by J. V. Jones
Raif did not attempt to call the target to him. It was dead wood and there was nothing but fresh air and then a second target a hundred paces behind it; there was no life or heart to respond to his call. Instead he forced his mind to focus on the target, sending an invisible thread from the hole in his eye to dead center of the bull. A fisherman casting a line. The circle came into sharp relief, and when the redness filled his vision he released the string.
The soft thwang of the recoil was all he heard for a moment. Unlike Tanjo Ten Arrow, he hadn’t made a large adjustment for the wind. His arrow traveled close to the ground where the worst of the headwind couldn’t catch it. The thermals were another matter, and lacking the ability to judge them he had simply waited until there was a break in the updraft.
Besides, he told himself stubbornly, this was just a practice shot: it didn’t really matter either way.
Thunk. The arrow hit. Speckled hawk-feathers blew wildly as the arrow-shaft vibrated. The iron head had sunk deep into the pitch-soaked pine of the beehive . . . incredibly, miraculously, grazing the edge of the bull.
Maimed Men jeered. Yustaffa started up again, fluting praises to the lone Orrlsman, Raif Twelve Kill. Raif would have liked to punch him. Far beyond the target lane, two women began to turn the iron spit that suspended the whole hog above the cook fire. Raif smelled the fatty, meaty aroma of roasting pork as he accepted the hostility of the crowd. Like Tanjo Ten Arrow before him, he willed himself not to react. He didn’t want to betray his own amazement at his practice shot. Let them think he placed arrows like that every day.
Two men on the fringes of the crowd were watching him intently. Raif turned his head slightly and exchanged gazes with Stillborn. The great, thick-necked Maimed Man nodded enthusiastically, his eyebrows up and working. Briefly, Raif wondered what had possessed Stillborn to befriend him. True, he had stolen Raif’s kill, his sword and his named arrow, yet Raif still thought of him as a friend. He was the only man here who wanted to see him win.
Traggis Mole did not.
The Robber Chief was the second man watching Raif intently. He hadn’t seemed to move all the time Raif had stood on the rimrock, yet something behind his eyes had changed. He had not liked Raif’s shot, but there was more. Out of a crowd of perhaps eight hundred, he was the only one who saw it for what it was. A lucky hit. Do it again, Orrlsman, his eyes seemed to say. I dare you.
Raif swallowed, then looked away. The crowd had grown quiet again as Tanjo Ten Arrow prepared for his first official shot. The same boy who’d wheeled the handcart was kneeling in front of the beehive, tugging the practice arrows from the face of the target. Pitch oozed from the holes.
“You have killed wolf.”
Raif’s head turned at the sound of Tanjo Ten Arrow’s voice. The burned man spoke in low tones, fired as expertly as his arrows. The words were for Raif’s ears alone. And they were not a question.
Fixing his gaze on the targets once more, Raif asked, “What makes you say such a thing?”
Tanjo slid an arrow from his bowcase and nocked it. “Your eyes. The wolf is in them.”
Raif thought of the great ice wolf, Pack Leader, spitted on a willow staff that had sundered its heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving that final, desperate blow. Ash’s life had depended upon it.
“Kill a wolf, and the gods look up.” Tanjo Ten Arrow released the string, sending a lacquered arrow high into the air. Snow-goose feathers caught glacial winds blowing south from the Want, and used them to bend the flight of the arrow as surely as if they were still attached to the bird. Thunk. The arrow landed in the bull, a fraction short of dead center. “Kill a wolf with a blow to the heart, and the gods make play with your fate.”
Raif kept his face still. Words, just words. The burned man was trying to throw his concentration. He took several deep breaths, then slid his own arrow from its case. As he fitted the string into the arrow’s nock, he remembered something Yustaffa had said. Not dropping his gaze from the bull, he murmured, “How about a wager, Tanjo? Just you and me?”
Tanjo Ten Arrow was silent. Raif could not see him, but he felt the burned man’s interest. After a moment, Tanjo said, “Name what you would have.”
“Your bow.”
Two words, and Raif knew he had spoken them too quickly and given away exactly how deeply he desired the Sull bow. At his side, Tanjo Ten Arrow was very still. Seconds passed. Raif gripped both arrow and string and pulled the yew longbow to full draw. Only when he reached full tension did Tanjo speak. Raif was prepared for it and held his draw. Let the burned man try to distract him. Let him try.
“What do you offer in return?” Tanjo Ten Arrow spoke Common with the solemn precision of someone who had learned it as a second tongue, and it was hard for Raif to gauge the level of his interest.
Dancing ice. That was what Angus had called it when his horse had carried Ash to safety over the frozen waters of the Black Spill. Raif felt he was doing the same here, negotiating with Tanjo Ten Arrow. It was a dance, and timing was everything. The negotiation must be completed before he released his first shot, while Tanjo’s arrow was the only one in the bull. The burned man would not risk wagering his bow if he thought there was a chance he could lose it.
“The Orrl cloak.” Raif made a brief motion with his head, indicating the cleared area behind him where the iridescent blue-white cloak lay fanned out upon the rimrock. It was a worthy prize, a treasure for any man who hunted in snow and ice. But for a bowman, nothing was more precious than his bow.
It was hard to hold the draw while he waited to hear Tanjo’s response. Raif’s shoulder muscles began to quiver and his thumb and bowfinger whitened as the pressure drove blood out. Tanjo saw this, and Raif swore the burned man counted to a hundred before declaring, “Done.”
Raif released the string.
The arrow shot from the plate, delivering a recoil that sent the bow snapping against his bandaged finger. Wincing, he did not see where his arrow landed. The pain was so fierce he hardly cared.
The crowd told him what his eyes did not. The women hissed, and the men muttered in dissatisfaction. Yustaffa issued a throaty sigh, enjoying himself immensely. Raif’s arrow was in the bull. This was starting to get interesting.
As the cart boy ran forward to measure and retrieve the arrows, Raif glanced at Tanjo Ten Arrow. The man showed only his profile to Raif, his gaze cast far in the distance. Burned skin twitched once, then was still.
When the cart boy was finished with the measuring stick he signaled to Yustaffa.
“Raif Twelve Kill has it!” pronounced the fat man, his face reddening with excitement. “He wins first shot by a margin of—what, boy?”
The boy held the measuring stick above his head. Made of a hollow reed and seared with marks at short intervals, the stick resembled a flute. Grubby fingers marked the spot. “Two notches.”
Raif did not expect what happened next. Tanjo Ten Arrow turned to him and bowed so low that the tail of his topknot touched rimrock. When he straightened his spine Raif saw he was smiling. Like a shark. “And now we will see who the true master is.”
Raif could prevent his muscles from reacting, but he had no power over the blood leaving his face. He’d been so pleased at foiling Yustaffa’s attempt to trick him that he’d not realized he was being tricked by someone else. Tanjo Ten Arrow’s first shot had been a fake.
Tanjo seemed well satisfied. In a single, elegant sweep he slid an arrow from his bow case and fitted it to his bow. Barely waiting for the cart boy to clear the target, Tanjo let his arrow fly. Thunk. Dead center of the bull.
Oh gods. Raif barely registered the cheering of the crowd. At the far edge of his vision he saw Traggis Mole move. A small motion, executed with enough speed to defy the eye, delivered his right hand to the hilt of his knife. I won’t see the blow that kills me.
Raif nocked his second arrow. He felt his concentration alight like a fly upon the bow. The slightest thing would send it elsewhere. Best be done with
the shot quickly, while the bull was in his sights and before his arms began to shake.
The moment his fingers released the string he knew he’d made a mistake. The bow recoiled dully, the twine flapping loosely against the riser. A puff of wind on the underside of his chin told him the updrafts were rising, and his arrow was lofted into the path of the southern headwinds. Raif dropped his gaze. Turbulence was making the arrow-shaft wobble, and he didn’t need to see it complete its flight to know it was going wide.
Thunk. Cheering erupted for Tanjo Ten Arrow.
Raif stared at the rimrock beneath his feet, waiting to hear the sound of the cart boy pulling arrows from the beehive. The next shot would be the final one at this target. Winning the first round was not vital in winning the contest, but Raif had watched enough archery contests to know that once you started losing it was hard to stop. He breathed hard, trying to settle his thoughts. At his side he was aware of Tanjo Ten Arrow scratching an imagined defect from his bow with fingernails as long as waxed beans.
The third arrow Tanjo fired entered the hole made by his second. Pitch sprayed into the air, spattering rimrock and trickling down the target like cold syrup. Raif set his sights on the white snow-goose feathers protruding from the center of the bull. The updrafts rose and dropped, and then Raif released the string.
The shot was good, and the arrow landed within the bull, but it was wide of dead center where Tanjo’s arrow stood upright like a needle on a sundial. Maimed Men cheered as Yustaffa pronounced the burned man the winner of the first round. A handful of small children rushed into the archery lane to help wheel off the first beehive, clearing the way to the second target. The second beehive was set at a distance of two hundred paces, the bull nothing more than a dot in Raif’s sights.
Clay pots of beer and trays piled high with greasy oatcakes and whole roast onions were distributed amongst the crowd during the lull. Women around the hog fire rolled up their sleeves and loosened the strings on their bodices as the heat from the flames made them sweat. The hog was black now, its outer skin cracked and flaking. When one of the women pierced its belly with a pitchfork a fountain of juices spurted forth. Raif looked away. The festivities left him cold. He was anxious to begin the second round, and every extra minute he had to wait was torture. Nervously, he ran a hand down the yew longbow. At a hundred paces an archer could shoot straight. At two hundred paces he needed height. There’d be no avoiding the headwind this time.
“Archers. Take your practice shots.”
Raif was ready with his arrow, and he didn’t wait to see if Tanjo was about to launch another ten-shot spectacle. Quickly, he fired an exploratory arrow high into the air. The wind caught it and gently curved its flight southward, sending the head into the far edge of the beehive, a good two hands wide of the bull. Raif exhaled in relief. At least I didn’t miss.
Tanjo Ten Arrow chose to launch only one practice arrow, expertly pitched to exploit the wind. Even from two hundred paces Raif heard the satisfying thunk of an arrow piercing the hollow center of the bull.
“I think I will enjoy wearing your cloak, Clansman,” Tanjo said as he relaxed his grip on the Sull bow. “It should bring me much luck in the hunt.”
Raif had no reply for him. He was running out of shots and time. He knew he was a good bowman, but it would take a master archer like Ballic the Red to match arrows with the burned man. He’d thought the extra hundred paces might even things out between them, but Tanjo’s last shot had proved him wrong. His only hope now was blind luck.
Tanjo made his next shot easily, placing his arrow a fraction high of dead center. Raif almost matched him, and hawk feathers and snow-goose feathers scissored together the arrows landed so close. Yustaffa did a little dance of glee as he waited for the cart boy to make the call. Raif wondered how much the fat man had wagered on Tanjo’s head.
The next two shots went quickly. Both Raif’s arrows placed well—one firmly in the bull and the other grazing its rim—but Tanjo’s arrows were better.
By now the crowd was going wild. “Tan-Jo!” they shrieked. “Tan-Jo! Tan-Jo!” Much ale had been drunk, and Maimed Men were pressing close on all sides. Raif could smell them and see their weapons. The pregnant woman with the slate bound to her chest looked at him and sneered. “Be a long, cold night in the Rift.”
The Gates to Hell. Raif shuddered as Yustaffa’s words came back to him. From where he stood, twenty paces from the edge of the rimrock, he couldn’t see the vast gap in the earth. The sky above was a clear and perfect blue, and the only sign that the world wasn’t right here was the sun. It shone too pale and small, and all its warmth and half its light were swallowed by the Rift. Why send men over the edge? Dead or alive, what good did it do?
Raif barely heard the sound of the second beehive being wheeled away.
The third and final beehive was the largest of the three. Built from pine boards, it was drum-shaped and tall as a horse. It had to be. At three hundred paces few archers sought to hit a man. Most would be happy to clip a rider’s mount. Still, the bull’s-eye was there, a red circle at the height of a stallion’s heart.
Beyond the target, the hog fire roared as pork fat fueled the flames. Raif found it hard to center himself on the bull. Archery contests were all about the final round. Win here, and he could force a draw with Tanjo. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. The headwind was gusting now, and more difficult to gauge for it. The distance between archer and target was so great that the bull was the merest fleck of red in the distance. Raif glanced at Tanjo. The burned man was keenly focused on the target, the damaged skin around his eyes pulling taut as he squinted.
Practice shots were taken, and for the first time Raif got the sense that Tanjo’s arrow was exploring, rather than homing. The burned man fired his arrow a few degrees short of vertical, and the headwinds fought its arc and robbed power from it. The arrow landed on the face of the target, a good three feet below the bull. The crowd murmured their surprise. Tanjo’s shot had fallen short. Raif was quick to correct Tanjo’s error, and angled his bow lower and drew more power behind it, straining the twine until it hummed. His arrow landed high, making a solid thunk as it struck the beehive, demonstrating it still had power to spare. Someone in the crowd cheered. Probably Stillborn.
Raif almost grinned. It took jaw to cheer a hated man.
The next shot went better for Tanjo, but in his eagerness to counter his opponent’s show of strength, he overpowered his arrow, blasting it from the plate. Like Raif’s arrow seconds earlier, Tanjo’s landed high, missing the bull by a handspan. For a shot taken at three hundred paces it was remarkable, but Tanjo Ten Arrow took no joy from it. The burned man clenched his fist and sent a look of cold hatred to Raif.
Raif thought he was probably going mad, for that look filled him with hope. With an easy hand he drew his bow, squinting to set the faraway target in his sights. Lightly, he released the string, and watched as his arrow battled headwinds and updrafts to land on the rim of the bull.
Malign energy rippled through the Maimed Men like a storm cloud passing overhead. Raif felt their dark looks and hostile mutterings like mosquitoes landing to feed. They would have harmed him then and there if it hadn’t been for the unmoving presence of Traggis Mole. The Robber Chief seemed to control the crowd by the act of stillness. No one wanted to be the first to make him move.
“First shot to Raif Twelve Kill!” cried Yustaffa, breaking the tension by fanning a chubby hand beneath his chin as if the air had suddenly become very hot. “Two more shots left. May the gods help me survive them.”
Tanjo Ten Arrow ignored the fat man’s theatrics, and slowly pulled back his bowstring. He’d won the first two rounds, but the third counted for more. If Raif were to win here there’d be a tie, and a fourth target would be set. Waiting for a break in the wind, Tanjo held the Sull recurve at full draw as easily as if it were a child’s first bow. The jade bowring he used to protect his long fingernails glinted in the rising sun. When the release came it
was so quiet on the rimrock you could hear the arrow fly. Raif knew straightaway the shot was good, but he didn’t realize how good until his eyes far-focused on the target . . . and saw the arrow enter the red territory of the bull. It wasn’t dead center, but it was close enough to send gasps of amazement through the crowd.
Raif forced a calmness he did not feel onto his face. Any man who could make a shot like that was worthy of respect, but he knew he couldn’t afford to admire Tanjo Ten Arrow. You had to hate a man who had the power to deprive you of life. Raif plucked an arrow from his bow case. A pulse had started throbbing in his neck, and it seemed to him that there were too many calls upon his thoughts. As he sighted his arrow he waited for the calm to come. Strangely, all winds had dropped and for the first time since he had awakened he heard the sound of the city itself. It groaned. Deep within its hand-hewn caverns bedrock was moving. Low wails and barely audible creaks rose from the hollow orbits of its many caves, making a sound like something tearing open.
A memory came to Raif unbidden: the gas geysers exploding as he and Ash approached Ice Trapper territory. The earth he walked on wasn’t stable any more.
With the briefest kiss, he released the string. As he braced against the recoil he realized he had held his draw too long and relaxed the tension unwittingly, and the arrow sped forth underpowered. Angry at himself, he watched as the arrow flew too low and reached its zenith too soon. Lazily, it dropped to the foot of the target, barely carrying enough speed to pierce wood.
“Second shot to Tanjo Ten Arrow!”
A small satisfied smile briefly stretched the pink and tan skin of Tanjo’s face. He did not look at Yustaffa or the cheering crowd, only Raif. “Did you think I would let you win this, Clansman?” He lifted the Sull bow so that it caught the light, causing the dyed horn to ripple like molten glass. Silvery markings which had shown earlier as faint lines suddenly leapt into sharp relief: moon and stars. And a raven. A raven screaming at the night. “I would die first.”
