The footmen take the battlefield
Their armor shining red.
They steel themselves to never yield,
To always look ahead.

Across the field, opponents form,
Swords glinting in the light.
The sun beats on their uniforms,
And paints them brilliant white.

A rumbling fills the air as rows
Of chariots approach,
And nimble archers knock their bows
While balanced in the coach.

As hoofbeats land, more men proceed;
The cavalry form ranks.
Their riders ably guide their steeds
To join the sturdy flanks.

But still, before a blow can fall,
Or any horses charge,
A brilliant trumpet's fanfare calls
A royal entourage.

The abbots are the first to reach
The army they've deferred,
And in the lines, begin to preach
The ruler's kingly word.

The sov'reign, clad in steely plates,
And gilded solid gold.
His sound protection of such weight,
He saunters to the fold.

And standing there beside his sword,
Her crimson robes so clean,
The woman he attempts to ward:
Her Majesty, the Queen.

"I wish that you'd stayed home, my dear,"
The King pleads to his wife.
"You simply don't belong out here,
Against such war and strife.";

"You think to small of me, my liege.
I'm able and I'm fit.
And if you fear for me this siege,
I simply won't get hit."

She faced the opposition then,
Resolved and absolute.
The king (his patience wearing thin),
Agreed the point was moot.

A glance across the no-man's-land
Revealed the time was nigh.
The royalty had made its stand
Along the other side.

So all surveyed the battlefield,
Each man a statue'd form.
The quiet in the air revealed
The calm before the storm.

Each second passes like an age,
The soldiers' muscles tense.
And then! A horn! The men engage!
The battle has commenced!

As though they knew the time to strike,
The enemy runs first.
Their infantry, with swords and pikes,
Dash in to sate their thirst.

And quickly do our men respond,
To meet them in the fray.
Uncaring of the great beyond,
They live to die and slay.

And while their rivals send in more
To join the deadly dance,
Her highness spies, in charging corps,
Her opening, her chance.

So while her king is looking out,
She dashes past her guard.
Her eyes without an ounce of doubt,
And flashing cold regard.

And then, she spies the perfect path,
To charge her way straight through.
Her screams comes shrill, and filled with wrath,
And then-- their King sees, too.

And running past the broken ranks
Despite their hurried blows,
A leather cuirass guards her flanks,
Beneath her silken robes.

Before the men can cut the Queen
Or slow her fatal art,
Her dagger, thin and deadly keen,
Lands in the White King's heart.

She yanks it back, and so he lands,
With an indignant 'thud'.
She cleans her blade and wipes her hands,
Her red robes hiding blood.

The men do naught but stare at her,
No cries and no alarms.
And then- a man begins to stir,
And he lays down his arms.

And suddenly, as if they were
Commanded to this scene,
They each drop to their knee for her,
And honor their new Queen.

And so the battle ends too fast,
Come to a sudden fate.
Perhaps next time, they will outlast
The trap of a Fool's Mate.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Scarlatan, in the year 536 AF.