“The Whitewood army is upon us, sire.” The lowly scout cries to his king, “Already hath they razed the villages to the south.” The king of Blackstone turns to his advisors, “What say you, elders of the council?” “I fear they do strike first,” One elder proclaims. “I must concur, we are no good fighting them in the hold,” Another agrees. “It may be best to take them on at neutral ground,” The eldest stated. The first one chimes in, “I do believe the Stonebrook Isthmus would be the most ideal battleground.” “Of course, the narrowness of the terrain means we will have to send a small group of men…” “Only the best,” The eldest finishes. The king of Blackstone nods his head in approval.

The queen of Blackstone is not happy. “You cannot go to battle, I will not allow it.” She protests to the king, “Your leg is still wounded from that sparring accident!” The king refuses her objections, “Darling, I must led these men.” “What good are you with that leg?” “What good are two legs on a warhorse? If I can swing my sword and ride my steed, there is no reason I should not fight along my men.” “Then I’m coming as well.” The king faces her in rage, “No! You are my wife, not my bodyguard!” The queen laughs, “We all know I’ve always been a better fighter than you anyways. Why do you think you married me? I’m coming, and that’s final.” And so it was.

The elders meet with the king the evening before they head off, to talk strategy. “You see, if we send out two other groups ahead of time…” “They can flank the Whitewood army…” “Forcing their king to escape, cutting their men to a small fraction, evening the tides.” The king nods once more, “Make it so.” The elders chuckle, “Of course…” “We knew you would say that.” “We sent them out not over an hour ago.”

They set off at dawn, and arrived at the warzone before breakfast. “Eat up men, we have a long battle ahead of us,” the king announces to his army. Shortly thereafter, one of the king’s scouts return, “My lord! They are arriving now!” “How many men?” “Sixteen, sire!” “Ah, so the elders were right,” The queen emerges from the royal tent, “even tides of war.” The king rallies his men together, “Brothers in arms! Today, we fight the kingdom of Whitewood! Long have they been our enemies, longer have they been our problem! Now as we speak our comrades fight their own, larger battle. They cut at the fat of the Whitewoods, but us! We strike at the meat! Today we fight! Today we will be the victors!” The wholes of the army rushed, and collided.

For the infantrymen, it was a stalemate. Sword upon sword, steel crossed with steel, the fight was truly even. “Knights!” The king cries out, “Attack now!” The two Blackstone knights meander through the frontlines and take out several Whitewood men. It seemed the scales of battle tipped in favor of Blackstone, but alas this is an early look. Faster than thought possible, the two knights were downed. “Who can be this swift?” One of the knights shouts before he falls. “Milord! Can that be the Whitewood queen?” A bishop asks. “Aye,” Answers the rook in right formation, “’Tis rumored she’s a harpy. The mad king found her and trained her to be a Valkyrie before taking her as wife.” The bishop shakes, “Can we beat her?” The Blackstone queen steps forward, “Of course we can.” She speeds toward the harpy queen.

One of the Whitewood infantrymen leaps in front of his queen, sacrificing his life to the Blackstone queen. The harpy doesn’t bat an eye, and kills the queen. “NO!” The king yells! Before he can charge in, the nervous bishop pushes him aside and rushes toward the harpy queen. “Oh holy Lord, please forgive my sins…” He mumbles as he rides forward, “Lend me strength and speed to defeat my enemies, that I may protect thy people…” The bishop collides into the harpy queen, lance-first, impaling her. An infantryman attempts to cut him down, but the right-wing rook saves the nervous bishop. “Aye, laddie, I didn’t know you had it inya,” He says as he takes his mace out the enemy’s torso. He turns around and takes out three more men.

The battle rages on, and the casualties grow. Soon the Blackstone army is down to the nervous bishop, the right-handed rook, the measly scout, and the Blackstone king. The Whitewood army has been reduced to their mad king, his two knights, and a rook. “This is lookin grim, milord,” The Blackstone rook murmurs to his king. The king nods. “Should we surrender, sire?” The scout asks hopefully. “Never. I owe this battle to my wife. We cannot lose now.” “But what hope do we have?” The nervous bishop pipes up, “I have an idea, my lord, but it is a risky one.” He tells it to the remaining forces. “It seems as though it’s our only one.” The Blackstone king woefully says.

The nervous bishop rides to the left, the rook down the straight path, and the scout scurries to the right. The king rides slowly behind the rook. The mad king sees him, “Ah! Look who showed to battle! The high king of Blackstone.” The Blackstone king ignores his foe’s mocking, and continues forward. “Eh? Do you have a death wish?” Again the mad king is ignored, and the high king continues. “No matter! Knights! Kill him.” The Whitewood knights begin to approach; then the nervous bishop impales the left one. “No!” The mad king screeches. Before the other knight can get close enough to the bishop, the right-formed rook takes him out. “You lose.” The high king scoffs. “I don’t think so,” The mad king exclaims. The Whitewood rook decapitates the nervous bishop.

“Check.” The mad king declares. The Blackstone king lowers his head in defeat. “Oh yeah?” A voice behind the Whitewood men yells, “Looks like you’re all alone!” The scout stabs the Whitewood rook in the back. The mad king cannot believe it, “NO! I… WAS… SUPPOSED… TO WIN!” He sporadically swings his sword at the summer sands. He eventually falls to the ground, begging for mercy. The high king advances to him, and takes his head, “Checkmate.”