Astrid announced her departure with very little warning which, quite frankly, surprised nobody.

The Valkyrie had arrived on Hopeless much the same way that storms arrived; appearing suddenly, altering the landscape and then moving on before anyone could become accustomed to her presence.

“You’re leaving then?” said Rhys Cranham.

“The time has come,” replied Astrid.

Philomena sighed.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It is where I come from,” the Valkyrie said, with a small smile.

The following morning she presented the residents of The Squid and Teapot with a wooden box. It was beautifully made, fashioned from dark timber and bound with iron straps polished bright as silver.

“A gift,” she said.

Philomena, not accustomed to receiving gifts from guests, much less immortal ones, opened the lid carefully. 

Inside sat a set of chessmen, some white, some red.

These were not ordinary chessmen.

Each piece had been carved with remarkable skill. Kings sat upon thrones. Queens gazed balefully ahead, each resting her head on a cupped hand. The Bishops looked worried. Knights, mounted on woefully small ponies, carried shields. Sixteen warders, acting as pawns, clutched long spears. 

One figure in particular caught the attention of Tenzin, the inn’s resident Tibetan monk.

The little warrior appeared to be chewing the top of his own shield.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Tenzin.

“He’s a Berserker,” said Astrid.

“He seems upset,” Tenzin observed, not having the foggiest clue as to what a Berserker might be. 

“You’re right,” said Astrid. “He is upset.”

“About what?”

“Just about everything.”

Tenzin nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s fair enough,” he conceded.

The pieces were greatly admired, and Reggie Upton seemed particularly impressed.

“Remarkable workmanship,” he said. “They almost look as though they might get up and walk about.”

From the far side of the snug came the faint sound of a chair creaking.

Astrid looked towards the corner.

The invisible occupant said nothing, which should have worried everyone.

The trouble began shortly after midnight, when the patrons of The Squid and Teapot had returned home to their beds, and the inn was silent. Even Rhys and Philomena had retired upstairs.

Drury slept before the hearth, where, by now, the fire had burned low.

Only the unseen occupant of the corner chair remained awake.

The chair creaked, and a white hare appeared briefly beside the chessboard. Dark, intelligent eyes regarded the pieces.

Then the hare vanished.

For several long moments nothing happened.

And then, a faint click.

A pony snorted.

Click.

A bishop turned his head.

Click.

The berserker climbed down from the board and immediately punched a warder on the nose.

By two o’clock the situation had deteriorated considerably. Although the red and white armies seemed to have no inclination to engage in formal battle, the red king had declared sovereignty over the snug, while the white queen had assumed practical control, and was busily issuing instructions.

The four bishops were deep in earnest discussions, while the knights conducted patrols around the fireplace.

The warders had fortified the biscuit tin, in order to fend off the berserkers, who had decided to attack them.

The Tomte was first to discover the uprising.

He entered the snug carrying a duster and a thimble-sized tumbler of ale.

He froze.

By now a bishop was delivering a sermon from atop the sugar bowl, the red queen was flirting outrageously with a white knight, and one of the berserkers was attempting to climb onto the biscuit tin.

The Tomte set down his drink.

“This has got to stop,” he said.

The berserker took no notice.

The Tomte sighed. He had probably dealt with worse, but couldn’t remember when.

Within half an hour he found himself engaged in a surprisingly heated theological discussion with the bishop who had used the sugar bowl as a pulpit.

That was when Drury awoke.

The skeletal hound watched with fascination as two warders attempted to manoeuvre a tankard across the floor. One of them saluted him.

Drury, being polite, rattled his tail.

The warders eventually captured the berserker by toppling him off the lid of the biscuit tin, and managed to confine him beneath the overturned tankard.

This did not improve his mood, and from under the tankard came occasional muffled war cries.

It was at that point that Reggie Upton appeared, having wandered downstairs in search of some purely medicinal liquid refreshment, and discovered the tiny kingdom in full operation.

Unfazed, and to his immense delight, he immediately appointed himself military observer, and transfixed, he sat in an armchair taking notes.

While the kings appeared to appreciate the attention, their respective queens gave every sign of merely tolerating his presence.

The warders, obviously recognising a high-ranking officer, ignored him completely, and the berserker took the opportunity to escape. 

Shortly before dawn the two kings, with no little difficulty, climbed upon the table nearest to the occupied chair.

There they remained for several minutes.

No one heard what passed between them, but the chair creaked once.

The kings nodded gravely, and the chair creaked again.

Each king removed his crown and held it respectfully in his lap.

Even the berserkers became unusually quiet.

At last the kings returned to the board. Whatever they had learned seemed to have affected them deeply. After a quick consultation, they ordered an immediate cessation of hostilities.

Even the berserkers obeyed.

When Rhys entered the snug at first light he found an overturned biscuit tin and crumbs scattered across the floor.

Reggie was fast asleep in his favourite chair. His notebook, which was filled with diagrams and military observations, lay open on his lap.

Every chessman was sitting precisely on the board, where it belonged.

Drury was snoring contentedly.

Nothing appeared at all unusual, except the tiny axe embedded firmly in a bread roll.

Rhys removed it carefully.

“Philomena,” he called.

“Yes?”

“I think we’ve had visitors.”

Astrid returned later that morning to say her farewells.

She found the chessmen packed neatly inside their box. The tiny axe sat beside them.

The Valkyrie regarded the box, then she looked severely towards the apparently unoccupied chair.

A long silence followed.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

From the corner came the familiar voice.

“They were bored.”

“They are chessmen, carved out of whalebone and walrus tusks. How, in the name of Asgard, can they be bored?” 

The chair creaked.

“Being chessmen is merely their profession.”

Astrid closed her eyes briefly. Then, to everyone’s surprise, and relief, she smiled.

“This island is beyond madness,” she said, “but for you it must feel like home.”

For once, the invisible occupant offered no reply.

But the chair creaked softly, which, for him, amounted to much the same thing.

Author’s note: The chessmen Astrid gave as a gift bear a remarkable resemblance to some of the seventy eight figures unearthed on the Isle of Lewis in 1831. The academics who have studied them, and apparently know all about these sorts of things, agree that the shield-biting berserkers and spear-carrying warders would have both been used as rooks. In Astrid’s set, however, the warders seem to have been demoted.