The Queen's Gambit (6 page)

“None of ours, sir,” the boy said. “Those ain't boats I recognize.”

That icy chill slid down Talmor's spine a second time. He turned in his saddle and saw a cluster of boats approaching fast in tight formation. No sails; these were rowed vessels, cut low to the sea, skimming its surface with every flash of the long oars. Talmor counted four such craft, blinked, and another formation of four boats appeared out of the storm. He swore softly to himself.

“No sails!” Lutel said in a moan. “They's rowin'! That means—”

A flash of horror swept through Talmor. Now he understood the danger he'd sensed only moments before. These boats held death to everyone at Durl and the village. “Vvord raiders,” he said grimly.

“Skull folk,” Lutel whispered. His eyes were wide, and his thin chest heaved with emotion. “Thod save us—”

“Hold your fear!” Talmor snapped. His initial sense of shock was fading, and he could think rapidly now. The village was wide-open to disaster. The repairs to the seawall were but half-finished, and it was doubtful any sentry was keeping proper watch today. All the village folk were out in their finery, vulnerable to attack. The hold itself stood wide-open for all to come and go as they pleased. By now most of the knights would be assembling on the jousting field out behind the hold, where the ground was at its most level. And above . . .

He squinted up at the fortress, where no alarm had as yet sounded. No one was keeping watch. Sir Inthiere, the fortress commander, had once served in the palace guard at Savroix. Today he was lachrymose, full of gloomy reminiscences of Prince Gavril as a “wee bit, just getting used to the gait of his pony.” When Talmor had left him, only a few minutes ago, Sir Inthiere was heading to the cellars. No doubt he intended to spend the day ale-muddled, if not outright drunk.

Anger swept Talmor. He'd told Sir Inthiere to keep the sentries sharp. But why should he be listened to? There'd been no sea raiders for thirty years, perhaps longer. Only the old folks remembered past dangers, spinning terrible stories on gale nights to frighten children into good behavior. As for Talmor, since he'd come here he'd thought long and hard about why and where the fortress was built, as well as the dangers it had served to protect its inhabitants from. Now, as impossible as it seemed, that danger had returned.

“Lutel,” he said sharply, “raise your flag.”

“You mean give the signal now?”

“Wave your flag for danger!”

Visibly flustered, Lutel whipped up his flag, nearly dropped the pole, then moved it in the correct warning signal under Talmor's fierce eye.

“That'll do,” Talmor said. “Repeat it until the fortress takes notice and sounds the trumpets.”

“Aye, sir.”

The fear quavering in Lutel's voice made Talmor pause. He took the time to give the boy a reassuring look. “Steady now. Keep your head. Stand your position as long as you can, but if they get past us, you run to the fortress. Clear?”

“Aye, sir, but I got to warn my family—”

“You have your orders! Stand your ground!”

“Aye, sir.”

Talmor gave him a brusque nod. “I depend on you, Lutel. You're the only sentry worth having, this day.”

The boy looked stronger for the praise.

Relenting, Talmor said, “Your family will be warned. I'll see to it.”

Relief flashed across Lutel's thin face. “Oh, thank ye, sir.”

Talmor spurred his horse forward. Snorting, the brute leaped down the trail, skidded on loose ground, nearly lost his footing, and somehow managed to keep from going over the edge of the cliff. Down they plunged, going faster than was sensible, and all the while no warning sounded from the fortress.

Glancing back, Talmor saw the orange flames of the first bonfire shoot up toward the darkening skies. Then the second one caught. Acute frustration filled him. What were the fools doing? The danger signal was unmistakable, yet they were apparently so focused on their part in the ceremony that they hadn't recognized it. Why didn't they sound the trumpets and give the folk below some warning?

He wanted to wheel his horse around and go galloping back to shout the men into proper order, but he kept Canae headed down the steep trail. His duty was to report directly to Lord Pace. The chevard gave the orders here, and Talmor knew he must obey the proper chain of command.

Inside, however, he felt an exhilarating tangle of anger,
fear, and rising anticipation. There had been an ominous warning or two from farther up the coastline during last autumn, warnings that Lord Pace had brushed off back even before Aelintide.

“Raiders from the Sea of Vvord? Bull dung!” he said in his gruff way. “Tales to frighten old women. There's been no trouble out of Vvord since my father's day. Why should they come now?”

Why indeed?
Talmor thought grimly as he was nearly jolted from the saddle.
Because we've grown fat and lazy and prosperous. Because the king called half our fighting force to muster when he went forth to battle in Nether, and not all of them have returned. Because we used to keep warships here to guard the coast, and we no longer have them. Because we're ripe for the plucking.

And still the trumpets did not sound.

He ground his teeth, but there was no help for it until he reached the upper beaches. He could feel time rushing past him, precious time that would give the hold and village just a few minutes' warning, a chance to run, to grab weapons, to get inside the walls. Would all the people living in hold and village be able to fit inside the small fortress? If a siege commenced—Thod help him, but he did not know if the raiders besieged their victims—but if a siege commenced, there weren't enough food supplies to last long. Who, in the panic soon to come, would think to haul food from the bountiful cellars of the hold? And water? Hadn't someone said recently that the old fortress cistern was cracked and leaking again?

Thod's mercy, Talmor thought to himself in momentary panic. They'd been caught like fools. They deserved disaster.

Then, from far above him, he heard the wavering notes of a trumpet blare against the freshening gusts of wind. Heartened, he spurred Canae into leaping off the trail and skipping the last small switchback. Skidding recklessly, the big horse thudded onto solid ground with a jolt that snapped Talmor's teeth together and went galloping toward the jousting field.

As he rode, Talmor was busy untying his cloak and flinging it off. He drew his sword from its scabbard and held it
ready. From this angle, he could no longer see the boats on the other side of the headland. But once horse and rider rounded the headland and came to the mouth of the harbor, disaster would arrive swiftly.

The trumpet came again, sounding the call to arms. Talmor saw the assembled knights, lined up in two straight rows facing each other, ignoring the call. He wanted to shout at them, although he was too far away to be heard. Why didn't they heed the warning? What were they doing?

As he drew closer, he brandished his sword and shouted, and only then did they begin to break formation. Several stood in their stirrups to stare up at the fortress, where the bonfires were blazing. Others gawked at Talmor as though he'd gone mad.

Lord Pace, on foot, and wearing a long tunic and cloak rather than armor, was waving his arms and swearing at the top of his lungs.

“Thod's bones! They've ruined it, the stupid louts. Ruined the ceremony. Ruined the whole—”

“My lord!” Talmor called out, drawing rein before him with such force Canae reared up. “Sea raiders to the northwest, approaching by boat. At least twelve boats by my last count. Probably more by now.”

Lord Pace swung around to glare up at Talmor. Stout and double-chinned, the old man looked fiercer than usual with his white hair blown into wild disarray by the wind. He was clutching the folds of his cloak to keep the garment from billowing off his shoulders.

“What?” he shouted. “Damne! What're you bleating about, sir? Is this some kind of merry prank?”

“Sea raiders,” Talmor repeated urgently. “Vvordsmen. They'll be in the bay within minutes. The village will go first. We've got to get the people headed up the cliff to safety.”

Consternation broke out among the knights. Sir Moule, craggy and weather-beaten, kicked his horse forward to Talmor's side. Others drew their weapons in readiness.

“Hold there! Hold!” Lord Pace shouted, while nearby his
portly wife and two daughters clutched their streaming veils and stared in visible disbelief.

“My lord, your orders?” Sir Moule asked urgently.

“Hold, I say!” Pace bellowed with a stamp of his foot. He turned his glare on Talmor. “How dare you speak such nonsense! How dare you issue orders! Do this and do that. Ahead of yourself, sir. Ahead of yourself.”

A squire came running up, white-faced and breathless. “My lord! Compliments of Sir Pentigne, standing as watch commander, but there's a contingent of six-and-twenty rowed ships coming in around the headland. My lord, they've got skulls painted on the bowsprits.”

Lady Alda screamed and tried to swoon. Her attendants held her up, calling out for assistance. Her daughters gathered up their skirts and ran for the hold.

Ignoring his family, Lord Pace stared at the squire as though he did not believe his ears. “What?” he sputtered. “What's that you say?”

His protector Sir Albie stepped forward with a ferocious scowl and drew his sword. “Skull folk,” he said. “Hah! Time to drive them back from whence they came.”

A cheer rose up from the mounted knights. Orders rang out from the master-at-arms.

Lord Pace stood where he was, glaring and blustering, confusion in his eyes. “They can't be here,” he insisted. “We drove them off. My father taught them—”

“My lord,” Talmor said, leaning down from the saddle impatiently. “There's no time. Get yourself and your good lady to safety. Never mind the hold. Head directly for the fortress and—”

“What? Run for my life?” Pace bellowed in outrage. “You!” he said with a gesture at a nearby servant. “See that the women are escorted to the cliffs. And where's my horse? My armor? Damne! Where's my squire when I want him?”

“Nay, my lord,” Sir Albie said firmly. “No fighting for you.”

“The women,” Lord Pace said, not listening. “They'll go
for them first, the savage brutes. We've got to get all the women rounded up and hidden away.”

“Be easy there, m'lord,” said the squire who'd brought the message. “Sir Pentigne has already sent all females in the hold up fortress way with an armed escort. I am to bring your lordship to safety also.”

“What?” Lord Pace looked insulted. “Damne, I'll not run like a baseborn coward. Where's my sword? Albie! My horse! My sword!”

The protector's experienced old eyes met Talmor's and an unspoken word passed between them.

“Get him to high ground if you can,” Talmor said.

“He won't go,” Albie replied.

“Go?” Lord Pace glanced around furiously. “Put off this blithering nonsense. We've fighting to do. Talmor, take charge of half the knights here. See that you hold the seawall.”

Talmor's heart sank. Crumbling, half-fallen, propped up with timbers, and covered with scaffolding for repairs, the seawall had been intended to close the wide mouth of the harbor and make its opening defensible. It was impossible to defend in its current state of disrepair. He'd just been handed a suicidal task.

“Sir Talmor!” Lord Pace yelled. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord. At once.”

He glanced around to choose his men, but Lord Pace was still talking.

“They'll come right over the gap, the murdering savages. Their boats have next to no draw, so they can do it. Hold them as long as you can, then fall back in order. That will give the rest of us time to make the hold defenses ready. Its walls will withstand them; that, I'll swear to.”

“My lord,” Talmor said, “they'll hit the easiest target first. The village is—”

“Damn the village! I'll waste no men on a cluster of huts.”

“It's the fish they'll want—”

“They want women and my gold,” Lord Pace said, as
though Talmor were a fool. “I'll give them neither. Now get to it!”

“My lord.” Saluting the chevard, Talmor wheeled Canae around and shouted orders.

In moments, he had gathered his small contingent of five-and-thirty men and went galloping down the hill from the jousting field to the beach. The villagers, most of whom had been walking up to the field for the ceremony, had paused to stare up at the bonfires. Now they scattered before the galloping knights with cries of alarm.

“Get to the fortress!” Talmor shouted at them. “Don't go back to your houses.” He saw Lutel's mother—a laundress—and her clutch of younger children. “Raiders are coming! Save yourselves and run to the fortress! Quickly!”

The villagers scattered like chickens, some screaming and heading for the cliffs, others turning back for loved ones or possessions despite his instructions. Many of the men headed for their boats, but already the raiders were filling the bay. They came through the gray sheets of rain, silent, deadly, and swift, and poured into the bay. As Lord Pace had predicted, some of them even came through the gap where part of the old seawall had crumbled and fallen, leaving only the foundation stones standing a few feet beneath the water's surface.