CHAPTER 3: Pieces on the Chello Board

‘Get to the end and be rewarded; is the oldest trick in existence.’

“Marked-ones and former Lord Thunderbolt.”

The greeting came from an ordinary-looking marked-one standing near the enormous entrance to the King's tent. Shackles encircled her neck and wrists. Long black hair framed a youthful, innocent face, and a revealing garment hung loosely from her slender figure. Upon her forehead rested the unmistakable mark of servitude—the same mark adorn by every marked-one.

Maerik ignored her greeting and remained close behind Kallikrates, his hand resting firmly upon the hilt of his sword. The likelihood of an attack or ambush was slim, but he had no intention of allowing his guard to fall.

As they entered, the rich aroma of food struck him with such force that his stomach twisted painfully.

Warm bread. Roasted chicken. Honeyed ham. Fresh soup.

The scents mingled in the air, tormenting him with the promise of a meal he desperately needed. His stomach growled so violently that he nearly doubled over.

Farther inside the massive tent stood a long, rectangular wooden table laden with food.

Immediately to their left, however, was something entirely different.

A beautifully handcrafted table of dark wood stood beneath the soft glow of the tent's lighting. Resting upon its polished surface was a Chello board—a battlefield of sixty-four alternating squares, upon which two opposing armies of sixteen pieces each waged their silent wars.

Kallikrates approached the board without hesitation, stopping to examine the arrangement of pieces.

Maerik followed closely.

Several pieces had already been removed from play. White occupied a commanding position, and Black's defeat appeared inevitable.

Maerik watched as Kallikrates and Waltz studied the board.

Though he possessed immense respect for the game and those who mastered it, he never developed much affection for it. It was a game of privilege and costume.

Something about strategy felt wrong. Almost dishonest.

He preferred confronting his enemies directly, with steel in hand and intentions clear.

Kallikrates and Waltz, however, were different.

Both were exceptional players.

Maerik heard countless stories of the two men spending entire nights hunched over a Chello board, drinking, laughing, studying, and analyzing each other's moves. Their matches often stretched into the early hours of morning, neither man willing to concede defeat.

No one had ever definitively established which of them was superior.

Yet one thing was certain.

Together, their minds were nearly unstoppable.

There seemed to be no situation they could not maneuver their way out of.

Waltz leaned toward Kallikrates, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Do you see any path to victory for Black?”

Kallikrates studied the board for several moments before shaking his head, a faint smile of resignation forming upon his lips.

“No. There is nothing Black can do.”

He turned toward Waltz.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Kallikrates extended his hand toward one of the pieces.

Before his fingers could touch it, the female marked-one interrupted.

“Your King awaits.”

She gestured politely toward the interior of the tent.

Kallikrates withdrew his hand and continued forward, with Maerik and Waltz following. Two-armed guards stood between them and the magnificent feast, their spears crossed to block the passage.

“Weapons,” one guard ordered.

Without hesitation, Kallikrates unfastened his sword from his belt and surrendered it. It was poor substitute for the mirror sword that usually swung at his hip side.

Kallikrates knelt, withdrew a dagger from his boot, and produced another sharp blade concealed at his waist.

Both were handed over.

Maerik watched in silence.

The hunger that had been tormenting his stomach moments earlier was suddenly replaced by an uneasy knot of suspicion.

He glanced toward Kallikrates.

The former Lord Thunderbolt met his gaze and offered a reassuring nod.

Maerik unfastened his sword and sheath from his belt and surrendered them to the guards.

Waltz reached into the folds of his black robe and produced a respectable dagger, its size suggesting that it would be useful only in close-quarters combat.

Maerik could not suppress a smile.

The thought of Waltz relying upon any weapon other than his mind was genuinely amusing.

The guards searched them individually.

Kallikrates first.

Maerik second.

Waltz last.

Satisfied no weapons were concealed, the guards uncrossed their spears and stepped aside.

They were permitted to enter the dining area.

Before them stood a magnificent rectangular table, arranged lengthwise within the tent. Four chairs surrounded it: one at either end and two positioned opposite each other near the end closest to the entrance.

The feast spread across its surface was unlike anything Maerik had ever witnessed.

At each place setting stood an ornate golden cup, encrusted with emeralds, rubies, and other precious gemstones. Each vessel contained a thin, crimson liquid that Maerik assumed was wine.

Baskets overflowed with freshly baked bread and generous portions of butter.

A roasted chicken rested beside a magnificent honey-glazed ham. Bowls of boiled potatoes glistened beneath melted butter and garlic.

Elsewhere, an assortment of fruits filled beautifully crafted serving bowls—grapes, pears, apples, strawberries, and pineapples.

A bowl of steaming soup awaited each guest.

Maerik stared.

The sight alone was enough to make his stomach tighten painfully.

Then came the smell.

Roasted meat, warm bread, melted butter, and carefully selected spices blended into an aroma so intoxicating that his hunger became almost unbearable.

His stomach growled again, louder than before.

It had been days since they had enjoyed a decent meal.

Never in his existence had Maerik witnessed such an extravagant display of food. Feasts of this magnitude belonged to stories, to the tales of kings and rulers whose lives seemed impossibly distant from his own. He had never truly believed such abundance existed.

Yet here it was, before him.

“Please, sit and wait for the King to arrive before eating.”

The female marked-one gestured toward the chairs.

Her voice was soft and welcoming. Her expression, however, was empty.

Her eyes were lifeless.

Kallikrates sat at end of the table closest to them.

Maerik took the chair to his right, while Waltz settled into the one on his left.

“Gratitude,” Kallikrates said as he picked up his bowl of soup and began slurping it.

The woman's eyes widened.

“You—you must wait for the King to eat first!”

Kallikrates glanced up at her.

“Then you’d had best hurry and fetch him before I finish the bowl.”

He chuckled as he took another enormous slurp.

Waltz stared at.

Maerik suppressed his laughter.

The woman looked from one man to the next, her expression shifting from disbelief to something more troubling.

Tears gathered in her eyes.

“Why?!” she cried. “Why would you behave so cruelly!?”

Waltz shook his head, still visibly amused.

“My apologies. No one understands quite as well as I, how untrained and undisciplined this one,” he gestured towards Kallikrates, “can be!”

The woman did not laugh.

Instead, she turned toward Waltz with an expression of betrayal and hurt.

“Do you know what you have done?! Those two, I understand, but you—“

Her voice trembled.

She turned back toward Kallikrates, her face twisted with anguish.

Kallikrates slowly lowered his bowl.

The amusement vanished from his expression.

He rose from his chair.

“Apologies.”

He approached her, extending a hand toward her shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

She immediately flinched and recoiled.

Kallikrates stopped.

His expression darkened with understanding.

“You have my deepest apologies,” he said, his voice now solemn. “It has been some time since we were subjected to the whip and lash of a master. We have forgotten that such actions can bring severe consequences upon those who still suffer beneath its rule.”

His realization had come too late.

The woman no longer seemed to hear him.

Her eyes stared into an empty distance, her body rigid with terror.

She stood motionless.

Before Kallikrates could speak again, the thunderous sound of horns erupted throughout the tent.

Ten soldiers entered from the far end, marching in perfect formation.

They separated into two lines of five, creating a passage between them.

Kallikrates returned to his place at the table.

He remained standing.

“Presenting your gracious host and sovereign ruler—His Majesty, King Edwin Vaunn the Second!”

The announcement rang through the tent.

Maerik and Waltz rose immediately.

A middle-aged man entered through the formation of soldiers.

His armor was elegant and exquisitely crafted, its polished surfaces reflecting the light. A sword rested at his waist, completing the image of a ruler who wished to be seen as both noble and formidable.

King Edwin moved slowly toward the table.

Every step deliberate. Measured. Almost rehearsed.

He carried himself with impeccable posture, his back perfectly straight and his chin held high.

His expression radiated superiority and supreme confidence.

The King seemed less like a living, breathing man and more like an actor performing a carefully practiced role.

Every movement was too precise.

Every gesture too deliberate.

“And now,” the soldiers proclaimed in unison, “presenting your second host of the evening and heir to the throne—His Royal Highness, Prince Edwin Vaunn the Third!”

A younger man entered the tent.

He appeared a striking resemblance to his father.

He was slightly taller than the King and perhaps more handsome.

Like his father, he wore elegant, expensive armor, crafted as much for appearance as for protection. A sword hung at his waist.

But where the King moved with theatrical deliberation, the Prince approached the table with confidence and purpose.

His stride was swift.

His posture flawless.

He surveyed the men standing before him and offered a curt nod of acknowledgment.

King Edwin's attention, however, had already settled elsewhere.

His gaze fell upon the partially emptied bowl of soup resting before Kallikrates.

He studied it for a moment.

Then his eyes lifted toward the three men.

Finally, they settled upon Kallikrates

.

“I see you have already enjoyed my grace.”

A faint edge of offense hid in his tone.

“Marja, did you not inform our savage guests that proper etiquette requires them to wait for their King before eating?”

She appeared not to have heard him.

“Marja!”

The King's voice cracked through the tent.

She jumped violently, startled from her fearful trance.

.

“Y-yes, Your Highness!”

Her answer came in a frantic whisper.

“Come here, Marky!”

The command was sharp.

Maerik clenched his teeth.

His fists tightened at his sides.

Anger and disgust surged through him.

Marja hurried toward the King and stopped beside him, presenting herself with her head lowered and her posture submissive.

Without so much as glancing at her, King Edwin reached out and seized her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

He lifted her face.

Only then did he turn his eyes toward hers.

“Did you not instruct our guests to await my arrival?”

Marja nodded quickly.

“I did, Your Grace, but they ignored my instructions.”

The King burst into an obnoxiously loud laugh.

“Well, well! It seems markies truly are savages incapable of compassion and understanding.”

His smile widened.

“Wouldn't you agree?”

Marja swallowed.

Her expression rigid.

“Yes, Your Grace. Marked-ones are filthy creatures. Lower than dogs.”

Another roar of laughter escaped King Edwin.

He released her chin.

“Splendid. You shall not be punished for their feeble limitations and savage behavior.”

He waved a dismissive hand.

“Now stand ready to serve us.”

Marja lowered her head.

“Gratitude, Your Majesty, for your mercy and grace.”

She retreated exactly four steps and stood at attention.

King Edwin turned his attention back toward his guests.

“Now, let us speak honestly.”

He gestured toward the feast.

“Sit. Eat.”

Kallikrates, Waltz, and Maerik returned to their chairs.

.

The King seated himself a moment later.

His son remained standing beside him.

“Gratitude for not punishing the girl for my actions,” Kallikrates said. “You must forgive me. I have never witnessed a feast such as this in all my existence, and it has been days since my men and I have eaten.”

As he spoke, Kallikrates leaned forward and selected an apple from one of the fruit bowls.

Without hesitation, he took a generous bite.

Maerik watched him chew, his mouth slightly open.

How can he be so comfortable eating?

His eyes drifted toward the untouched food before him.

The food could be poisoned.

His stomached rumbled violently and for a moment he cursed the Gods and though loosened or not he would join Kallikrates.

Yet Kallikrates appeared entirely unconcerned.

King Edwin nodded slowly.

“Why, of course you've never witnessed a feast of such magnitude.”

He regarded Kallikrates with open contempt.

“You are a marked-one.”

His lips curled.

“Less than a lowly dog. Insignificant.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Even this rebellion you have staged is nothing.”

The King paused, allowing the insult to settle.

“You and your things are nothing.”

His voice grew colder.

“Nothing more than ants scurrying before a god, waiting for his boot to come down.”

For a brief moment, silence filled the tent.

And then Kallikrates erupted into laughter.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a restrained smile.

An uncontrollable and offensive laughter.

King Edwin's brow furrowed.

His expression tightened with irritation.

“Why do you laugh?”

The question carried a defensive edge.

Kallikrates could not continued laughing for several moments, struggling to catch his breath.

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

At last, he managed to compose himself.

He swallowed.

Then he took another bite of his apple.

“We must be some fiercely entertaining ants,if a god dragged himself out of his kingdom just to watch us get stepped on.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then smiles appeared around the table.

Waltz smiled.

Prince Edwin smiled.

And Maerik found a smirk even escaping his own lips.

And, much to his surprise, even King Edwin himself allowed himself to smile.

He even chuckled slightly as he leaned forward and lifted the ornate golden cup before him.

He swirled the crimson liquid gently, watching it move along the walls of the cup.

He then raised the cup toward his nose and inhaled its aroma.

He took a slow sip.

His lips smacked together as he savored the taste.

“Fiercely entertaining,” he murmured.

The words lingered in the air.

Then his expression changed.

“You were entertaining for a time.”

He lowered the cup.

“That is precisely why I permitted your little rebellion to continue for as long as it did.”

His eyes settled upon Kallikrates.

“However, I have grown tired of watching you animals pretend to be our equals.”

He leaned forward.

“And that is why I have gathered such an army.”

His voice remained calm.

“Not because your pitiful attempt at rebellion deserves such a response.”

He paused.

“But because I wish for you to witness a mere fraction of the overwhelming power possessed by the kingdoms of the Five-Lands.”

The faint amusement vanished from his face.

“I intend to desecrate every last speck of hope you and your people possess.”

His eyes narrowed.

A small, unsettling smile slowly formed upon his lips.

“You should feel honored. I am no longer interested in merely killing you.”

The smile widened.

“You have captured my full attention.”

His gaze remained fixed upon Kallikrates.

“And now, I am going to do things to you and ant followers you cannot begin to imagine.”