The chess men fell into line on their checkered battle field surrounded by the mountainous peaks of Marky’s comforter.

“And the great knight, Sir Mark of Bed Spread, will lead the charge for the White Army to keep the Dark King’s army of bad guys at bey,” the nine-year-old boy shouted, setting his favorite player in place. “Let the battle begin!”

Marky moved a pawn out on the white side of the board to give ‘Sir Mark’ space to get started on the next turn.

Next, a black pawn came out onto the field. Then the illustrious Sir Mark made his move, and as the battle was joined, Marky’s imagination pulled him into the action closer than any chess player had ever gone before.

Sir Mark swept this way and that way on his great, white stallion. He passed his own soldiers at the front of the White Army’s line. Black Army foot soldiers tried in vain to block his path as he galloped up the field toward the enemy line, leaving the Dark King’s pawns far behind.

Up ahead, Sir Mark caught sight of an equal opponent in the crowds of ground troops. A knight in black armor on a huge black stallion sat waiting for him in the middle of the field. The black knight cast a hot, flashing glare at Sir Mark from under his heavy visor, raising his lance in challenge. Sir Mark reined in his horse and raised his own lance to accept. The horses snorted, reared, and the knights charged over the field to meet each other.

The black knight’s lance leaped into red flames as he lowered it toward Mark’s shield. Sir Mark ignited his own lance a blazing blue, aiming for the black knight’s shield. Fire leaped from the horses’ eyes, manes, and tails. In a flash of purple light, the knights met. The black knight’s lance slid off Sir Mark’s shield, as the end of Mark’s lance smashed through the other knight’s shield and hit him in the breastplate. The black knight flew backward out of the saddle, flames extinguished, and he and his stallion burst into a cloud of orange embers and black smoke.

Sir Mark didn’t even slow down or stop. He galloped on toward the Dark King on the far hill across the field. Mark turned his stallion into the path of a long, bright ray of sunshine that streaked from one corner of the field to the other. In the middle of this beam of gold stood a bishop, all in armor under his fluttering regal robes. The bishop held a long spear with the banner of a red cross on a black ground, flying from the shaft. The bishop rushed down the path of light to knock Sir Mark from the saddle, but Mark spurred his stallion, and the huge beast carried him over the bishop’s head and out of the sun beam. The bishop appeared to pursue, but stopped at the edge of the beam. He raised his spear angrily, but could not follow Sir Mark into the shadow.

Mark returned to his tireless march toward the far hill. As his horse galloped over the open ground, Sir Mark’s mind wandered back to his home of Bed Spread, to the White castle, and to Maggie the fair-haired maiden of Wheel who lived across the gorge on the far side of the mountains of Bed Spread. Sir Mark alone could face the Dark King and save the territory and all its good people from his evil.

Suddenly, a ring of steel woke Mark from his day dreams. Sir Mark looked up in time to see the terrible blades of the Dark Queen hewing down on him. He raised his shield, and the flaming swords glanced off his steel. The Dark Queen screeched in anger. Mark knew from the fables that she was a formidable foe. She moved anywhere she pleased with lightning speed, but her one weakness was that she lacked the energy for more than a single attack at a time. He had only one chance to escape her.

Sir Mark turned his stallion aside and charged across the field. The Queen was right behind him. Unlike the bishop, she could leave the narrow tracts sun light that streaked the battlefield and follow him into the shadows as well. She glided after him with the grace and speed of a dark angel, swerving to his side, and struck his shield again. Then she moved to the other side, preparing for another attack. Mark saw a battalion of foot soldiers ahead, White Army men. He charged toward them, waving his lance. The Queen seemed on a single path: to destroy Sir Mark, and she was unaware of any other warriors in her way. She swung in close to Mark’s back as the two combatants rushed between Mark’s comrades. Just as she was about to strike a deadly blow to the good knight, a net dropped over her rabid face, covering her in blazing tangles of rope. The foot soldiers pulled hard on the ends of the ropes that bound their foe, dragging her to the ground. Sir Mark waved to his men as he galloped on his way, hearing the Queen’s awful screams of rage grow faint in the distance.

Now Sir Mark could see the Dark King ahead, proud and evil on the hill top. Mark spurred his stallion toward the King, lance ready. But the King leaped out of his reach. Up from the ground where the King had stood rose a huge black tower topped with a high, stone rail protected by archers. The King now stood atop the tower, ordering his archers to fire on the knight below.

Sir Mark rushed forward, blocking a shower of shafts. He ignited his lance again, drew back his brawny arm, and threw his lance toward the top of the tower. The weapon hit its mark, engulfing the archers and the top of the tower in purple flames, and the tower roared into cinders as Sir Mark charged through the fray. But the Dark King leaped from the top, landing on the field not far away.

Mark dismounted is horse and engaged the King again, sword ready. Each stroke he made came close to reaching the King, but the Dark King was too fast for Sir Mark, always seeming to be a single step away. The King had a powerful scepter, more legendary than the Dark Queen’s blades, with which he shot angry, red bolts at the knight. But Sir Mark was not swayed. He deflected each bolt with the skill of a warrior. For a final shot, the King summoned all the power he possessed and hurled a huge blast that surely would have vaporized Mark. But the brave soul tilted his shield at the right angle and shot the bolt back on its ruthless master. The Dark King tried to escape, but was swallowed up in the fires of his own making. He fell to the ground, helpless, as his scepter dissipated into smoke.

The Dark King raised his hands in defeat as Sir Mark stood over him. Soldiers of the White Army surrounded them, cheering for the victory. Sir Mark raised his sword. The territory was saved.

“Marky,” Mom’s voice came from down the hall. “Time for bed. Put your toys away.”

“Okay,” Marky called back.

He swept the chess men off the board, folded up the game and put it back in its shoe box. Leaning over the side of his mattress, Marky slid the box under the bed. But he clasped his white knight firmly in his hand.

“Good night, Maggie,” Marky said, yawning. But the blonde hamster on the dresser across the room didn’t respond. She just kept happily spinning her wheel.

Marky snuggled into his blankets. He smiled at the knight. “Well played, Sir,” he said, as he reached up to turn out the light.

THE END