Free The Nethergrim by Matthew Jobin

height, or perhaps slightly taller. His bright hazel eyes seemed to flash golden in the sun. “Was it at a winter feast?”
    Katherine stammered, and curtsied again at his side. “I was eleven, good squire.”
    “Yes, that’s right, we had your father up for that, and you came along.” Harry’s boots were fashioned of fine kid leather, and his clothes seemed made to mold to his frame. “We played a game of chase-about behind the hall with some other children. I seem to recall you played a little trick on me that day.”
    “I’d hoped you’d forgotten, good squire.” Katherine flushed bright red.
    “How could I forget? It took me days to get that gunk out of my hair!” Harry laughed—Edmund would have liked to pretend it was false and snobbish, but it was neither. “You were such a little imp back then. You’ve grown.”
    Katherine stared at the ground. “Everyone says that.”
    “I wonder if they mean it the way I do.”
    Katherine looked up at Harry. The mooning look on her face made Edmund sick.
    Harry seemed to notice Edmund only then. “Oh.” He arched one elegant brow. “And who is this? Your friend?”
    “Yes, good squire,” said Katherine. “This is Edmund Bale. My friend.”
    Edmund scrambled off the boulder and bowed. “Good squire.”
    “Ah, yes, from up in Moorvale, are you not? The innkeeper’s son.” Harry leaned down to smile over Edmund with his hands behind his back, acting for all the world like Edmund was a child who wanted a pat on the head. “Do you know, I was just telling our noble guests that we have the best archers in the kingdom right here in Elverain, and the best archers in Elverain hail from the village of Moorvale.”
    Edmund nodded. “The best, good squire, no question.”
    “And so, young Edmund,” said Harry, “when is your turn?”
    Edmund blinked. “Turn?”
    “In the archery tourney!” Harry tapped the longbow in Edmund’s hands.
    Edmund gaped—first at the bow, then at Harry. “Oh. I wasn’t—”
    “Come, come,” said Harry. “Let us have a sample of your deadly skill.”
    “My deadly—?” Edmund swallowed hard. “Yes, good squire.” He turned and shuffled out onto the field. He took his place in line, shooting looks across at Harry and Katherine whenever he could.
    “You must be proud of your father, Katherine.” Harry’s voice carried across the open field. “And we are all grateful for the work you do—John often says that the horses he sends us are as much your handiwork as his.” Katherine seemed to be turning pink at his side.
    Edmund stepped up to the mark and gauged the wind. He looked around him at the gathered crowd, and saw almost every one of the neighbors who stood next to him week after week at archery practice. He tried to remember all that they had shown him. The stance comes first. Plant your feet shoulder width apart and stand with equal weight on each leg. Your toes should line up to the bull’s-eye. Nock the arrow between your first two fingers, but don’t pinch it or you’ll throw off your aim. He sighted down to the target—maybe he could do this after all.
    “Miss! Miss, miss, miss!”
    Edmund glanced over to find Geoffrey and his stupid little friends lined up along the trees. They passed along the chant to children Edmund did not know, who took it up without knowing or caring why it was right and good that Edmund should miss the target.
    “I saw you earlier, when I was holding court down in the square.” Harry drew in at Katherine’s shoulder. “I’m glad I found you again.”
    If Katherine made a reply, it was too breathless for Edmund to hear. He gauged the distance—one good shot would draw a cheer, draw Katherine’s eye. One good shot.
    “Tonight we do honor to your father, so I think you should sit in a place of honor as well.” The nervous, hopeful tone of Harry’s voice made it grate all the worse in Edmund’s ear. “I will arrange for you to sit with the nobles, at the high