Hey all, another story I originally posted on the Librarium. It features two of my favorite things – Chess and Warhammer. Enjoy.
“Pawn ter F8!” The ork Warboss bellowed through his megaphone. Below him there was a huge checkered floor where twenty- ish slaves stood trembling, each standing in there own square. The figures nearest Rumpin’ Backthumpa were coated head to toe in a black, tar like substance. They were all facing away from him, staring at their white clad opponents.
Runtherds swarmed over to the right hand side of the board and zapped a bloody old man forward two squares. Crying out, the man advanced fearfully. He clutched dementedly to his rusty buckler and knife. Across from Rumpin’, and on a similar podium to him, Old One- eye the resident Big Mek surveyed the battlefield. A sly grin emerged from between his blistered lips, revealing a jagged set of uneven teeth. Flicking his megaphones switch to ‘on’, he ordered:
“Horsey, kill F8.”
A dejected rough rider and his even more dejected horse charged forward, fearful of electrocution. The old man raised his grimy shield half- heartedly before being skewered through; the shimmering hunting lance piercing both man and metal. A chorus of cheers ensued from the Mek supporters. One eye gestured smugly at the corpse which was now being dragged of the board by a bunch of grots. Rumpin’ responded by making a gesture of his own.
The angry warboss then shifted his attention back to his living pieces. Relative to the Mek’s, there wasn’t many.
“OI! Bisherp! Kill dat zogging ‘orsey!”
A rugged Catachan slave who was the veteran of three chess matches so far moved to carry out the warboss’ orders. He almost enjoyed these matches. It sure as hell beat cleaning out the drops anyway. Running forward, he tossed two blackened knives at the apprehensive duo. His aim was unerring; both rider and steed fell heavily, dead before they hit the ground.
“Save me a leg off dat der ‘orsey,” demanded Rumpin’ as the panting grots struggled off the board with the heavy beast.
One eye grunted with satisfaction. The ever predictable warboss had left himself wide open. The mek moved in for the kill.
“Queen ter A2. Orkmate!”
The warboss stood still for several seconds, his left eye twitching. This was his 37th consecutive loss. Calmly he slipped on his power Klaw, and proceeded to leap down onto the board yelling WAAAAGH! at the top of his lungs.Anarchy reigned as all hell broke loose.
“For da love of Gork,” muttered the Big Mek.
“How much of a zoggin’ sore loser can you be?”