From there they moved on to batons, clubs, and quarterstaves. Wildemar took them through the forests where they found and prepared their own quarterstaves from the trees – oak, blackthorn or hawthorn being preferable to softer woods like pine or fir. In Castath, the quarterstaves were normally harvested by coppicing – cutting a tree low to its base, resulting in straight or slightly curved shoots. But this resource was denied the apprentices, and the subsequent hunt for straight branches did much to develop their eyes.
Wildemar showed them how to heat-bend wood directly over a fire. By wedging one end of the heated staff in a forked tree and leaning against the other, they were able to straighten even a very crooked branch.
Spears were next, but when it came to bows, it was time for the specialists. Everyone knew how to find a hopeful-looking branch and string it, but as Dun had stressed, in some terrains a man could wait a week for a long shot at a buck, and a poor bow could mean his own starvation.
“It’s time for you to see a true bowyer at work –”
Peashot raised his hand. “A what?”
“A bowyer is a bow-maker. For the first time, I have managed to convince Torval, the most sought-after bowyer in Castath – perhaps in all of Thirna – to give you a demonstration. It will be … difficult for him.” He sounded hesitant, like someone struggling with delicate information. Aedan wondered what Dun was not telling them.
“I will not be there,” Dun resumed, “Master Wildemar will take you – so I’m warning you now. Don’t give Torval cause to grieve his decision.”
–––
Streets were still dark and empty but for a few carts – farmers trundling goods in to market, store-owners setting up for the morning’s business and travellers stealing a march on the day. Wildemar, with the apprentices surging behind him, crossed the city to a large workshop alongside the main timber yard. The workshop was airy and quiet. Dozens of workbenches cluttered with tools awaited the bowyers who were just beginning to drift in and take their places. Peashot kept to the front, eager eyes consuming every detail.
The smells of sap, resin and wood shavings were alluring; some of the sweet woods like maple were almost appetising. For Aedan it brought back memories of forts and tree houses, and of one unforgettable autumn when everyone at Badgerfields got involved building the new hay barn in the west field. With a sigh he drew himself back into the present.
Wildemar led them to a work bench at the end of the building, where a man was seated, waiting. This would have to be the legendary Torval. He was an elderly man who Aedan decided was unmarried, for no wife would have allowed him out in such mismatched, tatty clothes. He had a narrow rim of grey hair, a heavy bulging brow, huge gorilla arms, and a surprisingly meek expression. Aedan was at first surprised, then shocked. Archery’s great Torval actually looked afraid. The boys recognised his kind immediately – the kind that would be eaten alive if put in charge of a classroom – and their confidence surged forward to dominate the space vacated by his. Fortunately, Wildemar remained with the group.
Cayde asked in his biggest voice if Torval had been a military archer. Torval’s eyes dropped and he shook his head. Wildemar stuttered and mumbled and wasn’t sure where to look. The response left everyone puzzled.
After a lengthy and awkward silence, in which Wildemar waited for Torval to assume command and Torval quietly studied a spot between his mismatched shoes, Wildemar coughed and proceeded to rush through an unprepared introduction. He presented the two most commonly used bows in Castath – longbows that were plain, tall and sturdy; and flatbows with powerful broad limbs that were thinned along the belly. He then fetched something from a rack that did not look like a bow at all. The short limbs were curled in on each other like the legs of a dead spider.
“This is one our bowyers have been experimenting with,” he explained. “Lekrau was the first nation to start it. A small composite of different woods. See the belly? Strips of deer horn, stronger in compression. On the back – sinew, stronger in tension.”
He surprised everyone when he strung it – a tricky business that required half sitting on the bow – by bending the limbs what looked to be the wrong way, against the original arc. The result was a tight little bow that vaguely resembled some of the recurved flatbows, though the curves were far deeper.
“Impressive power, these little weapons, but they tend to break easily, too easily. Crack, snap, gone. Don’t think we have the glue right yet. Helped us improve our other bows though.” He pulled down a strongly arched wooden bow from a long rack. “Sinew-backed,” he said, pointing to the semi-transparent layer. “Increases draw weight and makes the recoil faster, much faster. Improves the lifespan too. Someone want to try it?”
Peashot sprang from the group before the question was out. The length and weight of draw were too much for him, but he succeeded in plugging an arrow very near the centre of the target.
Torval’s face lit up with surprise and pleasure.
“Screaming fine shot!” said Wildemar. “Didn’t expect someone your size to manage it. Here, try the composite. Might suit you better.”
Peashot’s eyes were glowing as he took the little bow. He sighted before drawing, pulled the string and pushed forward into the handle.
Crack!
The bow split and the arrow spun away and clattered to ground.
“Oh,” said Wildemar. “Uh, sorry Torval. Very sorry.”
Torval retrieved the bow gently from Peashot, holding it as someone might cradle a child. Some of the boys laughed. Torval winced at the sound and turned away to hide his broken creation behind a rack of saws and files.
Wildemar was equally uncomfortable, looking like he wanted to dart off and hide at the end of a high branch until the embarrassment had worn off. Fingers worked and face twitched, but he managed to gather himself and began tossing out little pips of information on the bow-making process, beginning with wood selection.
Yew, elm and hickory he considered ideal, if they could be found, while other woods like maple, walnut and fruit trees like plum, apple or mulberry would also produce good bows. He showed them how to test any wood by bending a thin branch and watching whether it snapped back into place or returned with more of a ponderous lethargy. Torval sat without looking up, nodding occasionally.
Aedan was beginning to wonder what the legendary bowyer was going to contribute to the class when Wildemar’s store of information ran empty and he looked across at Torval and asked if he would demonstrate the full construction of a survival bow – a hunting flatbow if possible – from branch to weapon in a single day.
Torval mumbled something to Wildemar who relayed the message, a request for a volunteer. Peashot jumped forward. Torval, without explaining what he was doing, measured the reach of Peashot’s arm with a marked cord, doubled this and added a few inches.
Then he rose to his feet.
The boys went very quiet, and Aedan understood why the man could never have been in the military.
Torval kept his eyes down as he began to move away, struggling for each step. His legs were bent – not just a little bandy, but completely deformed, as if they had been strapped around a barrel through his childhood and forced to set in wide looping arches. As powerful and capable as his arms were, so misshapen and useless were his legs. He had to throw his weight from side to side, weaving forward in a tottering, stumping gait.
The initial silence was broken by something worse. Malik started it – a cold sniggering amusement that was taken up by his friends and boot-lickers. Wildemar called for silence, but he could not undo the insult that continued to ring in everyone’s ears. Though he had taken no part in it, Aedan still felt ashamed.
When the crippled bowyer made his tottering way back, he did not raise his head. Though he had the strength in his arms to thrash the lot of them with a few strokes of the young maple trunk he now carried, he sat down quietly and began to work.
The trunk was about four inches in diameter. He sawed it to the length h
e had just measured and split it down the middle. Choosing the side free of knots, he used a drawknife to strip off the bark and cambium along the back until it showed a single, undamaged growth ring, then he began to tiller the limbs.
The heavy-armed bowyer hunched over his work, lost – or perhaps taking shelter – in the rhythm of the drawknife. It fell to Wildemar to explain what was taking place.
“Usually,” he said, “Torval would dry the wood very slowly, tiller little bits off in stages, especially with longbows. Drying hardens wood. Tillering is thinning the limbs. Balancing them is important. Very important. Can take years. But what he’s demonstrating is a hasty bow for a survival situation. The bow will be weaker, might crack slightly from forced drying. Should still deliver a good shot though.”
After chipping out the rough shape of limbs and handle with a small axe, deliberately avoiding the back of the bow – the side facing the target – he placed the stave over a bed of coals and left it to dry.
Vayle raised his hand.
“Yes?” said Wildemar.
“How likely are we to be carrying axes, drawknives and all these other tools if we are in a survival situation?”
Wildemar looked at Torval. The boys looked at Torval. Torval looked at his shoes.
“Do – uh, do you – uh, think,” asked Wildemar, the high branch calling him again, “that you could possibly show them with – without using specialised tools? Maybe only a small hunting knife? And still finish in a day? Possibly?”
The bowyer did not raise his eyes. He lurched and stumped over to the coals, picked up the stave and placed it in a corner.
Then he left the room.
Wildemar twitched, eyes darting everywhere except at the boys’ inquiring faces.
Nobody knew what to do.
It had obviously been too bold a request. Peashot glared at Vayle.
Then Torval walked back into the room with a second bough swinging under his arm, this one about two inches thick. In his other hand was a small rock. Without a word, he took up a stick instead of his measuring cord, motioned for Peashot to step forward, repeated the measurements, and marked the bough.
His voice barely over a whisper, he turned to Wildemar. “Would you like me to use one of their knives?” he asked.
Before Wildemar had a chance to reply, Peashot slipped his knife out the sheath and handed it over.
From behind him, Aedan heard someone make a scathing comment – the monkey bow-maker about to embarrass himself. He felt a sudden pang. Why would Torval risk it? He could simply say it was not possible and nobody would think any less of him. But by subjecting himself to absurd challenges like this, he was inviting further ridicule. How was he going to make a flatbow in a single day without tools? There was a reason why little knives were not used to chop branches or split firewood.
By this time the workshop had filled with bowyers, and the general noise of sawing, chopping, and filing provided a blanket for murmured conversation. Wildemar noticed of course, but did not interfere.
Aedan listened to what was developing.
It was a bet.
Malik, never short of money, was offering three to one that the bow would not be completed by sunset, or that it would break.
Cayde was writing down names and amounts.
“Northboy?” Malik whispered. “Frightened to bet against me?”
Aedan glanced back at the quiet craftsman hunched over his work. He looked old, beaten-down, friendless. The way he studied the wood with such hopeful intensity, as if he had nothing in the world apart from his craft, tugged at Aedan. He suddenly wanted the quietly courageous man to succeed in front of these sneering boys, wanted it dreadfully.
“Thought so, beggar-boy,” said Malik, misreading the silence.
Aedan swung back at him. “Ten coppers says he does it.”
Malik’s eyes narrowed. “You actually have ten huddies?”
“You have two chims and six?”
A smirk stole over Malik’s cold face.
Cayde filled in the bet.
Aedan had never owned ten copper huddies in his life. At this point he had only one – maybe, somewhere, possibly under his bed or behind his desk. If he lost the wager, it would mean asking Osric for help, and that would not go well. Osric’s opinions on gambling were nothing short of volcanic. If Osric refused to help … Aedan’s surge of boldness began to melt into a sticky worry.
What had he done? If the bow failed, there would be a noose around his neck, and he had just given Malik the rope. But he could not back out now.
He turned to watch the bowyer with an interest that quickly became feverish.
“What was that about?” Hadley asked.
“I bet … a few coppers?”
“That he would fail?”
“That he would succeed?”
“What! How much?”
Aedan hesitated. “Ten.”
“You bet ten huddies that he would finish! Are you mad? He was slow with tools. How is he even going to cut through the wood to begin with? It will take him two weeks to whittle out the basic shape.” Hadley raised and dropped his hands while staring at Aedan and shaking his head.
Aedan writhed. He had no reply. They both turned to watch the bowyer, who, as yet, had not made any progress.
Torval’s brows were pinched together, an expression of bear-like simplicity, as he peered from the knife to the bough and back again.
Aedan groaned, wishing again that he had not been such a fool.
After what seemed an age of short-sighted squinting, Torval reached for the knife, held it in one hand, and picked up a rock in the other. Using the knife edge as a broad chisel, he tapped on the back with the rock, cutting an angled incision into the wood all the way round as a beaver works through a tree trunk. It was slower than a saw but quicker than Aedan had expected. It allowed him the slightest tingle of desperate hope.
Wildemar, having calmed his nervous fidgets again, explained that this wood was mulberry, not as hard as maple but very supple, and a lot easier to work with – an important consideration given the lack of tools.
When the section was cut, Torval knocked the blade into the end of the beam. By hammering the back of the projecting tip and pulling on the handle, he managed to work his way down, prying the sections of wood apart until he reached the area marked as the handle. He then chiselled the long flap of wood off and repeated the procedure on the other side. The rough layout of the bow was clear now.
Then he did something Aedan would not have thought of. After sharpening the knife on the stone, he knocked the tip into a short sturdy branch, and used the resulting tool as a kind of rough drawknife. With the handle in one hand and the attached branch in the other, he was able to pull the blade along the length of the wood, slicing off long shavings that fluttered to the ground.
This was clearly something that had not been seen before in the workshop because a few of the other bowyers left their benches and drifted over to witness the unusual operation. One of them tapped Hadley on the shoulder, wanting to know why Torval was not using tools. Hadley explained, and more than one of the men nodded his surprise and approval at the old man’s creativity. Once happy with the shape, Torval set the bow over the coals to dry.
“Do you want me to make the string too?” he asked Wildemar, in a quiet voice.
Aedan held his breath. He had forgotten about this part.
Before Wildemar could answer, Malik spoke up in his aloof tones, now oiled with false courtesy. “Master Wildemar, we would really appreciate being shown the whole process.”
The request had nothing to do with understanding the process. All the boys knew it. In the rush of whispered complaints from those who had bet against Malik, the bowyer lurched away and returned with an enormous thorny leaf. Aedan had seen these leaves on a type of large succulent plant growing in the area.
Torval used his rock to bash the heavy leaf into wet fleshy fibres which he then separated and hung up to dry beside the sta
ve, just as lunch was served.
Seeing how quickly the hours had slipped away caused Aedan’s stomach to knot. He could only swallow only a few bites of flatbread dipped in his potato-and-leek soup. His appetite wasn’t improved by the slight pang he felt whenever he glanced at the far corner where Torval, separate from the groups of younger craftsmen, was hunkered down over his meal alone.
The wooden bowls were gathered up, and everyone hurried back to their places.
After turning the bow that was suspended over the coals and leaving it to bake a while longer, Torval collected the now-dry leaf fibres and separated them into strands, hanging them over the bench in front of him.
Beginning with three strands, he knotted them together at the ends, then started the tedious process of reverse-twisting, in which one strand is twisted and then looped over the other two in the reversed direction. His fingers moved slowly at first, but then they sped up until he had done almost two feet. One of the strands was growing short. He took another from the bench, twisted it into the first and continued as before, adding to the strands one at a time as needed. Within an hour, the string was complete – a tight pale-green weave that looked surprisingly neat and strong.
He coiled and placed it on the table, then collected the stave. It had lost much of its weight while drying, Wildemar explained, and would be a lot harder.
Torval sharpened the knife again and began to tiller the limbs from the belly-side, carefully weakening them until he was able to bend the bow over his knee. The limbs were broad, too broad for a handle, so he trimmed the centre section until it was a comfortable fit for a small hand, then chiselled out a rough arrow shelf.
The apprentices were drawing into two groups – one excited and daring to hope, the other still cynical yet not as confident anymore as they saw the bow materialize under the edge of the little knife. This time, when the bowyer pushed himself onto his bent legs and hobbled to the fire, there were no whispers of mocking laughter.
He held one of the limbs above the flames as if slow-roasting it. The boys had seen this when straightening quarterstaves. Torval kept touching the wood, and when it was too hot for his finger to remain on the surface, he slipped the end of the stave into a gap between bricks and bent it, holding it in place until it cooled. He looked down the length, heated and bent it again, and examined it with a grunt of satisfaction.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 33
