by Jon Kiln
15
“Artas, what are you doing?”
The tension in Zander’s voice was almost palpable. He gripped the younger man’s shoulder tight, and peered into his eyes as if searching for some outward sign of madness. A pace away, Ector and Dristan exchanged a worried glance. Artas drew a deep breath and told himself to remain calm.
“Trust me, Zander,” he said.
Nearby, the tribesmen had gathered in a tight circle beside their horses. They were speaking rapidly in hushed tones. The stout one, Draagos, occasionally glanced over at the travelers. There was an ugly look of eager anticipation in his eye. He had already unhooked his wickedly curved bow from one of the horses, and now he fingered the bowstring lovingly with one hand.
One of the other tribesmen, at a word from Naavos, detached himself from the group. He came over to where the travelers stood nervously. Eyeing them with grim amusement, the man moved past and shimmied up one of the slender palm trees. At the top, he drew a short, sharply curved dagger from the belt of his robe and began to saw at one of the small coconuts that grew there. After a few seconds, the nut fell to the sandy earth with a soft thud. The tribesman went to work on another coconut.
After a few minutes, he had detached six coconuts. Shimmying back down, he gathered these up and took them over to where his clan brothers waited. Draagos examined the coconuts and nodded his approval. The man who had gathered them leaped astride one of the horses and spurred it to a gallop. He rode for several minutes toward the gradually lightening eastern horizon. Following his progress, Artas was surprised to realize it was nearly dawn.
“I like this not,” muttered Zander.
Though he did not want to show any doubt, Artas felt much the same. It was too late to back out of the bet now. Their lives quite literally hung in the balance. Artas moved over to where he had stowed his belongings and retrieved the longbow he had carried from Castle Locke. He sat down on a large stone and got to work re-stringing the bow. He put doubt from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand.
In the meantime, the tribesman who had ridden out was setting up makeshift targets. He took a small bundle of sticks that had been tied to his horse’s blanket, and began jabbing these vertically into the hard, sandy earth. Then, he placed one coconut atop each stake. He used the hilt of his dagger to hammer the nuts down onto the ends of the stakes. This task completed, he rode back to rejoin the others.
His own task complete, Artas rose and walked out to the edge of the oasis to peer at the distant targets. He frowned as he studied the range. He hardly noticed when Naavos came over to stand beside him, likewise staring toward the rising sun. That would be a problem, thought Artas; but it could hardly be counted as an advantage for Draagos, who would also be firing into the sun.
“Each of you will have three shots,” said Naavos softly. “Then we will judge who has shot better. Draagos has dipped his arrows in red paint, so there will be no problem telling who fired each arrow.”
Artas nodded absently. In his head, he was running through a series of calming exercises to aid his focus. He would need to do his best shooting here. True, this was not the first time life or death had depended on his bow. Artas had fought in the chaos of battle before. In a way, he reflected, that had been easier. There was no time to think, to overthink, to make the critical mistakes that could come from too much concentration.
“Are you ready, my friend?”
“I’m ready,” said Artas.
Naavos looked to Draagos, who gave a sharp nod.
A moment later, the two men stood beside one another with a pace between them. Draagos held his taut-strung, recurved horsebow; Artas gripped his longbow. The tribesman gestured with one hand. Artas understood: he was to begin the contest by taking the first shot.
He set his feet and gauged the distance one last time. He nocked an arrow to his string as he did. Then, in one smooth motion, he raised the bow, drew back the string, and released. There was a deep thrum from the bow, a faint, slicing whistle from the arrow, and then a distant and barely audible thunk as the arrow found its target. Two hundred paces away, one of the coconuts fell from its perch atop the stick.
Artas heard Draagos grunt. Whether it was surprise, anger, or admiration, he couldn’t say. The stout tribesman peered down the range for a long moment, chewing his bottom lip. Then he turned and spat a rapid torrent of speech at Naavos. Naavos responded in the same tongue, his answer brief and sharp. Draagos argued some point, and Naavos cut him off angrily.
“What’s he saying?” asked Artas.
“Draagos compliments you on the impressive range of your weapon,” said Naavos after a brief hesitation.
“Compliments me?” Artas was doubtful. “That didn’t sound very complimentary.”
“I am perhaps being liberal with the translation,” Naavos allowed. “My clan brother has pointed out that your bow and his are not alike.”
Artas started to say that was just too bad, but he caught a glimpse of Zander’s frantic expression of warning and reconsidered. He did not want to give up an advantage on the one hand, on the other, if he pushed his luck with these people too far they might simply kill him and the others. He turned back to Naavos. “Well, what do you suggest?”
Naavos turned and spoke briefly to Draagos, whose response was curt but without the anger of before. Naavos turned back to Artas and translated. “I proposed moving your targets further away. My clan brother did not agree. He insists that you should use one of our bows.”
Artas glanced at the bow in his opponent’s hand. It was a complex affair, not the simple, wooden longbow he had used all his life. It was made of a combination of wood and what appeared to be bone. He had no idea, from that brief inspection, how the weapon’s draw would compare to his own. He had little choice, though.
“All right,” he said. “Tell him I accept.”
While the same tribesman as before galloped out to the targets and reset the coconut Artas had drilled with his first shot, the young Palaran archer took one of the strange, recurved bows from Naavos and examined it more closely. He pulled experimentally at the string. It had a shorter draw, but he found it required more effort to pull.
“My friend.” Naavos reached for the bow. Artas surrendered it. The bearded tribesman turned sideways to him and lifted the bow, drawing it in an easy, practiced motion. Artas noted that Naavos drew the string with his thumb, rather than the first two fingers. Slowly releasing the tension, Naavos handed the bow back to him.
“Thank you,” said Artas, meaning it. He tried the unusual style of draw, finding that it did indeed make the draw easier to manage. He took several of the shorter, thicker arrows used by the tribesmen and stuck them point-first in the earth by his leg. By now, the targets were ready and the range was clear. Artas nodded and gestured to Draagos. “Tell my friend here that, as I have already fired, he should take the first shot.”
Naavos relayed the message. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Draagos snatched one of the three arrows he had driven point-first into the sand beside him, whipped it up and drew and released. The curved bow produced a deeper, more menacing thrum than had Artas’ longbow.
The arrow flew true and hit one of the coconuts dead center.
Artas followed suit. The shot with the unfamiliar bow went wide of the mark. It was difficult to see from this distance, but Artas believed he could not have missed by more than an inch. He cursed softly under his breath as Draagos, laughing, retrieved another arrow from his cache.
The tribesman’s second shot was as accurate as the first. Gritting his teeth, Artas took another arrow and raised the bow. Releasing his breath and willing his body to stillness, he drew and released. This time his arrow found the mark, though it was off-center.
Artas cursed again, dropping his eyes. He saw that he had two arrows remaining from those Naavos had given him. But there was only one shot left in this contest. Whether he made his shot or not, all Draagos need do to beat him was make his ow
n shot. He had not missed his first.
Draagos turned and spoke to him in the guttural language of the tribesmen. Artas did not need to understand the words to get the message. Then, Draagos drew his third and final arrow and let fly. The arrow sailed true, piercing the third coconut and knocking it from its perch.
But even as Draagos shot, Artas burst into impulsive action. Snatching up his final two arrows, he rapidly drew and fried and then redrew and fired again with a slight pivot of his hips. His first arrow thunked into his third coconut a split second before Draagos’ own shot. A split second later his next shot flew home. Draagos’ arrow, still quivering madly in its nut, was split in two by the shot with a loud cracking of wood.
16
“You should not have come back here.”
Clay, chieftain of the Lake Men, did not look well. In fact, he seemed to have aged fifteen years since Myriam last saw him, less than two months ago. She could not understand it. But, regardless of his apparent deterioration, the chief’s voice was strong and firm and laden with anger. His face flushed, Clay shifted his weight in the low chair beside the open hole in the floor of the hut that opened over the lapping waters of the lake. Beside him, his sister Lisl fidgeted with her hands and looked nervously at her son.
Linz stood beside Myriam, head down before the weight of his uncle’s wrath. Ganry and Hendon stood a pace behind them. The Lake Men had been reluctant to allow them to enter, but Linz had faced them down with all the authority of their future chief and commanded they stand aside for the big, muscle-bound warrior and the nimble former forest dweller.
They had reached Halawa without incident, though the careful journey had taken them nearly a week. The whole time, Ganry had kept trying to persuade Myriam to change her mind. But the princess was adamant. Each evening, she had questioned Linz about his family’s history. Sadly, the boy seemed to know little about his lineage. Apparently, the Lake Men did not place the same importance on bloodlines as the Kingdom of Palara and most of its neighbors. She hoped his mother or his uncle would know more, but she had not been expecting this angry reception.
“My lord,” she began, when it became clear Linz would say nothing. Before she could go on, Clay cut her off.
“We don’t have lords here on the lake, little princess,” he snapped, then broke off as a fit of coughing took him. Lisl lunged forward, extending a large, stained handkerchief to her ailing brother. Myriam’s eyes widened. What had befallen this man, who had been so strong and hale just weeks ago?
The coughing fit subsided. Clay allowed his sister to wipe at his mouth with her rag, glowering all the while at the ragged travelers who stood before him. Their journey had been uneventful, but arduous. There had been Palaran patrols all along the frontier, and many more scoured the Cefinon Forest searching for refugees from Castle Locke. They searched especially for a slender, blonde-haired princess.
Hendon had led them along secret trails in the forest, avoiding the patrols. He had lived most of his life in those woods, and knew many of the forest’s secrets. Many of these trails were tiny things, little more than rabbit runs. The forest was thick with undergrowth, and briars had torn at their clothes and skin. But Hendon had brought them at last to the shores of the hidden lake where Linz’ people had made their home for uncounted generations. From there, it had only been a matter of walking along the shore until they found a boat. Then, it had been simple for Linz to guide them to Halawa.
“You should not have brought her back here,” Clay continued when he had recovered from his coughing fit. His burning eyes glared at Linz, and the lad seemed to shrink down even further. Beside him, Myriam bristled with anger at the way the Lake Men’s chief was treating his nephew.
“I’m sorry, uncle,” murmured Linz, still unable to meet Clay’s eye. He shuffled his feet nervously. Then, as if he had suddenly gathered all his courage, Linz lifted his head and stared back at the old chief. “But why? What’s happened?”
Clay and his sister exchanged a heavy glance. Lisl chewed at her lip. Clay turned back to the travelers before him and shook his head, still angry. His hands balled into fists. Then, with a visible effort, he relaxed them.
“Done is done,” he muttered. He looked down through the hole in the floor and studied the lapping water. Colorful fish darted to and fro beneath the house, which stood on stilts out over the lake like the rest of the hidden city. “You’re here now. Nightfall is nearly upon us. Hm.”
Clay’s eyes turned up to the ceiling. He drew a deep breath and blew it out in a heavy sigh before returning his attention to his guests. “You’ll stay the night. Tomorrow, you will have to leave. Get off the lake as quick as you can. And never, ever come back here. Is that understood?”
“Uncle, I-”
“I said, is that understood?” Clay came halfway up out of his chair, roaring the question. Linz flinched back from the naked rage in his uncle’s outburst. Beside the chief, Lisl fell back a half step, her mouth falling open in evident shock. Then Clay collapsed back in his chair, exhausted. He waved one hand in a gesture of dismissal.
“I’m tired,” said the chief. “I must rest now. Lisl, take your son and these others and see that they have rooms. They’re to stay put tonight. I want them gone at first light. You’ll see to it.”
Lisl bowed her head in acceptance. Clay levered himself up out of his chair and went out of the room without another word. The strange audience was at an end.
***
Lisl led them through the house to a suite of rooms near one of the outer walls. As chief, Clay lived in the largest dwelling in Halawa. It was nothing compared to Castle Villeroy, but among the stilt-huts of the Lake Men, it was a palace. In this suite, there were four rooms arranged around a central, common area with one of the ubiquitous open floors that let down into the lake. Upon letting them into the rooms, Lisl turned as if to go.
“Mother, wait.”
The frail woman froze in place, but she did not turn back around.
“What is it? What has happened here, mother?” There was such a note of pleading in Linz’ voice that Myriam felt her heart lurch. But Lisl refused to turn around. The boy’s mother drew a deep, ragged breath.
“It’s getting late,” she said at last in a trembling voice. “You’ll all need your rest, I expect.”
“Mother…”
“Leave it be, Linz.” With that, she started to leave. Myriam looked to Ganry and made a frantic motion with one hand. The big man stepped between Lisl and the door, blocking her escape. He looked uneasy about it, but stood his ground. Lisl drew up short, staring up at the muscular bodyguard.
There was a long, tense moment. Then Lisl’s shoulders sagged and she turned back to the room. Her tired eyes swept over them each in turn, and then she went and sat on one of the low couches that were around the pool in the middle of the floor. She sat hunched forward with her hands clasped anxiously on top of her knees. She looked down at the lapping water.
Myriam nodded to Ganry, who eased away from the door. Linz had already rushed to his mother’s side, sitting down beside her and putting an arm around her. Myriam took a seat on the adjacent couch. Hendon sat down opposite Linz and his mother. Ganry gravitated to Myriam, remaining on his feet just behind her.
“Mother,” Linz was saying. “Tell us what’s happened. Please.”
Lisl whispered a single word. Myriam barely heard it, but Linz went white as a sheet.
“What?” Hendon, furthest from the Lake Woman, leaned forward. “What did she say?”
“Rooggaru,” repeated Linz when his mother didn’t answer. His face was pale; all the blood had drained out. His lip trembled as he spoke the unfamiliar word. Hendon looked to Myriam, who shrugged back at him. She had no idea what it meant.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “What is… Rooggaru?”
Abruptly, Lisl gave a wail of terror and anguish. She seized her son by the arms and jerked him close to her, until their faces were pressed together. The words spilled fr
om her mouth in a frantic torrent. “You must leave, Linz. The moment the sun rises, you and your friends must go. You must, you must, you must. Promise me!”
“Mother!” Linz struggled in her grasp. “Let go. Ow! You’re hurting me!”
With another wail, Lisl released her hold and leaped to her feet. Before anyone could react, she ran from the room. Myriam sat stunned, staring after the woman. Ganry took a step forward, then subsided. Unless the princess asked him to go after her, he meant to let Lisl go.
“Linz,” said Myriam. “Linz, what’s going on here?”
“Rooggaru,” the boy said again, in a tone hushed with wonder.
“What the hell is a rooggaru?” asked Ganry, impatient.
“Just a legend,” said Linz slowly. He shook his head. There was disbelief in his young eyes. “It’s a myth. I mean… I always thought it was just a story. Something the women tell their children to scare them. I haven’t believed in Rooggaru since I was a baby. It’s just a crazy story.”
“But what is it?” insisted Myriam.
Linz shook his head again. Myriam was reminded that he was, after all, still a kid. Linz might not think so, but it was true. And right now, he looked like nothing so much as a frightened little boy. The princess resisted an urge to go to him and comfort him. She knew he would not appreciate it. Besides, she wanted him to talk. She had a feeling that, whatever this Rooggaru might be, she and the others needed to know.
“It’s a monster,” explained Linz. His voice cracked on the second word, and he paused to lick his lips and swallow before he continued. “Like I said, it’s a legend, a story. Long ago, when our people first came to settle on the lake, the Rooggaru followed us from… well, from wherever our ancestors had lived before. Nobody knows anymore, it’s been so long ago. But the Rooggaru hates the Lake Men. At least, that’s what the old women tell the children.”
