Leman being smart

Mighty beyond all sense of the word, Leman Russ was a tsunami that starts far out to see and builds its power over thousands of kilometres as it draws near the shore. His physical form was the instant before impact and all who looked upon him knew it. Even when apparently at peace, it felt as though Leman Russ was only holding back some explosive violence with great effort. A bone-handlded hunting blade was buckled at his waist. A dagger to his post-human scale, a sword to everyone else.

Next to Leman Russ, Malcador was a frail hunch-shouldered old man. Which was as time went by, less a carefully cultivated image and more a true reflection of his soul-deep weariness. White hair spilled from his crown and spilled across his shoulders like snow on the towering flanks Chomolungma. He might bind his hair up in the presence of Sanguinius or Rogal Dorn, but with Russ, the observation of physical niceties were secondary to the matter at hand.

Malcador studied the board, a hexagon divided into irregular sections with a raised octagon at its center. Each segment was filled with slots in which were placed the playing pieces carved from yellow hrossvalur teeth. A mixture of kings, warriors, and elemental forces. Portions of the board were movable, able to slide over one another, and to occlude or reveal fresh elements and rods set in each side could be rotated to block or open slots. All of which let a canny player radically alter a game at a stroke. One had a king and a small band of retainers, the other an army, and as in most such games the objective was to kill or capture the enemy king. Or keep him alive, depending on which color you chose. Russ always chose to play the outnumbered king.

Malcador removed a hearth-jarl and pushed it to the octagon where the Wolf-King's pieces had gathered, then twisted one of the side rods. Clicking mechanisms rotated within the board, though it was impossible to know for certain which slots had opened up and which had closed until a player had committed to a move.

'Bold,' noted Russ. 'Nemo would say you haven't given that move enough thought.'

'You were pressing me.'

'And you let yourself be goaded?' mused Russ. 'I'm surprised.'

'There is not the time for deep reflection now.'

'You've made that point before.'

'Nor is there time for recklessness.'

........

'You say exposed, I say Berkuta. The Khan taught me his word for it.' said Russ, never one to take another's virtue for his own. 'Ours is almattirgrbita but I like his word better.'

Malcador tipped his cardinal piece on its side, knowing that there would be no escape from the Wolf-King's trap, only a slow attrition that would see his pieces leaderless and scattered to the four corners of the board.

'Well played, Leman,' said Malcador.

Russ nodded and bent to lift a wide-necked ewer of wine from beside the table. He kept a pair of pewter goblets in his other hand and kept one for himself before handing the second to Malcador. The Sigilite took a note of the wine's provenance and raised a curious eyebrow.

'Not everything of the Sons was bitter with sorcery.' The wine was poured and Malcador was forced to agree.

Vengeful Spirit