Lord Loss td-1

by Darren Shan

  Breathing raggedly. Clearing my thoughts. Trying to remember every lesson Dad and Mum ever taught me.

  I sit.

  * * * * *

  Instant peacefulness. An unnatural silence. I stare around the cellar, startled. Everything seems to have stopped. Dervish stands motionless, facing the demons, while Bill-E’s frozen at the bars of his cage. Then I realise they are moving—only incredibly slowly.

  “What happened?” I gasp.

  “I have separated our time frame from theirs,” Lord Loss says. “It allows us to play without distractions.”

  I watch as Dervish’s right hand slowly comes up, fingers unfurling, red flames streaking from the tips. Slower than snails, Vein and Artery break to the sides, out of the path of the firebolts.

  “Come,” Lord Loss says, tapping the middle board. “The fight is no longer your concern. Focus on the match.”

  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 Loss 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 forever, 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 forever.”


  “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. He isn’t a difficult creature to make sense of—as Dervish told me already, the demon master feeds on pain. He thrives on the misery of others.

  “Continue,” Lord Loss encourages me, nodding at the knight. “That’s one of your finer moves. You’ll threaten both my rook and queen. I’ll have to do some quick thinking to wriggle out of this one!” He laughs, as though my cunning delights him.

  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 anymore.”

  “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 to th
e random mechanics of chess. I’m presenting Lord Loss with more chances to finish me off than he could have ever dreamt of—but he fails to capitalise on them. He’s too agitated to press for the kill. He fumblingly takes a few of my pieces but doesn’t follow up on the captures.

  And then I start taking his pieces.

  I capture pawns first, a few on each board. I line them up in neat little rows, toying with them while he contemplates his moves. Then one of his knights falls prey to my queen on the board to my right. On the far left board I take a rook and bishop in quick succession. While he struggles to shore up his defences on that board, I push my queen ahead on the board next to it—straight into the path of a black bishop.

  Lord Loss gasps, his face lighting up. He sweeps the bishop forward, giggling intensely, eyes shining evilly.

  I snort at the demon master’s pleasure and slip a knight in behind his bishop. “Check.”

  He freezes. Stares at the knight, then his king, then the captured queen in the mangled palm of his hand. His jaw quivers, then firms. “A clever strategy,” he commends me with icy politeness.

  “Actually, I only saw the opening as you were removing my queen,” I answer honestly. “Lucky, I guess—though luck always plays a part in childish games like these.”

  Lord Loss turns his face away in disgust. “You are a disgrace to the game,” he growls.

  “So punish me,” I goad him. “Make me pay. Put me in my place.” I adopt a very young child’s challenging tone. “Dare ya!”

  He hisses. Fixes his gaze on the boards. Studies them feverishly.

  I pick at the nail of my left index finger and wonder if I should start using clippers instead of scissors.

  The balance of power lurches wildly between us. Lord Loss works hard to take three of my pawns. I respond by idly chasing his king with my knight on the board to my left, the one on which I lost my queen. He blocks my path, attacks my knight and does all he can to repulse me, but I hang in there, amused by his failure to capture my knight. After a while I start thinking how lonely he looks, a single white knight stranded amidst a sea of black, and to provide him with company, I press forward with a bishop and a rook.