“Or knight-dreaming,” said Tal, laughing at his own joke. “He was so lost in thought we could have marched right in front of him, and I doubt he would have noticed.”
“It was Farix’s idea to gather the rest of us, and hide behind the pen where Sir Aidan sat upon the fence wasting the night away.”
“It is true,” Nock said, smiling. “Farix had noticed that the king’s largest dragon, Spryvern-”
“Not Spryvern the longtail! Why, he is the best-trained dragon in The Realm,” Sir Oswyn said.
“Do not spoil the tale, now, Os,” said Kaliam.
“So,” Mallik continued, almost whispering, “Spryvern was sleeping in the pen next to the one Sir Aidan was supposed to be cleaning. And as it happens, Farix is good friends with Spryvern’s trainer. So there sat Sir Aidan, lost in thought. Oblivious to us all. Sitting right above the pen he would soon wish he had cleaned!
“Now, Farix asked, ‘Have you seen the dragon’s new trick?’ None of us had, of course. Quickly, Farix made three short whistles. That dragon jumped to its feet, made three loud screeches, and cracked its long tail like a whip!”
“Sir Aidan was so startled, he fell right off the fence!” Mallik bellowed. “He landed, ha! He landed face-first in the dragon pen! The poor fellow was so covered in dragon scat you could hardly tell who he was!”
Lady Merewen put a hand to her lips and laughed. Tobias rocked and nearly fell over. Kaliam tried to remain stoic, but he too broke down. Sensitive to Aelic beside her, Antoinette did everything she could to hold in the hysterical laughs that were bubbling up inside her, but it didn’t work.
“You know,” Aelic said finally, “it is kind of funny. Just remember-”
“I know,” Antoinette interrupted. “It wasn’t you!” And with that a new round of merriment began.
The laughter, like the fire, eventually died down. Everyone engaged in conversation, everyone except Sir Rogan and Sir Gabriel.
Sir Rogan, an empty dish and a wooden spoon in his hands, leaned forward, gazing into the fire. His long blond hair draped over his face, but his eyes gleamed.
“One piece of gold for your thoughts, Sir Rogan!” bellowed Mallik.
Sir Rogan straightened slightly, his eyes narrowed and focused for a moment on Mallik. “Hrmff,” he grunted, and then he returned to staring at the fire.
Mallik smiled grimly. “Ah, I know what consumes your thoughts, axe-wielder. The burden of the fight to come mingles with the memory of battles past, does it not? We are brothers in that respect, for we all lost those dear to us in the fight at Mithegard.”
Sir Rogan looked up once more from the fire. His eyes were glassy, but his jaw was set, and there seemed an air about him-a mixture of steely determination and barely restrained wrath.
“Let it not gnaw at your mind, my friend,” said Mallik. “Vengeance, the thirst for blood, is the province of the enemy. But justice is of our King. We will seek peace, but be ever ready to deliver justice.”
Sir Rogan nodded, and it seemed to the others that a bond had just been forged between axe and hammer.
“I don’t think I’d want to be a Paragor Knight caught between those two,” Antoinette whispered to Aelic.
“Nor I,” Aelic replied. “Sir Mallik is unassailable when he swings that hammer of his, just as Sir Rogan with his broad-bladed axe. No, indeed, I would not like to face either upon the field of battle. Nor Sir Gabriel and his long knives-what say you to that, Sir Gabriel?”
Sir Gabriel did not answer. He sat on a wide log across the fire from Aelic and scrutinized the scroll he had spread on his lap. There were several scrolls lying unbound at his side.
Aelic looked at Antoinette and shrugged.
But Sir Gabriel’s inattention did not bypass Sir Oswyn, who had been inconspicuously watching Sir Gabriel for some time. “Gabriel,” he called out. But when Sir Gabriel did not respond, Sir Oswyn prodded him softly with a stick. “Gabriel!”
“What is it?”
“You have done nothing but devour those scrolls since we arrived in Torin’s Vale, when you ought to be devouring meat, bread, and cheese to keep your strength up!” Sir Oswyn said.
“He is right, Sir Gabriel,” Nock said, offering a huge crust of bread. “We will not likely have another occasion to stop and eat before Yewland.”
Sir Gabriel looked up disdainfully. “No, thank you, Master Bowman. I have fed from the wisdom of King Eliam, and that is enough.”
“Surely it is not the plan of King Eliam that you feed only your mind with his word, while starving the body, Sir Gabriel,” Sir Oswyn said.
Sir Gabriel frowned and returned to the scrolls before him, but before he could begin reading, Sir Oswyn once again poked him with a stick.
“Stop that!” Sir Gabriel said, becoming annoyed.
“Sir Gabriel,” Sir Oswyn said, “you have great wisdom in lore and diplomacy, but you will eat before we break camp even if I have to feed you myself.”
Sir Gabriel raised one eyebrow, took some food from Nock, and reluctantly began eating while continuing to read the scrolls.
Nock then turned his attention to Antoinette. “Would you like something more to eat?”
“No, thank you,” Antoinette said. She was quiet a moment, but then turned to the archer. “Sir Nock, I guess being from Yewland, you’ve always been pretty good with a bow?”
“Yes,” Nock answered. “My brother Bolt and I were always practicing to see who could shoot the fastest, or the farthest, or the smoothest. I do not recall a time when I did not have a bow nearby. Even as children we carved our bows were carved from blackwood.”
“Blackwood is the best wood?”
“Yes. In fact, my bow was carved from the root of a fallen blackwood. The wood is supple, resilient, and stronger than that of any other bough in The Realm,” he said while handing her his bow. “A Blackwood bow can launch an arrow a great distance and with immense force. Blackwood Arrows fly straighter, penetrate deeper, and do not break.”
Antoinette held the dark bow reverently. “I wish I knew how to shoot,” she said.
“I could show you,” said Aelic.
“Yes, you could, Sir Aelic,” replied Nock with a sly grin. “But then I would have to help Lady Antoinette unlearn all the poor habits you would teach her.”
Insulted, Aelic stood.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Aelic,” said Nock, motioning for Aelic to sit. “Forgive my choice of words. But if mastering a bow is what Lady Antoinette wishes, then she should be tutored by a master of the bow. I would not dare to presume such a stance, if she required a lesson on the sword.”
Aelic nodded. “I’m not that bad,” he grumbled. Nock slapped him on the back, and they laughed.
“Come, Lady Antoinette,” Nock said. “Allow me to reveal to you the art of bow and shaft!”
As they were leaving the camp, a sad melody reached their ears. Antoinette stopped to listen. The singer’s voice was rich and clear, and he strummed his lute as he sang. Sir Oswyn, Antoinette thought. It was in a language Antoinette did not understand, but there was emotion within the melody. Antoinette felt it wash over her and stood transfixed.
Sil Minabryn son’ealyth. Sil pennathar son’bru. Sil gurethyn mare annocet, m’reavow alas rue. Nadar gurethyn nal fleurithyn Sil ridinel sil pereniel, sil guld pur gorithyn. A, Torin, kae trennethet sila waye? Sil brun Wyrm ‘ycorason son’grae. A, Torin son ill Minabryn m’reave’ thei’, Endurie minabrie bru aelythei.
“It is part of the lay of Torin,” Nock said softly. “The melody is haunting, and to hear Os sing it in the old language… nearly breaks my heart.”
Antoinette found herself staring at the opening where Torin’s gate once stood. A cold tear rolled down her cheek. “What is a lay? Do you know what it means?” she asked. “Can you understand the old language? I… I’d really like to know what it means.”
“I do not speak the old language,” Nock said. “But a lay is a poem or a song. I can retell the lay, for I too was compe
lled to discover its meaning. It is a story about these ruins around us. Some call it a legend, for no one really knows who dwelt here or why they dwell here no longer. It tells of Torin, one of King Eliam’s oldest and most trusted servants, and of how he died at the hands of the Wyrm Lord.”
As Nock spoke the words of the lay, Antoinette found that she could no longer see the ruins. In its place stood a white castle manor surrounded by flowering trees and a myriad of living creatures. But the flittering birds and gathering squirrels hastened away suddenly, for something was coming.
The Realm was young and the mountains were new. The sea birds cried, mourning as they flew. Even birds on the wing could not escape, The choice of the firstborn, and the cost of innocent blood. Oh, Torin, why did you open that door? The Old Wyrm’s heart was black. Oh, Torin, the poisoned world weeps For you and waits for all things to be made new.
When Nock finished, Antoinette looked away. Her wet face glistened, and she hastily wiped her tears. “Was Torin very dear to King Eliam?” she asked.
“Yes,” Nock replied sadly. “But no scroll in Alleble records his tale.”
“The Wyrm Lord killed Torin?” Antoinette asked. “Is that the legend that Sir Gabriel spoke about?”
“Sir Gabriel dismisses Torin’s story as a myth because none of his scrolls contain it. He is one of the wisest in The Realm, but I say he has erred in this judgment. The story goes that when King Eliam went away on a journey, he told Torin not to open the door to anyone until he returned. But the Wyrm Lord in his guile was very persuasive. Torin opened the door, and the Wyrm Lord slew him. How else could The Schism occur? It was innocent blood, I say. When the Wyrm Lord spilled the noble blood of King Eliam’s servant, that is when The Realm divided, or so I believe. There, now, I have spoken too much of your time away. Enough! I promised you a lesson with the bow!”
22
THE EYE OF THE ARCHER
I s this right?” Antoinette asked. She had an arrow fitted to the string of Nock’s Blackwood bow.
“Almost,” Nock replied. He moved closer to Antoinette and made a few adjustments to her form. “You must keep your release hand, your right hand, flat and close to your cheek. Otherwise you will hook the bowstring and have a sluggish release. Also, raise your elbow so that it is level with the arrow’s shaft. Yes, that’s better! Think of your right arm and the arrow as one long shaft and line it up with the target… Um, we need a target, don’t we?”
Nock went about twenty feet away from where Antoinette was standing, looked around, then lifted an old tree stump and positioned it against a tree so that the tree’s rings would face them.
“That should work as a target,” he said as he walked back to her. “When you feel the shot is lined up, use the muscles in your back to draw your arm a little farther back. The string should feel like it slips from your grasp rather than like you let it go. Try.”
Antoinette looked down her arm and down the length of the arrow at the center ring on the target beyond. The bowstring was already taut and the bow felt ready to spring. She eased back her arm and released the string. The arrow left the bow so fast it seemed it was never there in the first place.
“Owww!” Antoinette exclaimed, and she shook her left arm. “I felt the bowstring through the armor!”
“A vambrace will keep your forearm from being cut,” Nock said. “But the bowstring on a Blackwood bow impacts with such force that the, uh… inexperienced will still feel its bite.”
“But where did the arrow go?” Antoinette asked.
“Ah, well… nowhere near the target, I am afraid,” Nock replied. “But try it again. This time, remember, your task is to aim and pull. The string decides when to release.”
Nock gave Antoinette another shaft. She fitted it to the string as before. And this time, she focused on lining up the shot without a single thought about releasing the arrow. Suddenly, she heard a sharp twang and a shaft was stuck deep in the target. The Blackwood bow felt warm in her hands.
“Well done, Lady Antoinette!” Nock clapped. “Well done, indeed!”
“But I didn’t hit the bull’s-eye!” she said.
“Did you expect to?” Nock’s arched brows arched even more and he grinned. “That is good! Archers must always expect to hit the target. Always. But one flaw hindered your success. You were thinking too much about protecting your arm from the burn of the string. I saw the bend in your elbow. You must have proper form. And you must focus on the target!”
Focus on the objective-that’s what Kaliam says too, Antoinette thought.
“Here, now, try it again. Allow the string to slip from your fingers in its own good time. And this time… use this arrow.” Nock handed Antoinette a black-shafted arrow with white fletchings, the exact opposite of the first shaft she had fired.
“Why this one?” she asked.
“That is an arrow made from blackwood,” said Nock, grinning. “I think you will enjoy the result!”
Antoinette held the shaft gently as if handling something volatile that might explode. Then she lifted it to the string and began to take aim.
“I hope we are not intruding!” came a voice from behind. Antoinette spun around. It was Tal, followed by Mallik, Kaliam, Lady Merewen, Aelic, and several others. Tal had a bow in his hand.
“Forgive me for interrupting your lesson, m’lady!” Tal bowed. “I overheard Nock’s offer to train you, and knowing his impressive skill, I presume you have become a fair shot already.”
Tal glanced around Antoinette at the target. “Yes, I see you already possess some luck.”
“Skill, not luck, I would say,” Lady Merewen said, and she grinned slyly at Antoinette.
“Yes, hmmm,” Tal replied, scratching at his beard. “Skill.”
“Tal, what do you want?” Nock asked, frowning on his way to retrieve the arrows. “As if I did not know.”
“I just wished a little sport before we must return to the business of Yewland,” he replied. “To be honest, my pride still smarts from losing to Lady Antoinette in the jousting arena. I thought she might be up for another challenge.”
“Tal, why do you not challenge me?” asked Nock, returning with the arrows. “She has fired but two shafts thus far.”
“Nay, Master Archer, I am no match for thee,” Tal said. And he bowed again. “I simply thought tha-”
“I accept the challenge!” Antoinette said, surprising them both. “What’s the contest?”
“Excellent, m’lady,” Tal said. “A simple contest of accuracy I think will be best. Given your, uh, lack of experience, it would not be fair to add speed to the equation. We shall each fire one arrow. The shaft closest to the center of the bull’s-eye shall be declared the winner. And, uh, to keep the competition fair, we will both use my bow.”
Tal snatched the Blackwood bow-but not the arrow-from Antoinette and handed it to Nock. Then he took his firing position, drew back his bowstring, and was still for a moment. The bow sang, the arrow whistled to the target, and stuck directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.
“Ha-ha!” Tal bellowed. His thick dark locks bounced. He reminded Antoinette of the guys in the reggae band that had come to her school the previous year. “Let us see if Master Nock’s tutelage has served you well!”
Tal strutted over to Antoinette and handed her his bow. Antoinette looked at the target, which suddenly looked very far away. She frowned at Nock.
Strangely, Nock winked and nodded. What? Antoinette wondered. Why are-and then she looked down at the Blackwood Arrow in her hand. She smiled.
Antoinette fit the Blackwood Arrow to the bowstring, with three fingers stretched the string back to her cheek, and took aim. The arrow was sleek, from its narrow razor point to its close-cropped fletchings. It looked like it was built for speed. She flexed the muscles in her upper back, slowly drawing her right elbow back. Any moment now, she thought as she stared at the bull’s-eye. Any moment n-”
ZING! The arrow was gone. It struck the target about an inch belo
w the bull’s-eye, but it struck with such force that the stump split. Tal’s arrow wobbled and then fell out of the target.
“Lady Antoinette wins!” Nock announced joyously.
Tal stood for a moment, eyes bulging and mouth hanging slack. Then he cried out, “She most certainly does not win! My arrow was in the bull’s-eye! It was by far the closest to center!”
“Was is the operative word, my competitive friend,” said Nock. “It would seem that your aim was not true, for the target spat out your arrow!”
“My arrow is the closest to center now!” Antoinette said sternly, all the while trying to hold back laughter. Aelic clapped.
“Those confounded Blackwood Arrows!” Tal ranted. “She had an unfair advantage-Nock, you have cheated me.”
“Advantage?” Lady Merewen objected. “You have been shooting your bow for most of your life, but Lady Antoinette had only fired three arrows! She won fair and square.”
Tal scowled. “Let us fire again,” he said. “But this ti-”
“Uh, pardon me!” Mallik interrupted. He stood next to the target. “I can see this competition has reached its due end. Allow me to settle this squabble!”
And then, Mallik hoisted his immense hammer high in the air and brought it crashing down on the target and the arrows. With a variety of sharp cracks, Mallik’s weapon crushed the stump to splinters.
“I daresay that settles all disputes,” Kaliam said, putting a hand on Antoinette’s shoulder. “I do not suppose we will be able to find either arrow. Pieces, perhaps, but nothing more.”
“Mallik, your hammer strike is fierce indeed,” Nock said. “I did not know that anything could shatter a Blackwood shaft! You realize, of course, you owe me a replacement-and they do not come cheaply.”
“My dear Nock,” said Mallik, “when we get to Yewland, I will buy you a whole quiver if you de-”
“Silence!” Kaliam suddenly hissed. “Be still! I heard something. Nock!”
“I heard it too,” he whispered. “It was dragon wings or I am a turnip.”
The Rise of the Wrym Lord tdw-2 Page 12
