Most of the crowd didn’t speak the language but they got the vague idea. The man on the platform was angry and defiant. It didn’t matter.

The trapdoor swung open and the tyrant fell. A six foot drop and a snap of rope pulling taut. A wet crack. Subdued cheers.

“Look at how mighty we are,” one of the pub’s patrons said in one of those loud voices that drunks use to get attention. “All who defy us have died. We slay the armies of the kings, smash their castles, and disgrace their knights.”

Some slurred cheers rang out. Murmurs of agreement or disagreement. Mostly the sounds of mugs striking on wood and booze splashing out.

A veteran stood up in the back of the pub. He stepped forward until the orange lamplight cast its flickering color onto his face.

“We may have taken a few kings over the years,” he said as he turned and showed his scars to the drunken crowd, “but look at how many pawns must die to capture just one king.”

The crowd stood frozen and silent.

“Here’s to the pawns,” the veteran said