(048)
Two faces carved from stone, the mirror image of one another: brows furrowed, eyes cast down at the chequered board between them, balanced on the scarred surface of a tree stump.
Two generals surveying the battlefield, both mulling their next moves and the moves of their opponent. A battle for the ages being raged in silence. Beards stroked, eyebrows plucked at, and at the point in which their consciousnesses meet, they fight.
Or, at least, they had been. No action had taken place for some time, with the win hanging in the balance for both of them. Troops from both sides are dotted around the final control marker, but none seem capable of making a move to win the game.
Thomas’ brain is ablaze with possibilities, mapping the step-by-step outcomes from every action he could take, based on the actions Luka might take. But until Luka acted, it was all theoretical. The restlessness in his body begins to show as his patience frays, his leg bobs up and down, his fingers tap against one another, and internally he screams:
Just make a move!
But neither of them is willing to give up the chance of victory, having both come so close to it already.
Luka had taken the initiative early on in the game, quickly spreading to his left flank and occupying the territory with little response from Thomas.
Or so it had seemed.
Thomas had subtly feigned frustration at his oversight, but not so subtly that he knew it hadn’t been witnessed. Then with a seemingly desperate ploy he’d placed a soldier on a control marker just out of reach of Luka’s sizable garrison, apparently hoping to establish a foothold before Luka had time to react.
Luka’s next move, naturally, was to crush those dreams. A knight was placed beside the interloper, giving the soldier a choice: fight or place the flag. Survive, or die for the cause.
But the moment Luka’s hand retracted, Thomas’ was already in motion, and not towards the piece Luka had anticipated. Instead, Thomas had moved a member of his calvary – now just within range to attack – up alongside the lone soldier, removing the knight in the process. One of Luka’s eyes had twitched, and his beard stroking had intensified, but nothing was said.
What had followed was a long period of inaction. Luka knew that the control marker was lost, unless he sacrificed countless members of his army to delay the flag’s placement, but a more pressing issue was that he realised he was trapped. It was only two pieces, but the cavalry had him hemmed in, and to reshuffle his troops into a formation where he could effectively attack would take more than a few rounds. His eagerness to try and dominate the left side had also left him threadbare on the right, with only a few of his weaker pieces left scattered here and there. It seemed futile but he decides to bring them into play, albeit from a few squares away and knowing it’s too late to stop Thomas placing the flag.
However, that’s not what he does. He matches Luka and moves one of his weaker pieces into the open space along the right of the board, towards the fray. Luka counters and a sudden flurry of activity from both sides rapidly shuffles the board around. Luka reorganises his troops, moving the stragglers on the edges into strategic positions. Thomas moves his army up in a line to try and provide support, quietly placing flags along the right as he does. Each movement’s end prompts the beginning of the next and the landscape rapidly changes, until it’s primed for what had looked like the grand finale.
Thomas moves a piece onto the farthest flung control marker on the map. His face is unreadable, but inside he’s brimming with satisfaction at the thought of his dastardly plan paying off. That is, to end it in style by taking the control marker Luka can’t reach, and then with his final move taking the control marker that they both needed and that had been the catalyst for his comeback, just out of reach of Luka’s army. So confident is he of his victory that he stops watching Luka’s actions, and as such sees it too late. Luka moves his archer and Thomas plants the first flag.
Hubris is a terrible thing.
The archer lets off a shot and the soldier is removed from the field. Thomas panics and charges with the last member of the cavalry, killing the footman between him and the archer before being shot and killed himself.
Another burst of activity as they both scramble for the victory. Their turns blur into each other, with innumerable losses on both sides. The red mist descends and logic is abandoned for turn after turn, until just as quickly as it had taken hold it fades, and there is once more stillness between them.
It had been a welcome respite at first, but after ten minutes Thomas’ frustration was starting to bubble over. With a sigh he flicks his eyes up at his old foe and catches Luka staring back at him. Thomas’ eyebrows raise and he motions with his palm at the board in a ‘go ahead’ gesture, barely tempering the irritation. Luka’s face furrows and he gently shakes his head.
“It’s your go.” Luka says.
“Wha–? No, it’s your go.” Thomas baulks.
“No, I moved here,” Luka points to one of his pikemen, “from here,” and then points to a spot adjacent.
“Yeah, but I moved from here–” Thomas traces his hand over the board, following the path of a scout, “…to here.”
“I know, but you did that before I did this.” He points at his pikeman again.
Thomas scratches his scalp through his wavy brown hair.
“Are you sure?” He asks.
“Yes.” Luka says.
“Shit, sorry.” Thomas frowns, shaking his head. “I thought this whole time–” he laughs, then rubs his face and looks back down at the board.
But now the board looked different, with his calculations having been based on inaccurate information.
“Alright,” he says, his eyes narrowing into a squint, “I just need a minute.”
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