Pawn's Gambit

by Darin Kennedy

  29

  Rook

  Steven plummeted headfirst toward the unforgiving concrete thirty stories below, the Rook’s collar still held in his faltering grip. Gravity forced the blood to his brain and brought him back from the edge of unconsciousness. Hot blood trickled down his neck and a copper taste in his mouth threatened to make him retch.

  Tangled within his cloak, Steven struggled to free his arms from the waterlogged shroud as he and the Rook hurtled toward the courtyard below.

  Only a few seconds till we hit. Steven’s numb fingers made it to the pouch, still droning at his waist. Ground’s coming up fast. If only…

  As if in answer to his unspoken request, the cloak unfurled from Steven’s body like a giant pair of wings. A shimmering green glow lit up the space, and as their whirling fall brought them around again to face the building’s mirrored glass windows, the source of the mysterious light became clear. Shining like an emerald beacon in the night, Amaryllis had come to life, her metallic wings humming in concert with the droning of the pouch.

  A glimmer of Ruth’s smile flashed across Steven’s memory, and only in that moment of desperation did he begin to fathom the depth of the old woman’s generosity.

  The jolt of rapid deceleration almost pulled the Rook from Steven’s grasp, but somehow he found the strength to hold on with one hand and with the other undid the wet slipknot holding the pouch to his belt.

  “Take this.” Steven pushed the pouch into the man’s clawing hands. “Something inside is calling to you.” He closed the man’s bloody fingers around the mouth of the leather bag. “Can you hear it?”

  “I hear it,” the Rook croaked, his voice barely audible over the rushing wind. “I—”

  No sooner did Amaryllis pinch at Steven’s collarbone than a tremendous force jerked him upward, forcing the air from his lungs anew and bringing an abrupt halt to his breakneck descent. The Rook, still subject to gravity’s inexorable pull, wasn’t as fortunate. Crying out more in fear than pain, his clawing fingers tore the white-hot pouch from Steven’s hand as he disappeared into the obscuring gloom below.

  Steven steeled himself for the pain-ending blow that was sure to follow this latest attack, but the ring of tangible mist encircling his midsection told a different tale. Amaryllis resumed her normal state, her piercing green glow fading quickly to black, leaving Steven again in darkness. There he hung like a worm on a hook, buffeted by the wind and rain. Head swimming from blood loss, his heartbeat pounded in his ears as the ephemeral tether of mist drew him upward. Adrenaline mixed with anger and defeat as he hung there impotent and the Rook’s screams faded into nothingness.

  “Steven,” came Audrey’s voice from above. “Thank God. Are you all right?”

  “I had him, dammit.” Despite the pain radiating between his shoulder blades, Steven turned his head and eyes skyward. There, silhouetted against menacing clouds lit by a fork of blue lightning, Audrey and Archie coasted down the side of the building atop a swirling cloudbank of silver and white, their impossible ride the size of a small bus.

  “Steven?” Audrey asked again. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had him,” Steven repeated, his voice full of anger. “Now he’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry, Steven. I couldn’t see him.” She looked away, catching her breath. “Hell, if your cloak hadn’t lit up all green—”

  THOOM.

  An explosion echoed up from below, the roar deafening as it reverberated through the steel and glass canyon.

  “What in Heaven’s name was that?” Archie asked.

  “I don’t have the first clue,” Steven whispered as Audrey pulled him onto the floating dais of fog, “but I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

  “What next, then, fearless leader?” Audrey asked, refusing to meet Steven’s gaze. “Ground floor? Explosions, bad guys, and certain death?”

  “Look, Audrey.” Steven tried to catch her eye. “I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it, Steven.” At Audrey’s downward gesture, the flying carpet of cloud and mist began to descend. “No time now for hurt feelings.”

  “Leave her be for a moment.” Archie moved behind Steven and went to work on his wounds. “God willing, there will be time for apologies later.”

  “Good advice,” Steven hissed between clenched teeth. “So, how bad is it?”

  “My apologies. This is going to smart a bit.” Archie pulled the first arrow.

  Biting back a cry of agony that welled up from his very soul, Steven let out a pained grunt and did his best not to hyperventilate. “The other one. Do it.”

  Archie wrapped his fingers around the remaining shaft. “Once I pull the second arrow, I can bring my powers to bear, but there are no guarantees I’ll be able to get you back into fighting shape before we hit ground.” Archie let out a quiet sigh. “To be honest, I’m still learning how all this works. Without the others, I’m not sure I’ll be able to help much at all.”

  “Just do it.” Steven sucked in what air he could and balled his hands into fists. “Right now, I’ll take what I can get.”

  The searing pain as Archie worked the second arrow out of Steven’s back was torture, almost as if the priest were burying the point deeper in his flesh. The grinding sensation of stone on bone triggered wave after wave of nausea. Steven teetered on the verge of unconsciousness when the barbed tip finally tore loose with a ripping sound he prayed he would someday forget. Still, he could finally again take something approaching a full breath.

  “Hard part is over,” Archie said. “Ready for the good stuff?”

  Steven trembled, his body going into shock. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  Archie laid hands on the pair of wounds. Within seconds, a rush of warmth flowed along Steven’s back. His body glowed within a subtle cocoon of silvery radiance. Soon, the throbbing in his upper back diminished while the trickle of blood along his back slowed for a moment and then stopped altogether.

  “Better?” Archie asked.

  “Better.” Steven turned to face the priest, his ribcage aching like he’d just gone ten rounds. “Not great, but better.”

  Audrey stood silent at the edge of the misty bulwark, her back turned to the both of them and her arms crossed.

  “Thanks for the save, Audrey.” Steven trudged through the half-solid mist to join her. “But how did you guys manage to get away from the Queen and her nest of hornets?”

  Either deep in concentration, or not in the mood to chat, Audrey didn’t say a word.

  “As soon as you and the Rook went over the edge,” Archie offered, “the Black Queen and her archers disengaged from the fight. She and five of the Black Pawns gathered together and they all disappeared in a big black bubble of darkness. A second later, Audrey grabbed me and threw us both off the edge after you.” Archie’s half-lidded gaze shot to Audrey. “I’m glad our Queen knows how to produce an elevator out of thin air. It’s an awful long way down.”

  “I wasn’t even sure it would work,” Audrey muttered under her breath, but loud and clear enough to be sure Steven heard every word.

  They descended in silence, the familiar sound of rain on brick growing louder and louder until the courtyard between the towers finally came into view. Through the deluge, a pile of rubble was just visible at the heart of an eight-point star design in the stonework.

  “Wasn’t there a sculpture there before?” Audrey asked.

  Steven nodded, motioning for Audrey to stay quiet and bring them to ground. He turned to check on Archie and found the priest’s face turned up in that same strange look of absurd whimsy that always set his hair on end.

  “The dome is shattered, and yet, there’s no body.” Archie’s mischievous eyes looked up and to the left as if he were performing some incredibly complex computation. “I guess the priest was only half wrong…”

  “What are you talking about, Archie?” Steven’s harsh whisper brought the priest around.

  “Hmm?” Archie’s blank stare somehow frightene
d Steven more than the knowing smirk he had worn a second before.

  “Steven.” Audrey’s voice was dead. “Look.”

  Through the rain, Steven could just make out what Audrey was referring to. At the periphery of the courtyard, surrounding them on all sides, stood a wall of black stone.

  “Shit.” Steven stepped off the bank of mist onto the wet concrete. “Stay alert, you two.”

  “Steven Bauer, I presume.” The level timbre conveyed a politician’s polish, though the derisive tone carried an undercurrent of danger. “And you have brought Miss Richards and Father Lacan as well. What a pleasure to finally make all of your acquaintances.”

  Within their prison of dark stone, the downpour tapered first to a drizzle and then to nothing, while the precipitation outside the circle continued in earnest.

  “Thus far, Bauer,” the taunting voice continued, “you and your little clutch have proven quite an interesting distraction, far more interesting than I could have dreamed, in fact. Grey has prepared you well for our Game.”

  Steven, Audrey, and Archie cast about the courtyard, attempting to isolate the voice. In his heart, however, Steven already knew all too well the identity of the speaker.

  Audrey was the first to spot him. She nudged Steven and pointed a trembling finger at the lattice walkway that connected the two skyscrapers. Looking down on them from his perch atop one of the walkway’s support pylons was a man who could be none other than the Black King. Dry despite the surrounding deluge, the King surveyed the three of them, his jet-black beard surrounding a contemptuous smirk Steven suspected was a permanent feature.

  The King was of the same lineage as Grey—the same square chin, the slight hook to the nose, the not quite familiar accent. His dark eyes carried the same fire as the man Steven had come to consider mentor, if not friend, but there, the similarities ended. Even in his bluntest moments, Grey always carried about him a certain air of humility, a quality absent in the King’s haughty demeanor.

  Atop his head of lustrous black hair sat a crown of ornately engraved silver adorned with cut onyx. The stones cast a purplish glow much like the gems along the Black Queen’s scepter. A regal robe draped across his shoulders, its entire length as black as ink and lined with the dark fur of some forgotten species. Though his outward dress appeared primarily ceremonial, the platinum breastplate just visible beneath his robes and the dark steel broadsword resting lightly in his chain mail gauntlet indicated he had come prepared to fight.

  Steven stepped forward. “What have you done with Lena and Emilio?”

  “Do not concern yourself with them, Pawn of the White. Truth be told, I ordered your Knight and his little girlfriend removed from play primarily to prevent anything untoward from happening to them. Wouldn’t want to violate any of Grey’s precious rules, now would we?”

  “I want to see them.” Steven’s eyes narrowed. “Now.”

  “Very well, though it changes nothing.” The King looked back across his shoulder. “Pawn, bring out the children.”

  From behind a stone obelisk stepped five figures. With jagged stone daggers pressed against both their throats, Lena and Emilio led the march, the fear on the girl’s face surpassed only by the anger on the boy’s. The pair was led by two of the Black Pawns while a third brought up the rear, his nocked and drawn arrow trained on the back of Emilio’s neck. The trio of Blackfoot warriors brought Lena and Emilio to the center of the courtyard and threw them to the ground at Steven’s feet.

  “You all make this far too easy,” taunted the one with the drawn bowstring. “Do not expect such mercy in the future.”

  The frightened pair scrambled to their feet and took their place with the others. “Eight on two, pendejo.” Emilio spat at their captors’ feet. “I’d like those odds too.”

  The Pawns of the Black retreated in silence to the section of lattice walkway that held their King and trained their bows on the huddle of White at the courtyard’s center.

  “What do you intend to do with us now?” Steven asked. “The Game proper has yet to begin. From what Grey told me, that makes us basically untouchable.”

  “Unkillable? Yes.” The Black King smiled. “But untouchable? That’s a matter of some interpretation.”

  Audrey stepped forward to address the King. “With all due respect, Your Highness, shouldn’t we be fighting for our lives right now?” The streak of bravado couldn’t hide the fear in Audrey’s voice. “You killed that poor man on the roof without so much as a warning and now you’re sitting here chatting with us like we’re old friends.”

  “Agreed,” came an icy voice from their rear. “Honestly, I’m all for killing the lot of you and dealing with whatever shitstorm it brings down upon our heads.” The Black Queen strolled across the circle from the Queen tower’s ground floor, her entourage of five Blackfoot archers taking positions along the periphery of the circular courtyard. “If it were up to me, I’d have had Wahnahtah use the two kids on the roof for target practice, but Zed figured your Knight and his girlfriend had already been through quite enough drama for one day, what with her brains leaking out her pretty little ear just last evening.”

  Emilio bristled at that last bit, but Lena’s grip on his arm helped him keep his tongue.

  The King brought a finger to his lips and everyone fell silent. “Now, now, my Queen. Do not antagonize the children.” His face grew dark and sober. “And remember, Magdalene, what we discussed about names.”

  The Queen’s smirk faded as she lowered her head in deference and took her place beneath the King’s lofty vantage. “Yes, my King.”

  “King of the Black.” Archie held his Bishop’s staff before him. “I have little doubt that were it not for the rules of this cruel Game, we would indeed be fighting for our lives.”

  “An inconvenience, priest.” The King studied Archie, a cunning smile across his face. “A quite temporary inconvenience.”

  Steven stepped in front of Archie. “What do you intend to do with us in the meantime?”

  “That, Steven Bauer, is the question at hand.” The King sheathed his sword and stroked his full beard. “I suppose the prudent thing would be to detain the five of you until this iteration of the Game is complete. It wouldn’t serve anyone’s purposes to let you run amok, regardless of the futility of your actions.”

  “What you do with us today is of little importance.” The fire in Archie’s voice grew with each word. “Regardless of your plans, the Game will still occur at its designated time and place and White will face Black and despite their apparent ambivalence of late, I doubt the Arbiters would allow such disaster to crown their centuries of vigilance.”

  “You misunderstand,” the King said. “The Arbiters care nothing about your capacity to engage in play or the outcome of any particular iteration, only that a fair representation of the opposing forces are present at the moment of correction. In fact, once the two sides are brought face to face, the lot of you cease to matter whatsoever, less than a footnote in a history no one will ever read.”

  “You expect us to believe you’re just going to pen us all up till this correction thing blows over?” Trembling with cold and rage and fear, Steven willed his hands to remain still at his sides. “We may be new to all of this, but we weren’t born yesterday.”

  “No need to be so melodramatic, Bauer.” The King laughed. “Your mentor always was fond of the pomp and circumstance surrounding these engagements but all that truly matters is the balance of power when the Game comes to a close. The rest is nothing but trivial pageantry.”

  The King descended from his perch atop a scintillating square of floating darkness that came to rest midway between the cluster of White and the dark wall at the courtyard’s edge.

  “Contrary to what you may have heard,” he continued, “I care nothing for bloodshed. True, you live now because the Game requires it to be so. Once this iteration reaches its conclusion and victory is achieved, however, rest assured I will not waste precious time or energy on such petty
concerns as your five insignificant lives.” The King’s dark brow furrowed. “Make no mistake, though. This iteration is mine, and I will brook no further opposition. Conduct yourselves appropriately and you may yet live. Cross me and you will follow in the footsteps of your Rook.”

  “What a load of bullshit.” Emilio stumbled as the pile of rubble at the center of the courtyard shifted sending a miniature avalanche of stone and concrete into the back of his legs. “How do we know you won’t kill us the moment the Game begins?”

  “You don’t, boy.” Any pretense of cordiality in the King’s voice evaporated. “Though trust me when I say your tone does little to bring out my benevolent side.”

  “So, that’s it, then?” Steven asked. “After everything that’s happened, you think we’re going to roll over and play nice? Be good little captives? Not happening.”

  “That is your decision to make, Bauer, though the alternative involves significantly more pain for you and your friends. Look around you. You have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, no magic bag to whisk you away, and my archers surround you on eight sides.” The King took a step forward, his face a mask of mocking concern. “You and your line of Pawns have proven most formidable thus far, but you know as well as I that an black arrow or tongue of flame will eventually get through your defenses, and then your friends will suffer. I would spare you such pain.” The King rested the tip of his sword on the concrete at his feet and leaned forward on the hilt. “Consider your next words wisely.”

  Steven held his tongue as the octet of Blackfoot archers converged on the huddled White. The King looked on, his impassive expression at odds with the utter glee evident in the Queen’s wicked smile. Steven checked on Audrey, hoping to find some glimmer of inspiration in those amber eyes, but found her gaze along with the others’ directed skyward. He followed their collective stare up, and there, galloping down the steel and glass facade of the King tower, Steven found a glimmer of hope.

  A white blur in the pale light between the two towers, Rocinante sprinted down the side of the dark skyscraper in utter defiance of gravity or anything resembling the laws of nature. Seven of the eight archers shifted their aim skyward and launched volley after volley of razor arrows at the racing stallion, but not a single shaft found its mark as the pale charger continued his erratic sprint down the building’s sheer face.