by Scott Moore
He jumped the rest of the distance, grabbing the sword from the planks of the inn floor. It was heavier than he remembered. Or maybe that was the weight of his arms. Malik pulled the sword up in front of his chest. He had no idea how to hold it.
“Bring me the sword,” Mollie yelled to Malik.
Malik should have done just that. He should have given the sword to Mollie, stepping back to watch the show. That was what he should have done. What he did instead, was charge full long through the gathered crowd toward the door.
Top stepped forward when Malik arrived. With only one good arm Malik thought he had this fight won. He swung the sword over his head, before he could even bring it down in an arch Top kicked him in the belly. Malik spun, dropping the sword to the ground. Malik felt Top’s good hand grab a handful of his hair drawing him in close. Was Top going to kill him over a coin purse? Malik supposed that is what a mercenary did for a living.
“Pathetic,” Top laughed.
The others joined him in the humor. Malik supposed it had been pathetic. He wasn’t a natural with the sword. He may never even get the chance to become a natural at anything again.
“Put the boy down,” Abrie stood up from his stool. He must have noticed Malik no longer sat behind him.
Abrie had carried in his old lyre case with him. Malik knew inside the case was no instrument of music. In that case was an instrument of death. Malik tried not to tense when Top pulled his hair harder.
“These two will pay, don’t be a hero, citizen.”
Abrie motioned for the crowd to split by waving his hands. The inn crowd didn’t put up any resistance. Most of these people wouldn’t want a fight. Most were mere farmers or craft makers.
“I will only ask twice,” Abrie said.
Top pulled his dagger up to Malik’s throat. Malik could feel the sharp edge of it digging into his flesh. It would take nothing more than a quick jerk for Malik to be dead. Malik kept his mouth shut.
“What will you do then, old man?”
Malik could not see his face, but he imagined that Top enjoyed this. He enjoyed getting a smidge of revenge on Malik for his words yesterday.
“I will only ask twice,” Abrie repeated.
Malik felt Top’s chin brush over his hair as he turned toward his companions. “You hear that boys, the old man will only ask twice,” Top started but never finished.
The next thing out of his mouth was a yell of excruciating pain. Malik fell to the floor. He scrambled to turn himself toward the mercenaries. When he did, so he saw what had happened to Top. Protruding out of Top’s shoulder was a long, wooden arrow. Malik had seen arrows like that the day Abrie had saved Mollie.
“I will ask you only once to leave the inn.”
The scene had shocked the inn crowd to silence. They all pushed back from the center of the floor toward the corners of the room.
“You will regret that, old man,” said Blades.
Blades only made it one step before Abrie put an arrow into his thigh. Blades screamed, falling to the ground. The other two mercenaries, Malik had underestimated. They were much smarter than he given them credit for. They watched Blades hit the floor before they were out the inn door, running down the pathway back toward the Green Markets.
Abrie turned back toward the bar. He did not brag, beat his chest, or share in any other form of bravado. He placed the bow back into the lyre case, closing it, before snapping the latches.
“I will pay the extra to clean the blood off the floor. Take it from our earnings this morning. We will get out of your hair. I wish to apologize for any hardship we may have caused you.” Abrie fished out some coin from his pocket, placing it onto the bar. “This extra bit is for your serving staff, a great bunch of folks.”
Malik turned from Abrie toward Mollie who pushed her way through the crowd. When she reached him, he expected a hug, maybe even something more. She should have been happy he lived. Instead, she slapped him upside the head.
“You are an idiot. Were you trying to get yourself killed?” She took her sword from the ground.
Malik’s face was hot, but he wasn’t so sure that was from the slap. He had made a fool of himself in front of all these people. What had he been thinking? What was he trying to prove? So, what, Mollie was better at the lyre than he was at the sword that wouldn’t matter if they all died.
“Don’t touch my sword again. This thing will do more damage to you than it will good.” Mollie strapped the sword back over her back.
Malik marveled at how she made carrying that bulky thing so effortless.
“Let us get back onto the road,” Abrie said. He ushered them out of the doors, back out onto the street. “Best to keep moving, we can get to a clearing and set up camp.”
Malik looked to the sun. “It is barely past noon. We are already stopping for the night?”
Abrie continued walking toward the outskirts of town. Malik jogged to catch up to him.
“We will start your training. That was a pitiful display. You could not have made yourself look much worse.”
Mollie nodded in agreement. “Lucky you still have all of your fingers.” She wiggled her own fingers.
Malik turned away. He knew it was bad. He knew he had messed up, but they could lay off him a bit. It had been his first time holding a sword. He thought about defending himself but then left it alone.
Abrie walked them about two miles outside the village before stopping. “Malik, tend to the mules.”
Malik looked over his shoulder at the two beasts of burden. Callie brayed her thoughts on the situation. Before Malik could emit his normal protesting to taking care of the animals, Abrie moved off to a small clearing with Mollie.
Malik watched Abrie pull a stick from off the ground. He instructed Mollie to do the same. Malik couldn’t hear what he said, but he imagined it was something about the techniques of the sword. So much for Abrie not knowing how to wield a sword.
What else did Abrie hide? Did he also speak to the Saints above? Was he a prince?
Callie brayed again. “I hear you, stupid.”
Malik tried to unload the mules as fast as he could. He stacked the packs up against a small rock outcropping without care. He then grabbed his own stick off the ground, making a dash toward the makeshift training circle.
“Keep your inside leg in,” Abrie told Mollie. “You swing with power on every stroke. You must learn to conserve some of that energy. Otherwise you will wear yourself out before you have the chance to do any real damage to your opponent.”
Malik cleared his throat. Neither turned toward him. Malik cleared his throat a second time, this time much louder. Abrie paused this time. Mollie let her pretend sword drop to her side. Malik noted the heavy sweat covering Mollie.
“We will get to you,” Abrie said to him.
“Why can’t I just join the two of you now?”
Malik readied to jump into the thick of things. He wanted to learn all that he could learn. Maybe he could still be a quick learner. He may not be a natural but learning quick was just as good.
Abrie shook his head. “This is the advanced techniques. You will first need to learn how to wield a sword. Why don’t you practice first by getting comfortable holding your sword?”
Malik looked down at his pitiful stick. Abrie relegated him to the children’s table.
“This is a stick. How do I pretend to hold a sword?”
Abrie came a few steps closer to him. He held out his hands grabbing Malik’s shoulders. “Lift your arms.”
Malik lifted his arms.
“Now you bring your hands together like this.” Abrie shifted Malik’s wrist to hold the stick hand over hand. “Now you stay like this until your arms cannot continue.”
With that, he moved back over to where Mollie stood with a smirk on her face. Malik looked down at his hands. This was what sword training would be about? He would have to sit here holding out his hands like a beggar with a stick. He thought about throwing it down and walking away.
Then he looked up, seeing Mollie duck two quick attacks from Abrie, before making a lunge of her own. Abrie sidestepped, pushing Mollie forward onto her face.
Malik laughed, feeling better.
“Keep your mouth shut and your focus on the sword,” Abrie called to Malik.
The mirth died right there on his lips. Mollie rolled over dusting the dirt from her mouth. He assumed she would look angry or upset but she looked neither. Her demeanor was one of awe. Malik angered at having to hold a stick. Mollie fell head over heels after eating dirt.
“I could have done that move, that is all I am saying.” Malik pretended to whisper. He knew Mollie would hear it.
She twirled on him. It was obvious then that she did not share that same awe with him.
“I could snap you like a stick,” she said to him.
“You mad because you tripped?” Malik spat back at her.
“Are you mad because you aren’t even allowed to swing yours?” Mollie retorted.
Malik riled at being relegated to statue duty. He had watched earlier how Abrie touted over Mollie’s lyre abilities. Here though, he was disinterested in Malik. There wasn’t any testing his abilities. This was an attempt to throw him off the scent. Abrie always did this. Even now, when Malik was so close to attaining what he had always wanted; he had to share it with Mollie. He shared it with a girl who Abrie didn’t even know.
Malik mimicked the stance he watched Abrie perform when he knocked Mollie down to the ground. She let out a genuine laugh.
“I was jesting,” she said, turning away. “I would never hurt a child.”
Malik thought about attacking her from behind. He could just smack her one good time with the stick. Would that make him feel better? Maybe he would be taken serious then?
“Put the stick down, Malik.”
Abrie stepped forward to protect Mollie’s back. Had it been that obvious what Malik thought?
“Get a drink, Mollie.” Abrie dropped his own stick. “Malik follow me.”
They left Mollie behind at the fire. Abrie picked up his lyre case carrying it with him out into the small field of weeds nearby. Abrie watched over the swaying tendrils for a moment. Then without saying a word he opened the lyre case, pulling out his bow.
He reached down picking up an arrow that was much smaller than the one he had shot the demon and Top with.
“Training arrow,” he said, holding it out to the side for Malik to see.
Abrie moved so fast that Malik couldn’t follow. The arrow embedded into a small tree about thirty yards away.
“You do not have the temperament for a sword. Swordsmen need to know when to stay calm. They need to harness their emotions. You fail time and time again to do this. I have always told you to watch your emotions before they get the better of you.” Abrie turned toward Malik. “Today you about lost a friend, tomorrow you will lose your life, if not tomorrow the next day. What I mean is that emotions have a way of killing us from the inside or outside. Let them grip you and they will ride you like a horse and cart.”
Abrie bent, picking up another arrow. Malik wondered how many arrows he had. He tried peering closer into the lyre case but Abrie pushed it shut with the heel of his boot.
“You need to work on your focus. Maybe someday you will hold a sword. That day is not today. Today you will learn to breathe. You will learn patience. You will learn what it means to know before you let go.” Abrie held out the bow and a single arrow.
Malik wasn’t sure what Abrie wanted him to do. He could not shoot a bow any more than he could hold a sword.
“What is the point?” Malik asked.
Abrie continued holding the bow and arrow out. “To learn.”
Malik stepped forward, taking the bow and arrow. If he had thought a sword felt odd in his grip, then this was from a different world. The curve of the wood, the strength of the string, and the weight of the arrow all threw him off.
“I won’t be able to do this.”
“Of course not, at least not at first. You will miss a hundred times. Then you will nick the tree. Then you will miss again. With practice in a month maybe you can hit the tree. In six months, you may even hit the spot you’re aiming at. In several years, maybe you can call yourself a novice bowman. In a decade, maybe you are a competent shot. After a lifetime, maybe you can even call yourself good. Today, you will be horrible. That is not the point.”
Malik examined everything again. It wasn’t the glory of a sword, but Malik had seen what Abrie could do with a single arrow. If he could put a few into the bodies of a Tempre Warrior, then he would die happy.
“What do I have to do first?” Malik asked, throwing in, “please tell me I don’t just have to stand here holding it.”
Abrie didn’t laugh at his joke. He grabbed Malik by the shoulders, placing him in front of the tree.
“Focus on where you want the arrow to go. Seeing the flight path of the arrow is a key component to getting it where you want it to be. You can’t just strap the arrow onto the string, pull back, and hope it goes where you need it to go.” Abrie pushed Malik’s feet apart, standing him sideways, still looking at the tree.
“Visualize, feel, and know the destination. Look at the weeds beside us.” Abrie pointed.
Malik looked over, seeing the weeds. Nothing about them looked special. They were the same weeds in any other field along the flat plains.
“What am I looking for?” Malik asked.
Malik hoped this was not another type of boring lesson. Was this the bow’s equivalent to holding it steady before him?
“What are the weeds doing?”
Malik looked at them again. They weren’t doing anything. Weeds weren’t thinking objects, they didn’t do.
“I don’t know, what do you see them doing?”
Abrie didn’t get rankled. He stayed calm; Malik knew he would.
“They sway, do you see them swaying?”
“The wind is pushing them.”
He had a hard time understanding what the weeds had to do with shooting a bow, but he played along.
“That is right.”
Malik shrugged. He wasn’t sure that had been praise but he took it.
“What will the same wind do to an arrow then?”
“It will push it,” Malik said, realizing what Abrie tried to get him to understand. “I have to watch the wind when I shoot.”
Abrie smiled a half smile. “Yes, monitor the wind. You need to know how strong, how often, and from where. If you can understand those three things, you can understand how they will affect your shooting.”
Malik could see that. It seemed a bit of a commonsense rule. Don’t shoot into a tornado the arrow may miss its target.
“Is that all there is to shooting a bow then?” he asked. “I just need to know the wind?”
Abrie kicked his right foot further back. “Sturdy base.”
Malik dug his heels into the dirt.
“You will use your left hand to hold the bow into place.” He lifted Malik’s hand. “Let go with your right for now.”
Malik dropped his hand down to his side. Stretching out before him he realized how big the bow was.
“Now, with your right hand grab the string with these three fingers.” Abrie held up his ring, middle, and index fingers to show Malik. “The ring and the middle finger will stabilize the arrow. The index will help you steadily draw back the string.”
Malik put the arrow to the string. Abrie fixed his shoulders, wrists, and forearms into the right spots. Malik could feel the tension in the muscles.
“Pull to your cheek using the three fingers. Then focus on your target. Before you draw know everything you need to know. Wind, distance, and target.”
Abrie shifted his shoulders one last time. “Shoot.”
Malik pulled the arrow back. The string put up more resistance than he had expected. He could feel his back and shoulder muscles tensing with the strain.
“Keep your arms steady, pull back
all the way.”
Malik pulled back further, feeling like he would loose the string with nothing happening.
“Good, hold that, aim, and shoot.”
Malik aimed at the spot near Abrie’s first arrow. Abrie had told him he would never hit the target on the first try. He readied him for a miss on the first one hundred tries. Malik knew he would be horrible. What he wasn’t ready for was the string to pop slapping him in the upper shoulder, opening a laceration that stung like a hundred hornet stings.
“Ahh!” Malik hopped around the clearing expressing far more colorful language.
“Well, I should have thought about that. The string is ten years old. It may be time for a new one.” Abrie calmed Malik. “It is a good welt and cut but we can clean it up.”
Malik cared little about what the injury looked like. To him it felt like his shoulder had been taken clean off his body. He tried holding back the tears by squeezing his eyes shut.
“I bought some cleaner from the innkeeper,” Abrie said. “I think now is as good a time as any to bring it out.”
Malik felt that may be for the best. He stumbled back to the campgrounds.
Behind him, he heard Abrie talking to himself about stopping in the nearby town of Minnow’s Creek to grab some new string and materials for Malik to make his own bow.
Chapter 9
Sharp Points
Malik’s arm smarted so much that he doubted he would ever try to hold another bow in his life. Abrie encouraged him to let it settle and then to try again. Malik wanted to kill the Tempre Warriors. He supposed that a small welt would be the least of his injuries if he followed along the pathway to that dream.
Upon seeing the welt and his ripped shirt, Mollie acted concerned. Malik figured she mocked him for his pitiful attempt at the bow. He could not swing a sword and the bow did more damage to him than his target. Mollie was right to laugh, but that did not mean he was happy about the situation.
He chose not to talk to her while they traveled. He was the reason she was there. He was the one who had suggested she stay with them. Then she repaid him by being a pain.
The tavern of Minnow’s Creek had been two days travel from the Green Markets. During that time, Abrie worked with Mollie on her stance, her swing, and her ability to last longer in a fight.
