All heads in the other group turned to look at Kestrel, and he saw nothing in their expressions warmer than curiosity, though there was no outright hostility as the guards examined his humanesque features.
“Who are you?” one of the guards asked.
“Kestrel, from Elmheng,” he replied. “I came here as a courier and have to wait for my new assignment.”
There was a round of glances exchanged. “Are you human?” one of the women at the table asked.
“Partly,” Kestrel answered. “Mostly elf,” he added.
“A bow isn’t a human weapon; they use swords,” another guard chimed in.
“And I’m an elf,” Kestrel clarified.
“Let him come along,” the woman decided.
“Got a taste for something exotic, Vinetia?” one of the other guards chided her immediately. “You have to take him as your doubles partner.”
“Oh for the love of branch and leaf – grow up, Hitchens!” Vinetia growled. “Are you any good?” she spoke directly to Kestrel.
He studied her, a stout elf guard who was studying him in return. “I think I‘m pretty good,” he answered.
“I’ll trust you on that, for now,” she answered ominously.
“Vinetia, look at it this way, even if you don’t win the competition, the two of you can still try to win the scariest couple contest,” one of the other guards jibed, but Kestrel could hear the humor in the man’s voice, and recognized the camaraderie of squad members who had served together.
Everyone started to rise, and Kestrel stood as well. “Go on, go get your bow and arrow. I’ll meet you outside the commissary,” Vinetia told him, starting Kestrel off on a jog back to his room to retrieve his weapon. Minutes later he was among the group that left the guard compound to walk through the city towards the competition grounds.
Center Trunk felt vast to Kestrel, after having spent his life in Elmheng. The walk to the competition grounds took him through both busy commercial areas and crowded residential areas, where he realized more elves lived than he had ever seen together before. The end of the stroll across the city was a large field where few trees grew. Ropes and barriers created numerous separate competition areas, and several competitions were already underway around the periphery of the field, with the twang of bow strings constantly sounding throughout the area.
“We register here,” Vinetia told Kestrel as she grabbed his arm and led him towards a line that waited at a table. “We’re going to register as individuals, and as a team,” she told him. “That lets us compete both ways – so if one of us has a bad match, we can stay in competition, provided the partner has a decent match.”
“How big is the field for a match?” Kestrel asked her.
“For these qualifying matches this morning there will be twenty five shooting in each match, and the top five will go on to the next round,” Vinetia explained as they inched forward. “The ones who don’t qualify get a second chance, but only the top competitor from the consolation matches goes on.
“Then this afternoon, everyone who made it through the morning goes through the second round – along with their partners, if they have one, where the organizers move the targets back further, and the game starts to get challenging. Only the top three of each match move on, and eventually the tournament comes down to a final field of a dozen or so, where we get a winner to be the princess’s champion for the year,” she summed up as they reached the table and completed their registration, the official at the table giving Kestrel an unfriendly look before distributing colored arm bands that denoted their competition fields and starting times.
“Is there a place to practice?” Kestrel asked, concerned that he hadn’t used or even checked his equipment in several days.
“No time for that, rookie,” his partner told him. “We did that this morning before breakfast. You’ve got to do your homework in advance.”
“You go that way, I’m over here,” Vinetia gave Kestrel a gentle shove. “After the match, let them know you’re my partner, and meet me over there,” she pointed to a solitary linden tree. “That’s where our squad usually meets; if there’s a fight, which has been known to happen, stick with our side – the judge has a son in our squad,” she winked at him, then sent him on his way. “There’s the red flag flying over at the far field – that’s you! Get over there and hit your targets!”
Kestrel hustled across the competition spaces to get to the target range where the red flag was flying, and arrived barely in time, as some competitors were already shooting their first arrows.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” a proctor told him as he raced down to a vacant spot at the end of the line. “If you don’t get you first shot off before one of the others fires his second shot, you’ll be disqualified.”
Kestrel hurriedly pulled an arrow from his quiver as he ran to his spot, and dumped his equipment on the ground. He saw a competitor already sighting his second shot, and he realized he would have to get a shot off without any hope of scoring the target. He raised his bow, placed his arrow on the string, took cursory aim at his target, and released his shot. A split second later he saw the second arrow fly from the competitor’s bow.
“You got it off; you’re in the competition,” the proctor told him, standing behind him. “For now. You’ve only got eight shots in this competition, and you’ve just wasted one of them,” he nodded across the green space that separated the competitors from their targets. Kestrel turned and saw that his arrow was stuck in the ground just in front of the target.
Kestrel realized that his circumstances were dire; losing one out of eight shots in a competition was a difficult handicap to overcome against good marksmen. He examined his bow, tightening the string slightly and adjusting the mark he used to sight his target, then carefully looked through his arrows, selecting one that he knew was his straightest, truest shaft. He carefully took his time aiming his second shot, and when he released it, he watched with satisfaction as the bolt flew straight and true towards the center of the target, where it landed with a resounding thud. He was holding his breath he realized, and he exhaled in relief at the success of the shot that gave him a chance to get back into the competition.
He picked out another reliable shaft, tinkered with his sight bead slightly, then released his third shot, one that landed just a finger’s-breadth away from his first. He looked down the long line of the targets that the other archers were shooting at, and saw several that already had three shafts in the center. Despite his two successful shots, he still had no margin for error.
His next two arrows were also in the center of his target, but also depleted his limited supply of high quality shafts. His last three shots would be made with his supply of cheap, second-quality arrows that each had flaws of some sort. He picked a green arrow with faulty fletchings, which we worked to try to bolster, then let his shot go. The sound of the flight as the bolt left his bow indicated that the arrow would not fly true, but it only deviated slightly to the left, and landed just outside the center ring.
Most of the other competitors were finished. He looked at their targets and calculated the scores of the best of them. If he could put his last two shots in the center, he would become the fifth qualifier from this group. With the arrows he had left, that would be a tough task. The faulty arrows were more than adequate to hit a large target, such as a turkey or deer in the forest, but for the fine control needed in this competition they put him at a disadvantage.
He pulled another arrow out at random, inspected it, bent the yellow shaft slightly to try to correct its flaw, then tweaked the fletching as well. He guessed that it would drop more than it should, so he raised his aim slightly, then let it fly, and held his breath as he listened to it and watched it wobble though the air before landing just inside the center circle.
There was a small audience gathered behind him, watching him finish as the last competitor, and he heard snippets of their conversations despite his effort to stay focused on his game. “That
was a great shot,” one voice said. “Too bad he’s as ugly as those arrows he’s using,” someone responded. “He hardly looks like an elf.”
Kestrel selected the arrow for his last shot. The shaft was warped; the fletchings had a gap on one side, and the head was wobbly loose. He’d never gone into a competition with such awful arrows before, and once he finished his shot he’d go in search of better arrows for his next round of competition. Always be prepared, one of his instructors back at Elmheng had told him, and he regretted that he hadn’t followed that advice for this competition.
He tinkered with the arrow, then placed it on the string, and drew the string back. He tried to guess how the shaft would deviate from a true flight, and then adjusted his aim. With one last moment of delay, he pulled his fingers off the string and released the arrow.
The shot tried to stay on course. He could see that the arrow wanted to fly towards the center of the target. It seemed to jump and swoop through the air as it pulled itself back into the path it needed to fly. Then just before it found the target it lurched downward and struck the target just below the center. The group behind him let out a collective groan, and then Kestrel released his own breath noisily. He was out of the competition. Just like that. He thought about all the things that could have changed his fate – if he had shot his first arrow competitively, if he had brought better arrows, if he had practiced before the competition, but mostly if he had brought better arrows.
Someone slapped him on the back. “Shoot like that in the consolation round and you’ll have a chance,” a voice said, and then the group wandered away.
Kestrel walked up to the target and collected his arrows, then returned to pick up his bow and quiver. “When will the consolation round begin?” he asked a proctor.
“In about a half hour, over where the green striped flag is flying,” the proctor answered.
Kestrel began running towards where the green flag was waving in the breeze, scanning the field in search of vendors with arrows for sale. He spotted a table with a collection of arrows strewn across it, and veered in that direction. He jostled through the crowd in front of the table and examined the assortment of shafts closely. He picked up two arrows that seemed of the highest quality, looked along their lines, ran his fingers long the feather fletchings, and tugged at the bindings.
“How much for these two arrows?” he asked the woman who stood behind the table.
“They’re not for sale to you,” she said bluntly. “We don’t sell to the likes of you. Now move along and let the paying customers handle the merchandise,” she ordered.
Kestrel felt himself turn white as the blood drained from his face. It was a situation he had faced before, and he knew he had no recourse. He put the arrows back down on the table with a mixture of anger and remorse, then turned away from the table and began to stalk towards the green and white flag. He’d only gotten fifty yards away from the arrow vendor when there was a sudden eruption of screams from the table.
“It’s a sprite!” he heard someone shout. He turned and saw a flash of blue momentarily, then the sprite disappeared. A second later there was a noise behind him and he turned as he felt the sprite stuff two arrows into his quiver, while the elves around him began to shout.
The sprite disappeared once again, as Kestrel whirled around in a full circle, confused by the noise and commotion that surrounded him. He looked in all directions trying to spot the sprite – he’d only had a momentary glimpse of the small blue body, but he had no doubt that it had to be Dewberry, who for some reason had tracked him to the elven festival.
There was no sign of the sprite any longer amid the chaos in the field. With a shove of his shoulder, Kestrel broke through the crowd that surrounded him and ran in a beeline towards the field where the consolation contest was about to begin. The number of competitors was numbing, he admitted to himself as he arrived and took a spot along the line of archers. Only one winner would be taken from the whole field, he realized, knowing that he had to achieve his best effort in order to capture this second chance.
He began looking through his quiver, examining the two arrows that Dewberry had hastily deposited there. They were the exact two arrows he had wanted to buy from the bigoted arrow vendor, beautifully straight shafts that promised to fly through air on a true and reliable line to the target. Together with his other good shafts he now had seven good arrows, enough to let him be competitive in the upcoming challenge.
There were directions being shouted by a proctor at the far end of the line, but Kestrel couldn’t understand the words that floated down to his group of competitors, many of whom were busily chatting with each other, ignoring the proctor.
“What is he saying?” Kestrel asked the woman next to him in line.
“The usual: ten arrows, top score wins,” the woman replied.
“Thanks,” Kestrel replied, worrying anew at the realization that the greater number of arrows negated the sprite’s kind deed. He knew he would still have to rely on faulty arrows to succeed in this win-or-go-home competition.
A loud drum sounded, and a dozen arrows flew at the target. Kestrel calmly aimed his first arrow and let it fly, scoring a solid center score, then he took one of the shafts that Dewberry had given him and shot it as well. The sound of its flight was a silent whisper that was pure pleasure, and it flew in a straight trajectory that ended in the center of Kestrel’s target. He shot two more bolts from his stock of good arrows, and both went comfortably into the center. So far he had taken four shots and scored four direct hits in the center; looking down the line he saw only two others who had done so well.
He pulled out the other shaft that the sprite had pilfered on his behalf, and sent it directly at the center of the target as well, landing so close to his first shot that the shafts touched one another. He fired his last two reliable shafts as well, and then stopped to evaluate his position.
Kestrel had scored seven out of seven in the center of the target; he saw no one else with more than six center hits. That gave him an advantage, but the advantage would disappear once he had to start trying to adjust and anticipate the unpredictable behavior of his secondary shafts.
“There! Him! He’s the one. The ugly one that looks like a human stole my arrows,” a raucous voice shouted nearby.
Kestrel turned to see the vendor from the arrow table stalking towards him, with a pair of local constables.
All the contestants nearby stopped their shots to watch the unfolding drama.
“He sent the sprite to steal my arrows,” the vendor said as the trio reached Kestrel’s position.
“I did not send a sprite to steal any arrows,” Kestrel replied.
“Really? You dragged us over here to accuse someone of directing a sprite-based criminal ring?” the senior constable asked the vendor in an ominously low voice.
“Do you want to have her put in the cells for demeaning your name?” the other constable turned to Kestrel and asked.
“You can’t be serious!” the vendor screeched. “You can’t let a human half-breed get away with this thievery!”
“Lady, put a wad of leaves in your mouth and stop interrupting this match,” the first constable spoke sternly. “We apologize to all of you for bothering your competition,” he said as he began to drag the arrow seller away.
Rattled and relieved, Kestrel turned and faced the target, his face blushing a bright red. He kept his head down, aware of the scrutiny that was centered on him. He selected the best arrow he had left, then rose and tried to focus on the target.
His shot flew wildly towards the target before it finally hit the outer ring weakly.
There was a murmur from people behind him, and he realized that he was once again the last contestant left to finish. A number of targets had already been taken down from archers who were out of the running, leaving only four targets standing. Kestrel looked at them, and realized that he needed to get one more arrow in the center to tie, and both of his last two in the center to win
outright.
The yellow shaft came out of the bag next. He had anticipated its drop in flight correctly in the last round of the competition, and he was sure it was still the right way to aim the arrow. He corrected slightly, moving his aim just slightly lower, and a hair to the right, then released the shot. It flew in virtually the same path it had used before, and stuck securely in the center of the target.
He was at least in a tie! There was a slight stirring behind him, but no applause, suggesting that his audience was primarily the other participants he was competing with.
He pulled out another slightly bent shaft, the one that had flown to the left last time. He gently rubbed the wood, then gave it a slight bend, hoping to improve it. He held it up for inspection, and felt the eyes of the other archers examining it closely. He placed in on his string, then gave it one more adjustment. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then opened them and aimed at the right edge of the center, and calmly released his hold on the string and the arrow, and let his hopes fly through the air.
The arrow started straight, then began to drift left, as he had expected. He watched the ongoing sideways motion as the bolt flew towards the target, and by the time it arrived it was only slightly left of the center of the center portion of the target, scoring a victory for him, and first eliciting a sound of groans, and then a slight smattering of polite applause, except for one enthusiastic pair of hands clapping loudly.
“That’s my partner!” Vinetia told anyone who was listening. “What are you doing here in the consolation flight when you’re shooting like that?” she pointed at the thick cluster of arrows in the center of his target.
“Not that you even needed to be here, since I qualified cleanly in my flight,” she told him, walking with him to the target to retrieve his arrows. “Let’s get to the linden tree and meet the rest of the squad; we’ve got time before the next round.” Together they walked away from the field where the green-striped flag was being taken down from the pole.
The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 01 - The Healing Spring Page 8
