The Queen's Gambit (7 page)

A corner of Talmor's mind observed the display of magnificent seamanship as they steered through the tricky currents that eddied through and around the gap, the rowmen managing the long oars perfectly. But Talmor had no time to waste admiring the skills of his enemy. He and his men were already too late to defend the wall.

He drew rein abruptly and wheeled around to face his men, his mind rapidly trying to come up with an alternative course of action.

Meanwhile, the raiders went first for the fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the harbor. Swarming the small, sturdy craft, they destroyed sails and nets, while others stove in the sides at the waterline. The sounds of muffled thuds and splintering wood echoed across the water.

Howls of anguish rose from villager throats. Men ran
foolishly into the water, swimming out in a vain attempt to save their vessels. Laughing, the raiders clubbed them to watery deaths and continued their work. Already many of the vessels were sinking.

Along the small wharf, yesterday's catch glinted on the wooden racks where fish—gutted and skinned—hung in thin slivers to dry. Nets lay across the drying racks to protect the catch from marauding gulls, but nets would not hold against the skull folk.

Grimly, Talmor turned back to his men. Their faces were fierce with anger. They held their weapons in readiness.

“Your orders?” rasped out Sir Moule as he drew up his mail coif.

Talmor hastily pulled up his own, remembering that he'd almost left it off this morning. He longed now for his helmet and his shield, but with sword and dagger he must make do.

“They'll land on the beach in the next few minutes,” Talmor said. “We're too late for the wall.”

“Then we should retreat to the hold,” Sir Feil said. “And man it as strongly as we can.”

Talmor had already estimated the force coming against them. Durl's knights were outnumbered perhaps four to one. “When they land,” he said grimly, “they'll be at their most vulnerable. We're on horseback. We have armor and all the advantage of our training. We shall hold the beach.”

Sir Feil's eyes bugged out. “Look yon, sir! They're more numerous than fleas on a dog. I say we retreat to where we can do good.”

His protest infuriated Talmor, for it undercut his authority with the others, but he held his temper. “We are the first line, and we shall hold it!” he said boldly. “We're knights of Durl, sirs.”

They cheered at that.

Talmor lifted his sword. “We're worth a dozen such savages apiece. If any of you doubt that, you've no place with me.”

They cheered again, and Talmor wheeled Canae around and sent the big horse galloping across the sand to meet the
foe. The raiders were coming in fast now, their oars flashing faster as though to meet his challenge.

Five-and-thirty men against three hundred, possibly more, Talmor thought as he leaned low over Canae's whipping mane. And only forty additional warriors behind them to defend the hold and fortress. He felt his heart sink anew, then swiftly bolstered his courage. Trained knights could hold these barbarians.

It had been his intention to charge Canae into the water, knee deep if necessary, but as the boats came closer, he saw some of the raiders busy hauling forth large sacks of coarse wet cloth. They dumped the contents into the surf, and although he caught mere glimpses of bulbous heads and uncoiling tentacles, Talmor slowed his horse with a ruthless hand.

Twisting about in the saddle, he shouted, “All of you! Stay out of the water, no matter what you do!”

Not waiting for anyone to respond, he veered Canae at a slightly different angle, slowing the reluctant horse yet more. He did not want the raiders to land, did not want their feet to pollute the shores of Durl, but he could see the monsters bobbing to the surface with flashes of dark liquid eyes before they dived beneath the waves. The water was boiling white, churned by oars and the rapid clutch of tentacles that coiled about dead, floating bodies and yanked them abruptly from sight.

With wailing cries, the raiders landed, running their boats right up onto the shore and jumping off in droves. They moved incredibly fast, seemingly unhampered by either the shallow waves or the deep sand. Brandishing cutlasses, daggers, and clubs, they were pale, muscular men, giants in height and brawn. Shirtless, they wore wide leggings cut short at the ankle and boots with studded soles. They had no hair. Every man was shaven and beardless, with smooth chests and hairless arms. As they called out and shouted, their language was guttural and harsh, impossible to understand.

They came in a rush, running faster across the sand than
Talmor expected. He tightened his loins, and Canae sprang forward at full charge, his hooves throwing up sprays of sand.

Talmor's men followed the charge with war cries of their own. The raiders checked only slightly, their shouts rising into a shrill, earsplitting noise.

Then the rain reached the shore, and in the space of a heartbeat Talmor found himself engulfed in a heavy downpour. Canae snorted and stumbled beneath him, nearly pitching Talmor from the saddle. He steadied the horse and heard sounds of confusion and vicious oaths behind him.

The rain pelted down fiercely, mixed with hail. Flinching under it, Talmor saw the raiders running toward him, impervious to the elements. Their eyes glowed as though lit by fire. Red eyes, orange eyes, yellow . . . all the colors of flame.

Talmor stared at them in sick dread, for surely they were not men at all.

“Dear Thod, what are they?” Sir Moule called out.

At once Talmor realized he was dangerously close to losing his men. If their nerve broke, if they ran, then Durl Hold was finished.

He cast aside his own fear and tightened his grip on his sword. “They're our enemies, men!” he called out loudly. “And they're soon to die! For Durl!”

Kicking Canae into a startled gallop, he resumed his charge. Thudding hoofbeats behind him told him that his men followed.

Just before he reached the raiders, Talmor raised his sword and urged his horse faster. He was a fierce, bronze-faced man clad in full chain mail, his horse wearing armor like a great behemoth, unstoppable and fearless. Horse and rider crashed into the foremost Vvordsman. Canae knocked the raider down and trampled over the top of him, rearing up to strike down the next man with deadly forefeet as he'd been trained. Talmor swung his sword as the horse came down, and cut off the head of a third raider. Blood spurted across Talmor's hand and wrist, and he noted with relief that these giants weren't demons at all but mortal. And he'd taken three down in the first moment.

Satisfied, he roared ferociously and attacked his next opponent. Around him he heard the sounds of his men crashing into the midst of the battle. The raiders' cries became squeals of death as more went down. But others quickly filled their places, and within minutes they swarmed around Talmor on all sides, while Canae circled and kicked to keep him safe.

Hacking with his sword, Talmor had no time to marvel at the raiders' foolishness in not wearing armor or even carrying shields. Yet they didn't fall back. They kept on fighting as though as well equipped as he. A club thudded into his back with such force he nearly toppled off balance. Robbed of breath, Talmor twisted in the saddle to evade another blow and brought his sword up and over with a blow of retaliation that took off the man's arm. Screaming, the savage fell back, blood spurting from his wound, while another raider came swarming up into the saddle with Talmor.

Taken by surprise, Talmor felt the sting of a dagger driven through his chain mail into his ribs. He could not use his sword at such close quarters. The raider was right in his face, orange eyes glowing as he twisted the dagger and gibbered hatred at Talmor. Grimacing, Talmor smashed his sword forearm into the Vvordsman's nose, breaking it with a splatter of blood, then drew his dagger and stabbed the man through the heart.

He fell, but three others swarmed Talmor on all sides. He fought them off, taking the punishing blows of clubs although by now a wicked, piercing pain in his side warned him he might have ribs broken. His dagger wound felt numb, and he could not tell how much blood he was losing. Ignoring these problems, he fought on with gritted teeth.

Then Sir Banjermel appeared at his side, swearing loudly with every blow of his sword. “Talmor, fall back with me!” he called out over the din of weapons and war cries.

“Nay! We stand!” Talmor shouted back in refusal, but now he saw that the majority of the raiders had landed farther along the beach and divided their forces. Some hit the village, already looting and burning the modest houses of thatch and
wood. The rest were streaming toward the hold, screaming fiercely.

Sir Banjermel yelled something else that Talmor couldn't hear. He understood, of course, that it was time to retreat. He'd accomplished the delay that Lord Pace had asked for. Shooting his companion knight a look of gratitude, Talmor waved his arm as a signal for the other knights still alive and fighting.

A swift glance gave him an imperfect count. He thought he still had twenty men. Who they were he couldn't tell at this moment.

“Fall back!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To the hold! The hold!”

They clustered together and began to retreat, still fighting every step. When they finally gained a tiny respite, Talmor sent his mount hopping over the bloody bodies of slain foes and spurred him toward the hold.

It rose before him on the hillside, a pretty palace that rambled past its defense walls. Lord Pace's banner flew bravely from the turret, but the raiders were already storming it. Fire blazed from an upper window, and in dismay Talmor urged his horse faster. He headed toward the weakest part of the wall, where the fighting looked heaviest, hoping to crush some of the attackers from behind and pin them against the knights defending the hold.

As Canae crested the ditch where the pikes were supposed to serve as a deterrent to invaders but could not hold because of the soft ground, he heard Sir Moule shout a gruff warning behind him.

Talmor was still turning his head when something hard and powerful hit him from his left side. He saw a black shape, the blur of something moving fast at his head.

The world exploded in a rainbow of colors and fire. He felt himself flying through the air, his horse and saddle left behind. Then the fire went black inside his skull, and he knew nothing else.

In her mother's carriage, Pheresa curled her hands into fists beneath the concealment of King Verence's cloak. She was intensely angered by what the princess had just said, so furious that she could not find words to reply. She could not even bear to look at her mother, who was so different from her, so contrary, so
cold
. Not for the first time, Pheresa wondered how they could possibly be related to each other. Yet they were. She drew a deep breath, feeling as though she were on fire. Her ears were roaring, and Princess Dianthelle's face and form blurred for a moment.

“That's right,” the princess said contemptuously. “Weep those pretty tears the way you always do. Why can you not discuss matters rationally whenever I give you my attention?”

Outside the carriage, the cathedral bell began to toll the death knell for Gavril, one stroke for every year of his life.
I survived what he did not,
Pheresa thought.
I am strong enough now to deal even with my mother.

“I am not weeping,” Pheresa said quietly. “And how can you call me a fool for not going to Batoine? I do not belong
there. I have no intention of ever being shut away in that nuncery.”

“It is the perfect place for you,” the princess said with a shrug. “What else do you intend to do with yourself? You cannot remain at court.”

Pheresa stared at her. “Why not?”

But her mother's hard, brilliant eyes were frowning intently at her attire. “Whose cloak is that?”

“The king's.”

“I suppose you think yourself clever in gaining his favor. Or have you?”

Pheresa's feeling of satisfaction deepened. It was gratifying to render her mother uncertain. But she knew she could not deceive the princess for long. Dianthelle kept superb spies at court, and she had little patience for games. Still, Pheresa could not resist toying with her. “I have the king's cloak,” she replied.

“But not his favor. No. In that, at least, nothing is as yet settled.”

The relief in her mother's voice made Pheresa frown. She wondered what her mother was up to. “I am surprised you bother with me today, Mama. You hadn't ever bothered to reply to my letters.”

“Why should I?”

Hurt, Pheresa struggled to keep her voice even. “Because I am your only daughter. Because I have been in grave danger. Because I thought you might be glad I survived it.”

“Do you wish congratulations?” the princess asked coldly. “You wrote me to say you were well again. That, I'd already heard. You wrote to say you were returning to Savroix with the king. That, of course, was obvious. Duty required you to do so. But now your duty is over. And you should depart as quickly as you can.”

“Why?” Pheresa asked in puzzlement. “The king has bidden me to stay.”

“Only because you have given him that calf-eyed look of appeal you do so well. Really, Pheresa, by now you should have more sense. Lingering at court will avail you nothing.”

Pheresa's fists clenched harder. “I shall do as the king commands.”

“And what is his pleasure?” the princess asked sharply. “What do you expect?”

Pheresa met her mother's brilliant eyes. They were eagle-keen, hostile, and entirely without sympathy. All her life, Pheresa had somehow come up short of her mother's expectations. She was never beautiful enough. She was never clever enough. She was never as popular or as skilled at intrigue as her mother wanted her to be. But now, Pheresa hoped to change her mother's opinion of her. Evasion was pointless. Dianthelle might as well know exactly what was at stake.

“Well?” the princess demanded.

“I expect the throne,” Pheresa replied.

Her mother's eyes widened, and for a moment Pheresa had the pleasure of seeing her taken aback.

“What has Verence said?” Dianthelle asked sharply. “What has he promised? Has he named you his heir? When? I know you did not speak to him last night. Was it in the crypt? Who witnessed it?”

Pheresa tried to stem the barrage of questions. “Please. I did not say I'd been chosen. I said that's what I expect.”

The tension in the princess's face dissipated. She slumped back against her seat as the carriage rolled forward at last. “You are a paltry creature, to trifle with me in this way.”

“I do not trifle with you, Mama,” Pheresa said. “I want to be named Heir to the Realm. Who else is better suited than I?”

“Any number of people.” The princess uttered a sharp laugh. “How could I have brought such a fool into the world?”

“Thank you, Mama, for your support and encouragement,” Pheresa said stiffly. “I am always so gratified to receive your good wishes.”

Dianthelle slapped her. “Enough of your impertinence! How dare you speak to me in that mocking way?”

Pheresa's cheek stung fiercely, but she fought back tears of pain. Her anger was a tide of heat that made her want to lash
out, to strike back, to jump out of the carriage and never see her mother again.

Curbing her fury with a will of iron, she glared at her mother, who glowered right back.

“You prattle of succession, but on what grounds?” Dianthelle asked. “What substantive promises have you from my brother?”

“None as yet—”

“You have none,” the princess broke in harshly, “nor will you get any. If Verence hasn't named you his successor by now, then he never will. You live in a world of dreams and wishes, like a child.”

“Why shouldn't I succeed him?” Pheresa demanded. “I am capable. I've been trained in—”

“Trained? Bah! What know you, except needlework and wounded looks? Despite all the advantages I've given you, you've accomplished nothing.”

“Nothing?” Pheresa echoed, incensed. “I was betrothed to Gavril. I would have been queen!”

“The past is past. Gavril cannot make you queen now. And Verence will not.”

Pheresa smoothed her hand across the cloak she wore. “His majesty is fond of me.”

“What has that to do with anything? Do you think you will charm him? Successors are not chosen that way.”

“I have been in his majesty's company these many weeks and he—”

“Yes,
many
weeks, and you have achieved nothing. Nor will you. In truth, girl, you lack the spine for the job. You would lose your throne in a month, were you given it. Verence is not such a fool. He knows he must have someone strong and popular, someone ruthless, someone with brains and wit enough to hold Mandria safe from its enemies.”

“You have never believed in me,” Pheresa said, frowning, feeling the old hurt she'd lived with all her life. “But I can do much more than you think. And although he has not yet chosen me, neither has he chosen anyone else.”

“He will soon. He must! The people demand it.”

“I am very popular with the people just now.”

Some of the color drained from her mother's cheeks, and again Pheresa felt a small sense of satisfaction.

But almost at once, a look of calculation entered Dianthelle's eyes. “You have two courses open to you. Either you must be married, or you must be cloistered. The people would be happy if you were at Batoine.”

“No!”

“Put your stubbornness aside and
think
! At this moment, the people still see you as Gavril's bride. They will like you less if you marry another. Seclude yourself and keep your popularity.”

“What good is popularity if I do not partake of its benefits?” Pheresa replied. “Why should I shut myself away? I want to
live
now. I want—”

“No one cares very much what you want, Pheresa. It is better that you be put aside.”

“Better for whom?” Pheresa asked suspiciously. “What rival of mine do you sponsor? And why can't you support me?”

“You have it in your head that I am your enemy, Pheresa, but I am not. You have no chance of getting the throne. It's time you stepped aside for a better candidate.”

“You want the throne for yourself,” Pheresa said suddenly.

Dianthelle lifted her chin regally, while a small, sleek smile played across her lips. She stared at Pheresa with all the arrogance and self-assurance she possessed, this beautiful, vibrant woman who was as bold as Pheresa was quiet. “I am the princess royal,” Dianthelle said proudly. “To rule after my brother is my right.”

“It is against law,” Pheresa said.

A frown marred the princess's perfect brow. “ 'Tis a stupid law! One that violates all common sense. I am the daughter of a king. Had I been firstborn, I would have inherited my father's throne. Why, then, should I not inherit my brother's?”

“It is against law.”

“Oh, the law, the stupid law,” the princess said impatiently. “You sit there, bound to it, as though it is holy.”

“If we do not keep the law, we fall into chaos,” Pheresa replied. “We might as well become barbarians.”

“When a law is stupid, it should be set aside. The king can do that, if he but will. I am closest to Verence in blood. I am as strong-willed as he. Nay, stronger, for I lack his sentimentality. I can hold Mandria safe and put an end to this rebellion nonsense in the uplands.”

For a moment Pheresa's old sense of inadequacy returned. She'd never been able to surpass her mother in anything. What chance did she stand now, if Dianthelle was to be her competitor?

But then her determination came back. Law, custom, and tradition were all against her mother, who had no right even to make a claim for the successorship. Dianthelle's advice, criticism, and contempt were simply weapons intended to knock Pheresa aside, to make her doubt herself. Sadness touched Pheresa's heart over the fact that she had no mother to love her, but at the same time she felt fierce and strong. She was not what her mother said about her. She valued integrity, duty, and honor, things her mother was inclined to sweep aside. Caprice and impulse were poor traits for a monarch, Pheresa believed, no matter what Dianthelle said.

Meeting her mother's gaze, Pheresa said softly, “The law is against your claim, Mama. You are too ruthless and strong, too intelligent to act so foolishly.”

“Don't call
me
a fool, you—”

“I have intelligence that you've never given me credit for. And I—”

“You brought about Gavril's death, you little baggage! Thanks to you, we have no prince. Once that's circulated enough by the gossips, how long do you think your popularity will stand?”

Pheresa didn't flinch. “You forget something, Mama. Gavril didn't make me popular. He would have been a bad king, and most of the nobles know it, if not the whole realm.”

“The people do not care about your logic, Pheresa. They—”

“They know I have drunk from the Chalice.”

Dianthelle stared very hard at her daughter while her face
grew white and very pinched at the nostrils. She said nothing, and for the princess such silence was rare indeed.

The carriage stopped, and Pheresa glanced out at the main palace courtyard with relief. Now she could retreat to her apartments and lock herself in. She desperately needed to think. If she was to gain allies, she must devise a strategy and act quickly.

A servant came hurrying through the gloom and rain to open the door for them. Gathering the heavy folds of the king's cloak about her, Pheresa started to leave the carriage. Protocol dictated that she should let her mother alight first, but she was in no mood for courtesy.

The princess leaned forward and gripped her arm. “I make a poor enemy, Pheresa,” she said in a low, harsh voice. “You cannot vanquish me with mere airs and boasts.”

But Pheresa could tell that she was afraid of what Pheresa had said. Dianthelle was afraid of someone who'd both seen and touched the Chalice. They all were, whether they admitted it or not. Pheresa knew that was why the church wanted her cloistered. To keep her isolated lest she somehow produce powers no one could withstand.

There was no victory in being feared. Pheresa felt no satisfaction. “I do not want to be your enemy, Mama. I want your support. You could do much to advance my cause, if you would.”