The acrid smell of freshly spilt blood laced the fine, evening mists which swirled across the field of battle. From the hillside the Royal Prince and his brother watched on, the first-born planning his next move.
‘NxB4,’ came the order.
I was the only black horseman left – they had to mean me. The Board-master pointed his golden staff towards B4; I geed up my sweating mount and trotted slowly forwards. On the edge of the square a pathetic, shivering old man knelt in prayer – he knew the game and had accepted his fate.
‘Forgive me,’ I whispered, as I drew my sword.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.