The Queen's Gambit by Deborah Chester Read Free Book Online Page B

Talmor three years to work his way up to his current position of adjutant. Little had he known that his new status would mean that he was often barked at like a servant. Instead of advising the chevard on matters of strategy or evaluating the training of the men or collecting reports on the strength of the walls or inspecting the armory, he was sent to fetch scrolls or instruct the master of horse as to how the mounts were to be shod . . . or to inspect piles of firewood that were to be torched simultaneously in a matter of minutes.
    Talmor tucked his chin lower and tried to quell his rising sense of dissatisfaction. On a day like this, it was hard to consider his blessings and not wish himself in one of the uplandholds, where battle action was a frequent occurrence and there was something useful to do. Still, there was a job at hand to be finished, and he told himself to get on with it.
    The fog to the south seemed no closer. Talmor hoped it would stay seaward until he reached safe ground. A steep, narrow trail such as this was best used by a goat, not a knight in full armor atop a charger.
    As for his suit of mail, the hours spent polishing and oiling it were going to be wasted, for he was certain he would rust ere he reached the ceremony planned for hold and village. His new surcoat, orange and gold in Lord Pace’s vivid colors, was splashed with mud and soaked through. Mud dripped from his spurs, and his charger—a big, nervous brute already ill-tempered from being washed and combed at dawn—pawed and balked on the trail yet again. Canae was a fine horse for battle or jousting, but useless as a courser up and down pig trails like this.
    Talmor kicked him again, and the horse tossed his armored head, grumbling around the bit as he lumbered down the trail.
    A cold, fine mist condensed on Sir Talmor’s tanned face, and he shivered in acute dislike of such weather. His mixed, lowlander blood was too thin for this cold, and he felt the winters more keenly than most of the other men. They teased him, urging him to grow a thick beard to warm his jaws, and although he was not a man with a ready sense of humor, he endured the joking stoically. Better to be teased than stoned.
    â€œAll’s ready, then, Sir Talmor?” called out a youthful voice.
    Talmor glanced ahead at one of the beacon boys, standing tall on a large boulder, his flag held ready in eager hands. Four such boys were arrayed on the trail between hold and fortress, ready to pass the signal once it was given.
    This particular boy was scrawny and growing like a weed so that his leggings were too short for him and his wrists dangled from his sleeves. His name was Lutel, and Talmor thought he showed promise.
    Smiling, Talmor gave him a small salute that made the boystand taller, with his chest puffed out. “Keep ready now,” Talmor said. “It’s almost time. His lordship wants no mistakes.”
    â€œI’m watchin’ below, sir, just like ye ordered. But this rain’s about to come in, sure as sure.”
    â€œFog,” Talmor said.
    â€œNay, sir. Not in this wind. That be rain comin’. A hard one.”
    Talmor frowned seaward. The waters were running green beneath the dark skies, and where the fog—or rain—met sky the horizon was lost altogether. Goose Point was gone from sight now, the pine tree engulfed completely.
    At that moment, a finger of unease slid up his spine. Talmor felt suddenly cold to the marrow, as though he’d been plunged in icy water. In that second he could not catch his breath, and in the next he was shaking as though with the ague.
    No, he thought angrily, shoving such instincts aside. Not again. I’m done with all that.
    â€œSir?” Lutel asked uneasily. “Are ye ill? Ye look queer about the gills there—”
    â€œNever mind how I look,” Talmor said gruffly. He was furious with himself for this slip. He’d come to Durl vowing never to use