault, thus allowing Kiernevar’s pawn to advance. His only solution was to force the lunatic’s king far enough south so that his own king could play a role in the battle.
It was a desperate series of moves, but somehow he worked the ivory lord down into the inevitable trap. At the last instant, Kiernevar’s rook sprang into action, which forced Ruegger to stop his assault on the white king in order to deal with the new attacker. He did.
However, while he obliterated the rook, the last white pawn marched forward and became a queen.
Now each player had possessed royalty. Kiernevar could not use his new lady in white, though, not unless Ruegger allowed the lunatic out of check.
Ruegger thrust his black queen into battle, using her husband to corner and finally trap Kiernevar’s king.
With a helpless and powerful wife waiting to leap into the fray, the king was doomed.
“Checkmate,” said Ruegger, careful to keep from smiling.
Kiernevar stared hard at the board, then back up to the vampire.
“No,” the werewolf growled.
“Yes,” came the voice of the Dark Lord. “Kiernevar, you have lost.”
“No! No! Kiernevar cannot lose. Kiernevar cannot lose!”
“Kiernevar,” said Roche Sarnova, “topple your king.”
“NOOOOOOOOOO!”
With a primal roar, Kiernevar tore open his trench coat, grabbed a handful of feces and flung it at the board, in the process toppling the king—and Ruegger’s own king and queen, too.
“NOOO!” screamed the werewolf, and reached for another handful.
Ruegger didn’t doubt where the next payload would be directed. As he was preparing to evade it, Ruegger noticed something odd. When Kiernevar scraped away another handful of shit, his bare chest was exposed—if only a few square inches. However, within thos
e terrible inches, Ruegger saw the still-red scars of several tiny crosses.
Crosses.
“Damn it all,” he said and, so completely stunned by this new revelation, was caught unawares as Kiernevar’s reeking payload slammed into his face.
“Crosses!” he shouted, rising to his feet and knocking the chair over backwards behind him. Then, realizing that he had made no sense, he shouted, “This man is a zombie! Tie him down so that I can make certain.”
No one in the room moved—no one, that is, except Kiernevar, who leapt over the table and tackled Ruegger bodily, sending them both to the ground over the Darkling’s upturned chair.
Long blades shot out from their concealment in Ruegger’s sleeves and found his hands; instantly, the vampire began slicing at his enemy, which was, before his eyes, transforming into a werewolf—a bone-skinny, graying, filthy, and ultimately very powerful werewolf. Or, more precisely, a zombie werewolf, probably infused with Balaklavian blood.
The undead beast opened its reeking mouth, revealing disease-ridden canine teeth, and snapped at Ruegger’s neck. The vampire slipped one of his blades in between the werewolf’s ribs and ran the creature through. Impaling himself, Kiernevar wrapped his powerful jaws around Ruegger’s neck and tore out the vampire’s throat. Meanwhile, his claws were raking open the Darkling’s belly.
Ruegger dropped his blades and grabbed a hold on each of Kiernevar’s long, horn-like ears. Yanking the monster’s maw away from what was left of his throat, he turned the creature’s snout downward and brought Kiernevar’s head toward his own. Then, with all his considerable strength, Ruegger head-butted the monster between the eyes. Crack.
Ruegger grabbed the blade that wasn’t stuck in the lunatic’s ribs and disemboweled the werewolf, much as the werewolf had disemboweled him. With the next sweep, he slit open Kiernevar’s throat. That evened things up.
The werewolf was staggering backwards, gathering its strength for another lunge, and Ruegger was just reaching for his pistols, when the Castle Guards finally reached Kiernevar and raised their sabers.