by John Ringo
“This,” Malcolm said, picking up one of the larger bows, “is called a longbow or a self-bow. It is so called because, as you can see, it is very long. The reason for its length is that the arrow has more distance that it can be driven by the spring of the bow. Shorter bows have less distance of travel and therefore can impart less energy to the arrow. This type of bow will, for the time being, be the basic bow of the Raven’s Mill Defense Force archers. There are a couple of aspects to it. One is that it is a very strong bow, and difficult to draw. Especially repeatedly as is necessary in combat. The other is that it requires a person who is of normal male height or greater.” He looked around the group and then at Deann. “You, young lady, for example, I don’t think have much of a chance; you’re just too short.”
Deann grimaced at that and growled. “But you are going to give me a chance, right?”
“Of course. Now, does anyone here have any experience with bows?”
After a moment when no one else raised their hand, Herzer did so reluctantly.
“Oh, yeah. The guy on the horse. Where did you learn?”
“I was doing enhanced reality training before the Fall hit,” Herzer replied.
“What do you normally use?”
“During training I used a one-hundred-kilo composite recurve, sir. But my muscles are out of shape and I don’t think that I could handle that in my current condition.”
“A hundred kilos? Well the good news is, I don’t have one that strong so we won’t be finding out if you could or not. I brought these other bows out just to show them to you,” he continued, setting down the long bow. He picked up one of the smaller bows and bent it in his hands. “This is a short bow, which, as you can see, is shorter. It is otherwise similar to the longbow. The major difference is the distance an arrow can be thrown, the damage that it does and the amount and type of armor it can pierce. Mass fire of short bows are useful against groups of unarmored enemies. But unlike the longbow, just about any decent armor, including rivet mail, will shrug it off.”
He picked up another bow that was about the same length but was broadly curved. “This, on the other hand, is a short, composite recurve bow. It is a much stronger bow and has a long draw. It uses sinew backing to give it extra strength. In the case of this one, it is made out of horn and sinew with a thin strip of wood in the middle. It is a very strong bow and quite as powerful as the longbow. However, they are extremely difficult to construct, require materials that we don’t have available and tend to suffer from damp. They were used primarily by steppes horse archers for a reason. The steppes were dry, the bows could be used from horseback and they had the appropriate materials in abundance while lacking much wood.”
“I’ll let you take a look at the other bows as the tests progress. What we’re going to do is take a shot at the target marked with the seventy-five. That is at seventy-five meters.”
He took the longbow and drew an arrow from the barrel, nocking the bow and raising it.
“Note that I bring the arrow to my cheek and push the bow away from me,” he said. “And also, notice that I’m aiming well above the target.” He let fly with the arrow and it sunk deeply into the target on the right of the bullseye near the edge of the target.
“These arrows could be considered a test in themselves,” he said grimly. “They’re the first output of our apprentice fletchers and quite lousy. But all you have to do is get the arrow to the distance of the target. If you can do that, we’ll do some more testing. Those that can’t draw the bow, or even hold it off the ground, will be passed on to the next phase of testing.”
“Can I ask a question?” Herzer said.
“Please.”
“I take it that anyone who passes the test becomes an archer?”
“Both tests. This test and there will be a timed test. You have to draw and fire fifty arrows in ten minutes. If no one can do that, then we’ll back off of the requirement.”
“Can you?” Deann challenged.
In response Malcolm removed ten arrows and thrust them into the ground in a semicircle around him. Then he drew and fired all ten, driving each into the target, several close to or into the bullseye.
“I need to find out which ones were on,” Malcolm commented dryly. “Those apprentices made decent arrows.”
“What if you don’t want to be an archer?” Herzer asked.
“We need archers,” Malcolm answered. “Just about anyone can swing a sword. Archers are practically born, not raised. If you can be an archer, you’re going to be an archer. You can quit but you can’t choose not to be an archer.”
Herzer opened his mouth to protest but then closed it with a clop.
“You start,” Malcolm said, handing him the bow.
Herzer examined it for a moment and then took up a glove that more or less fit and a bracer.
“I used him as a demonstration for a reason,” Malcolm noted. “If you don’t use a glove at first, you’ll turn your fingers into mush. And you’ll never get over the need for a bracer. The bowstring slaps against the inside of your arm with each shot. In fact, metal bracers are arguably necessary for combat archery, although they should have something on the inner side to shield the bowstring.”
“How many shots?” Herzer asked, pulling at the string to get a feel for the draw. He could feel his latissimus dorsae muscle protesting already; he was seriously out of shape. Despite that, he knew he could pass the initial test and probably the “combat shooting” test. But if he did, he’d be stuck as an archer.
“At least one,” Malcolm said from behind him.
“I’d like five,” Herzer replied. “And one ranging shot to get the feel of the bow.”
“Okay.”
Herzer could feel the eyes of the group on him as he drew the first arrow. He raised it to more or less the same angle as Malcolm and pushed the bow away from him, letting fly when the arrow was in-line to the target. It flew past and into the distance.
“Now we realize why I used apprentice arrows instead of good ones,” Malcolm said, dryly. “We’re going to lose a good few today.”
Herzer didn’t comment but simply picked up the next arrow and lowered the angle. He hadn’t considered, before, that he was taller than Malcolm and, apparently, had a longer reach. He drew the bow and fired and the arrow, wobbling badly from poor manufacture, thumped into the lower left quadrant of the target. He drew and fired the next four in succession, if not as fast as Malcolm then with nearly the same success.
“The boy does know how to shoot,” Malcolm said, accepting the bow from Herzer. “Take a break while I run the rest through.”
Herzer got some water and watched the others fire for a bit and then picked up the composite bow and a couple of arrows and went down a ways to another lane. Malcolm’s composite, not too surprisingly, had a slightly higher draw than Alyssa’s but not too terrible. He drove a few of the horrible arrows into the butt and then actually examined one. They had been inexpertly fletched and the shafts were rarely straight. After a moment he realized that he had no idea how to make one, so he wasn’t exactly the person to be criticizing.
He watched as Deann’s turn came up and, sure enough, the bow was far too long for her. She tried to fire it but the bottom kept hitting the ground and one of the recoils from the strike nearly slapped her in the face. After a few aborted shots she gave it over to Malcolm with bad grace and stomped off.
Finally the whole group had finished shooting and Malcolm called a break.
“Okay, Herzer, Rosio, Ngan, Earnest and Maskell, you stay here. The rest fall back until we complete this test.”
“I really don’t want to be an archer,” Herzer said quietly as the others were milling around.
“Why?” Malcolm asked, drawing him aside. “Herzer, damnit, we need archers! You’re trained. And you’ve got the build for it. What do you want to be, cavalry?”
“No, I want to be line infantry,” Herzer said just as quietly. “I can just fail the test. You know that.”<
br />
“Is that what you’re going to do?” D’Erle asked, furiously.
“No, I’m going to pass the damned thing. And then be a pain in the ass until you send me over to infantry.”
“Do that and I’ll boot you all the way out,” D’Erle warned.
“No you won’t,” Herzer replied, stubbornly. “Because you’re going to need good line infantry, too. Just let me walk.”
“Take the test,” Malcolm said after a moment. “Then we’ll talk.” He raised his head and looked over at the others. “Time to spread out.”
A group of workers came out and laid out boxes with arrows along the lanes, and another archer came out with more bows.
“Rather than have each of you wait on the others, we’re going to run all of you at once. You have to fire fifty arrows and you have to complete the course of fire in ten minutes. Pace yourself. You’re going to get tired. Initially try for twelve arrows per minute. I’ll call the minutes and you’ll have a person handing you the arrows and doing the count. All that you have to do is manipulate the bow.”
“Is that realistic?” Herzer asked. “I mean, in combat are we going to have someone handing us arrows?”
“Most of the time,” Malcolm said with a nod. “An archer is simply the most important member of a team. He’s just there to feed the bow. Others handle the logistics. Each archery team will have at least three people on it, one of whom is just there to feed the archer who in turn feeds the bow.”
“Oh.”
“This is a test of firing fifty arrows in ten minutes so that they at least make it to the ground at seventy-five meters. A fully trained archer will put out two hundred and fifty arrows in an hour at two hundred yards, hard enough to go through plate armor. This is baby steps, boys. Take your positions.”
“I’ll hand them to you steady, sir,” the boy by the arrows said. “And I’ll keep the count. There’s fifty-three in here in case some get dropped or broken.”
“Okay,” Herzer said. “What’s your name?”
“Trenton, sir,” the boy said.
“Just feed me, Trenton,” he said with a grin.
“Prepare to fire,” Malcolm called, lifting a sand-glass.
Herzer took the first arrow and a deep breath.
“Fire!”
It was just a bit like feeding the bow. Herzer had assumed that he would be able to ace the timed fire but in short order he realized just what an incredible workout it was. He was drawing on a fifty-kilo bow so each draw was the equivalent of using his back and shoulder muscles to lift fifty kilos. It was brutal work and he was quickly sweating profusely. He had fired fifteen arrows on the first minute but only nine on the second and he felt himself falling progressively further and further behind. Digging deep down inside he let himself drift, searching for the “zone” and picked up the pace despite the fire that seemed to spread through his back with each additional draw. For that matter, the leather bracer was not enough and each additional slap against his forearm was spreading waves of pain up his arm. He was going to have one hell of a bruise when he was done.
“Last minute!” Malcolm called.
“Twenty, sir!” Trenton said.
Herzer was not about to fail at this point. Forgotten was any interest in line infantry, he was simply not going to fail. “FEED ME!”
From somewhere he got a second wind and began slamming arrow after arrow downrange. He forgot to even try to hit the target and just concentrated on getting them all over the range line. It was getting nearly impossible to do a full draw but he slammed one after another out nonetheless until Malcolm called “TIME!”
Herzer lowered the bow to rest on the ground and stood, breathing deeply, grimacing at the pain in his arm.
“You went two over, sir, sorry,” Trenton said, taking the bow from him and getting a dipper of water.
“Well, one went short,” Malcolm said, walking up to their station to survey the result with a grimace.
“So I passed,” Herzer chuckled.
“Yeah,” Malcolm said with another grimace. “You’re the only one who passed. I told Edmund the test was too tough.”
“And you were right,” Talbot said, appearing behind them as if he had apported. “I thought you were going for line infantry, Herzer?”
“I was told I had to take the test, sir,” Herzer replied.
“And you’re the only one that passed,” Edmund frowned. “How did the others do?”
Malcolm thought about it for a moment with a frown then shrugged. “The average is about thirty in ten minutes, taking Herzer out of the group.”
“That’s still better than crossbow,” Edmund considered. “But not much.”
“Their wind is awful,” Malcolm commented. “I think they might be able to make archers, some day, but it will be a hell of a lot of work.”
“Did all of them make at least thirty?” Talbot asked.
“All but one,” Malcolm admitted.
“Drop the requirement to thirty and continue the testing,” Edmund said. “And you’re going to have to drive them.”
“I will. What about Herzer?”
“I should make him one of your assistants,” Talbot said, looking the still sweating boy up and down. “But I think we’ll go ahead and pass him on to the next testing station.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After the archery test they were served a light lunch and ate it sitting on the ground. Herzer quickly downed the strips of salty pork, which were served on flat-bread, and chewed manfully on some large crackers that were just about as hard as rocks. It seemed that all of the testing groups had been gathered together and he looked around at the figures, wondering what would come next.
After lunch his group was approached by a young man, probably a few years older than he and Deann but it was hard to tell. He was inordinately tall, taller than Herzer, which was unusual, and muscular with legs that looked like tree trunks. The man was wearing a heavy, open-faced helmet, articulated body armor, a metal-plated leather kilt, greaves and heavy leather boots. He looked at the group and waved them to their feet.
“My name is Sergeant Greg Donahue,” the man said. “You will address me as Sergeant Donahue. I do not respond to ‘Hey, you’ or ‘Sarge.’ I hope you’re all fed and watered, because we’ve got a bit of work to do. Follow me.”
He led them across the area, behind where more groups were preparing for the archery test, then westward towards the hills flanking the valley until he reached the base of a high hill that had to be near the river. On the ground were a large number of leather rucksacks arranged in a formation. On the side towards the hill was another sack, standing all alone. The young man walked to that sack and turned towards them.
“Everyone take a position by one of the sacks,” he said, standing by his own sack with his feet spread and his hands locked behind his back. He waited until they were in position and cleared his throat.
“This town is called Raven’s Mill. But since ravens are not native to this area, that begs the question: Why? Once upon a time a man lived in this area who was attempting to develop talking ravens, ones with nearly full human intelligence. In time he tired of the quest and released his ravens into the wild. Most of them died but a few of the hardier specimens survived. They tended to congregate around this hill and it, in time, was called Raven’s Hill. Edmund Talbot, when he moved here, knew of the story and named the area for the ravens who had by that time died out completely.
“However, Master Edmund liked this hill for the same reason the ravens did, from the top of it you can see for miles. As such, for exercise, he had constructed a set of steps up the hill. Four hundred and twenty-three steps, to be precise. On the up side. There are three hundred and seventy-four on the down, which takes a slightly different path.” He paused and nodded at someone behind the group.
Herzer turned involuntarily and saw the man who had been at the initial entry processing. He was easier to examine now and Herzer realized he must be about the sa
me age as Edmund Talbot. He was tall and lean with gray, cold eyes and wearing the same outfit as Sergeant Donahue.
Herzer snapped his head around as the man snarled: “EYES FRONT!”
Sergeant Donahue nodded and continued. “We will be testing your ability to do the single most important function of the infantryman: Walking. You have been tested for adequate upper body strength and later we’ll find out if you have the single-minded aggressiveness to be functional line infantry. And if you don’t, we’ll either weed you out or teach it to you. But for now, we have to know if you can keep up. If you can ‘hang.’ ” He nodded grimly at the faces as the test sank in. “So now if you’ll pick up the rucksacks and put them on your back, we can begin. Make sure they’re comfortable. I will set the pace. Anyone who falls behind Gunnery Sergeant Rutherford is disqualified.”
Herzer hoisted the ruck and settled it on his back, adjusting the leather straps as best he could. They had buckles but it was a pain to adjust them while they were on, so he unshipped his, changed the settings and then put it back on. It was heavy as hell, probably sixty to eighty kilos. He looked up the hill and suddenly regretted even the skimpy meal they had been given.
Donahue nodded as the last pack was settled and then walked among the group checking their fit. He adjusted one or two, then walked back to his place.
“We’ll start on the flats so that everyone can become accustomed to the weight and then we’ll see if you can handle the Hill.”
He settled them in a double file and marched them back towards the main encampment, keeping to some of the better leveled roads. They marched almost down to the creek that ran through the center of the encampment and then turned to a trail along the base of the northern hills. This led in a curve back to just before their starting point and Herzer got the first look at the steps. They appeared to go straight up.
“Single file, keep closed up, follow me,” Donahue said, stepping onto the first step.
Herzer was about a third of the way back and as he reached the steps he looked up and got dizzy; the stairs seemed to be wavering and he had a moment of vertigo.
