Archer

by Jacky Gray

  Common sense prevailed in the end. No matter how good a friend Finn was, it would not be honourable or fair to either of them, if he deliberately conceded the pass. Archer had only one option – to do what his years of training had instilled. Play to win. With a silent prayer for strength and courage, he gave a light touch to Apollo’s flank and held his breath for the charge.

  2 Final Tilt

  Afterwards, Niall said it was the most incredible tilt he’d ever seen from two juniors, akin to experienced warriors. High praise indeed. Archer realised he’d completely misjudged Finn, evidently his friend’s tactic. Shaking his head in admiration, he thought about the number of times in the past few months he had bested Finn in training. Or rather, that Finn had allowed himself to be bested. Anyone watching would have no doubt these were the cream of the current crop of juniors. Most of those people, if asked to choose between them, would say Archer had the edge in all three tourney sports. What a hoaxer! He replayed the tilt in his mind.

  First glance showed Finn’s resolute manner and cool gaze before he lowered his visor. The gentle touch spurred Apollo on to a greater speed than Archer had ever known. For the first time in his life, he experienced what Finn must feel every time he rode: the joy, exhilaration and unspoken bond between him and his horse. It was the most intense feeling Archer had ever experienced, as though he was invincible. The lance became like an extension of his hand.

  Although he felt no desire to harm his friend, for a hundredth part of a second, he was no longer aware of racing towards another boy. All he could see at the tip of his lance was a target, like the shield on the quintain. A target he had to hit before ducking out of the way. If he wasn’t fast enough, the sandbag attached to the other end would spin round and hit him in the back of the head, knocking him off his saddle. Something which had only happened once in his life, but he could not afford to be distracted by the memory.

  Everything about Finn’s posture told Archer his opponent was no weakling, beaten down by fatigue and intimidated by a stronger warrior. As Tybalt said, in that fleeting instant, they were as men, and the man coming toward him at full tilt was his equal.

  Neither was prepared to give any quarter, spurring their horses on to faster speeds, as the distance between them narrowed. As he relived the moment of impact in his mind, Archer realised it wasn’t simply the blood lust ringing in his ears which deafened him to the crowd. A deathly hush had fallen as they recognised the ruthlessness of the spectacle before them. To anyone who did not appreciate the true solidarity of their friendship, it must have looked like a real grudge match.

  The collision was a moment of perfect science – two unstoppable objects meeting with irresistible force. Both contenders recognised the other’s resolve and tightened the shield to their bodies, reinforcing the layer of protection. Both lances hit the shields in perfect unison, singing a song of smashing earthenware and splintering timber. Both shields slammed into chest plates, rocking the challengers back in their saddles. Both lances wrenched out of gauntlets, curving great arcs through the sky which had the awe-struck Seconds running to recover them. Neither horse could stop until they reached the end of the tilt, and even a few paces beyond. After the final halt, they turned and took a slow canter back to the centre, retrieving their lances to present to the judge.

  As they waited for the judgement, Archer gritted his teeth against the grin trying to slide onto his face. The grin that tore his pride to shreds. To think he had even considered throwing the fight so Finn could remain in the contest. The impulse was too strong and he let loose a full-bodied belly laugh. What a player! Finn glanced over and his lips twitched; then he joined in. They both roared with mirth as the marques went up on each side of the scoreboard. Archer now had six points, Beorn had seven and Finn eight. Only two of them, however, could advance from the sporting round.

  The next event was the girls’ javelin. Historically, all girls had done the javelin and all boys the rings – a horseback event to collect rings on the end of a lance. Recently, however, the more progressive families had exerted pressure and the council had been forced to take a vote. The result was a choice, the boys chose between joust or rings and the girls could do rings or javelin. Malduc, the leader of the village council, had shaken his head, muttering that they wouldn’t be satisfied until the girls were jousting. This year all the Warrior girls had chosen the rings so the Magi and Outil girls lined up to show their prowess with the javelin.

  Archer was keen to lend his support to Patricia and Chrisya, not simply because they were friends, but because they were the least likely sporting candidates of all the juniors in their clan. He had come across them one day in the woods, using branches as javelins.

  *

  ‘What are you two doing out here? Haven’t you heard about the Renegates?’ Archer teased, fully aware they knew the tales of the fierce bandits who lived in the woods and preyed on the villagers.

  Patricia angrily pushed the hair back from her face. ‘Of course we have, but we can defend ourselves.’ She threw her branch in his direction, but it travelled no more than a few feet.

  He picked it up, grinning. ‘You’d be better off improving your running, it’s the best weapon you girls have.’

  ‘Not exactly. We could always fight them off.’ As she spoke, Chrisya swung her branch at him. She underestimated his ability to anticipate any kind of threat. Catching it easily in one hand, he used the momentum of it to trap her against him.

  ‘Let her go you brute.’ Patricia waded in to rescue her friend.

  With little exertion, he had them both captive despite their struggles. ‘Do you yield? You will wear yourselves out if you keep up this exertion.’

  ‘Never!’ They both renewed their efforts, but he held them easily for a few moments before suddenly releasing them in a heap.

  ‘There was no need for that.’ Chrisya made no secret of her annoyance.

  ‘Apparently there was.’ He grinned to take the sting out of his words, then adopted a serious tone. ‘If I could trap you so easily, what chance would you stand against half a dozen grown men?’

  Before Chrisya could protest further, her friend caught her arm. ‘He is right. After the story Finn told us about the Renegates, I have spent every moment watching over my shoulder.’

  ‘Thank you Patricia. At least one of you has some sense. I don’t understand why you would take such a risk. Don’t you get enough training at lehren? You should take a rest in your free time.’

  ‘You can take a rest; it all comes easily to you.’ Chrisya’s tone reeked of bitterness. ‘You’ve no idea how useless we are in sporting lessons.’

  He shook his head. ‘It might look as though it comes easily, but I practise hard to improve my skills.’

  ‘That is the problem. We are so useless the trainer does not bother with us anymore. He spends his lesson time helping people who show some promise.’ Patricia’s comment worried Archer - it was not like her to criticise anything, especially not the lehren they would all attend until their eighteen birthday.

  Chrisya happily found faults. ‘It’s as though we embarrass him because we can’t learn and it makes him look bad.’

  ‘Who? Professor Niall? I can’t believe that.’

  ‘I do not think it is his fault,’ said Patricia, ‘there are too many in the non-Warrior groups and we all need a lot of help.’

  Archer could not fault her logic. Since they were prepared to put in extra hours outside of the normal training to better themselves, he reasoned it couldn’t be wrong if he helped them because the adult trainer was unavailable.

  After a couple of sessions improving their basic self-defence skills, Archer tasked the girls with throwing branches of the right length and weight. As their techniques improved, he made several javelins – his talent for whittling proved useful.

  The evenings drew in rapidly after the harvest festival at Herfest, and it became harder to schedule the practices. By the time they finished helping to bring in the cr
ops the daylight had almost gone. Archer devised a solution. He persuaded the professor to allow the Warrior boys and girls to assist the non-Warriors during the Beltane selection training. Niall was happy as the other juniors received more individual instruction to improve their defence skills.

  When Patricia and Chrisya passed the preliminary rounds at Imbolc, to be named as two of the nine Worthies for Beltane, they approached Archer in a great panic. ‘Please can you help us? We will not stand a chance against girls like Kayleigh and Lexie.’

  ‘You won’t have to try. The three Warrior girls compete purely against each other. It’s the same with the three Outils and the three Magi.’

  ‘So we only compete against girls with similar skills.’

  ‘Exactly. And the two with the highest scores from each group advance. It’s fairer that way.’

  ‘Except Bethia’s really good with the bow.’ Chrisya frowned. ‘Especially since Fletch has been giving her extra training most days.’

  ‘And Finn.’ Patricia shrugged as she explained her assertion. ‘He seems to spend more time with her at practice than with everyone else put together.’

  ‘You think so?’ Archer had not noticed. ‘That’s a bit unfair on the rest of you.’

  ‘And what we have been doing is not unfair?’

  ‘True. So you won’t need my help, then.’ Archer’s eyes twinkled. He loved to bait Patricia, her responses were so rewarding. She did not disappoint him, her eyes widened and he caught a glimpse of sheer panic.

  ‘No. I mean yes.' She took a calming breath. 'Archer, you love to torment us.’ She slapped his arm so hard he almost regretted the tease.

  ‘Ow. I don’t help girls who hit me.’ He rubbed his arm.

  Chrisya moved his hand and stroked the reddening skin, mocking him with, ‘My poor babe, shall I kiss away the pain?’

  ‘Will you two stop flirting?’ Patricia was not impressed. ‘We have to arrange some extra training sessions.’

  Chrisya pouted. ‘When? Lehren doesn’t finish until an hour before sundown and we all have chores to do.’

  ‘If you could find some excuse to skip your chores, we could practise for that hour.’

  ‘My mother will be happy with anything which might give me a chance to win.’ Patricia’s embarrassment showed clearly. ‘She was runner up in her Beltane.’

  ‘My mother doesn’t think I stand any chance.’

  ‘How can you say that? Isn’t she proud of you for getting this far?’ Archer raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s not that.’ Chrisya blushed as she defended her mother. ‘She thinks I’d be all right if the sporting round wasn’t first. Last time she watched me throw the javelin I was no good.’ She added hastily, ‘Long before all your hard work, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ He acknowledged the praise with a mock bow. His smile became quizzical as she stared at the floor.

  Her cheeks burnt even hotter. ‘It’s good of you to help us Archer, but we’re taking up so much of your time. I think you’d rather be with Finn and Fletch.’

  Patricia added her thanks. ‘She is right, we really are grateful. Is there anything we can do for you in return?’

  Their eager scrutiny made Archer uncomfortable. He was about to protest he was more than happy to help them with no recompense, when a terrible thought struck him. ‘Actually girls, there is something you could do for me …’

  3 Glowing Arrows

  ‘No Chrisya, how many times must I tell you? Your feet and hips must start off perpendicular to the target. Then you turn your front foot slightly towards it.’ With a sigh of exasperation, he corrected her stance. Standing behind the mark, he pulled her into the correct position, then bent down and turned her knee out, maybe a little less gently than the last ten times. She giggled and he began to regret agreeing to help them. ‘Look, there’s nothing funny about this. If you can’t take it seriously, we might as well forget it.’

  Chrisya’s expression oozed apology. ‘Sorry Archer, I told you I’m rubbish at this. I need to have a verse or something to help me remember it all.’

  Patricia had a go. ‘How about this? Hips to side, left foot front, left arm front, nock the arrow, right arm bent, elbow to ear, tilt the bow… I cannot remember the rest.’

  Archer went through the verse step-by-step, matching his actions to the words. ‘Actually, that’s not bad. Seems like someone taught you well.’

  Both girls giggled as they worked out what he meant and this time he didn’t mind as it was his jest. He relaxed; the girls were quite amusing when they laughed with him instead of at him. They worked hard and made good progress. At the end of the practice, they went to the librarie as usual, to help each other with their studies for the knowledge questions.

  As they left the building, Archer asked if they still remembered the verse they’d worked out during out the earlier session. They each grabbed one of his arms and did a silly dance in time to the words.

  ‘What’s this Archer? Practising for your victory dance at Beltane?’ A smooth voice sneered from behind. They turned to see Edlyn, flanked by Melvyn and Beorn.

  Straightening, Patricia used the same haughty tone her mother did when faced with a situation not being handled to her satisfaction. ‘What we are doing is none of your business. Archer needs no practice; he will dance as well as he does everything else.’

  Edlyn and his companions mimicked her tone and gestures, exaggerating them to the point of ridicule.

  Archer closed his eyes briefly against the exasperation he felt. It was exactly the wrong thing to say to the arrogant bully. Fixing Edlyn with a bland stare, he tried to put as much civility as he could muster into his tone. ‘It’s no secret; we were studying for the Beltane knowledge. I’m sure you don’t need any extra practice for that.’

  ‘Obviously not. But these dullards,’ he nodded at his companions, ‘need all the help they can get, and who better to instruct them?’

  ‘I cannot think.’ With a nod, Archer turned and the girls stayed close. He was sure their deathlike grip stemmed not from fear, but concern at the boy’s reputation for causing trouble. Although he would have willingly fought to protect them or defend their honour, Archer was glad they did not have to witness anything ugly. Patricia remarked on how charming Edlyn had been when she first met him. Archer knew he usually kept his dark side well hidden from her and pondered on the cause of this change in attitude.

  Archer detected no sign of anyone following them during their next few sessions. Despite this, he made sure they no longer met at the same time or place from that day onwards. Chrisya suggested he was being over-cautious, but she had no experience of the lengths to which Edlyn would go in his quest for supremacy.

  The lighter nights made it easier to train; however, they had to miss several sessions because of the preparations for the Ostara celebration. With Patricia’s little verse, they had both mastered the necessary stance and rhythm of the shoot, but no matter how he tried, he could not communicate to them the essence of the aim.

  ‘I don’t understand. How can you possibly just feel the centre of the target?’ Chrisya frowned.

  ‘You mean the gold.’ Patricia was keen to show off her knowledge.

  Archer smiled at her. ‘Or the bull. I can’t explain, it’s simply what happens to me. I don’t look at it, I feel it.’

  ‘What do you mean you do not look at the bull? If that were true, you could do it with your eyes closed.’

  ‘Obviously I must glance at the target to know what direction it’s in, but after that ...’ he shrugged. ‘I’m not focussing on where it is; I simply imagine the tip of my arrow flying towards the gold. It takes a few moments for my body to settle down, for my muscles to adjust and know the path. Once they do, I could close my eyes. Possibly.’

  They stared at him in disbelief.

  He sighed and tried to explain it further. ‘It’s as though I think the arrow from my bow to the target. If I don’t believe it will hit, then it will miss. Every
time. If I don’t get my breathing just right, it will miss. Every time. Or at the very least, it won’t go exactly where I want it to go.’

  He gazed at the bow in his hand as though surprised it was there. ‘That’s it. The bow becomes like a part of my body – an extension of my mind. I’m not aiming with my body or my arm or the arrow; I’m aiming with my mind.’

  This was probably the longest speech he’d ever made and he became uncomfortably aware of their stares, reflecting his passion. The dazed expressions suggested his words had put them in a trance.

  The sharp cracking of a twig broke the spell and without thinking, Archer whirled round and loosed an arrow at the sound. It was an instinctive reflex – the exact opposite of everything he had been talking about. No calm deliberation, no steadying of the breath or blending of the mind and target; he simply shot at the sound with pure instinct. Loading a second arrow as he ran, he cursed the distraction which had overcome his training.

  How often did Niall remind them to secure the target before loosing? Now he finally understood why. Having assured the lack of danger, he gave thanks it wasn’t a boy writhing in agony but a small, grey squirrel. The second arrow pierced its head and the squirming stopped.

  Archer drew the girls away from the disturbing sight, vowing to return later - Ganieda would put the meat to good use. Neither girl was too delicate to withstand the death of a small creature, but he didn’t want to upset the mood he had created. The next half hour saw the best shots they had ever made, both girls were inspired by his fervour and keen to try his method for themselves. He knew it was tiring, so he limited the session, finishing early.

  ‘So if you will not let us practise with the bows, you will have to practise with the bows.’ Proud of her jest, Patricia bent double to make it clear.

  He groaned, dreading this part of the training session. ‘I know I asked you to teach me to dance, but I simply meant the basic rules and a couple of steps for the maypole dance. I don’t want to be a spirit dancer.’