The kid took a couple more throws and on the third one managed to throw it so that it stuck. Tarc could tell it was a good throw so he guided enough that it hit pretty close to the X.
Finished stacking things on Tarc’s wagon, Jeff had just stepped up. “What the hell kind of throw is that?” he asked.
Jerking a thumb at Tarc, the kid said, “This guy’s teaching me to throw with the ‘no-spin’ technique.” He threw again. Tarc could feel that the knife was going to rotate too much, but this time he straightened it for the kid and also guided it right to the X. As it stood quivering in the center of the X the kid turned to Jeff with a raised eyebrow, “You think you might want to learn this ‘kind of throw’?”
Tarc turned and got back in the wagon.
The kid said, “Hey, aren’t you going to teach Jeff how to throw?”
“You’ve got it,” Tarc said, shrugging. “You teach him. I’ve got chores.” He clucked to Shogun and they pulled away. He wondered uncomfortably what they were going to think when the rest of their throws didn’t go as well as the first few.
Back in the stable he unloaded the last few things off the wagon and untacked Shogun. Things hadn’t looked really busy when he’d delivered the stuff to the porch behind the kitchen so Tarc took a guilty moment to throw his knife a few times at a funny twist in the grain of the wood on the wall at the back of Shogun’s stall. He shook his head. He’d been able to hit the mark, but it was a struggle. His knife was just about as heavy as he could possibly control and it wasn’t balanced very well for throwing. He walked back into the kitchen wondering if he could trade it for a better one.
Eva looked up as Tarc came in. Looking a little harried she said, “Sheriff Walters is here! Daussie has already taken out some plates, but it would be nice if you could take the rest of them.”
Irritated to be back on serving duty, Tarc picked up the plates, stacking several up his arm. Out in the big room Tarc saw the Sheriff and seven of his men sitting at the big table. Walters was a big man. He used to be large and powerful they said, but now had run mostly to fat. On top of the taxes he charged, he frequently dropped by the businesses in town, expecting their particular services to be provided gratis. Though the townspeople complained about his taxes, the town hadn’t been attacked for years and they all respected him for that. He and his deputies also maintained fairly good order which held great import for the businessmen.
Daussie had already served the Sheriff and the men next to him. Tarc began setting plates down in front of the other men. He noticed with some uneasiness that most of the men’s eyes followed Daussie as she headed back to the kitchen.
Daum stopped Tarc before he could go back to the kitchen. “You bring the Sheriff and his men mugs of beer. I’m going to try to talk to the Sheriff about those hard looking men that have been coming through.”
Tarc went behind the bar and got down four mugs. He began filling them with beer while watching what was going on. Uneasily, he noted that the deputies looked rather soft in comparison to the strangers who’d been stopping at the tavern recently.
The table the Sheriff and his men were sitting at only had eight seats. Daum pulled a chair up next to the Sheriff where he sat at the end of the table. Tarc thought the Sheriff looked irritated, but that didn’t keep the big man from digging into his mashed potatoes.
Tarc couldn’t really hear the conversation between his father and the Sheriff, especially over the jovial gab of the deputies. However, when Tarc delivered the beer, the Sheriff was waving a hand in dismissal and saying, “Yes, yes, I’ve heard about those men from my deputies. You just keep letting my men know if they even look like they might cause trouble. If they actually do raise a ruckus, we’ll take care of them.” He turned back to the table, “We run a tight ship here, right boys?”
The Sheriff’s men all grinned and made noises of affirmation.
Daum got up with a frustrated look on his face. He walked back to the bar with Tarc, saying, “I’ll take out the other four beers, you get back to your chores.”
As Tarc walked back to the kitchen, the big door opened and some more lunch customers came in. He glanced uneasily to see if any of them were the kind of tough looking strangers that had been concerning them. He wondered at his sense of mild anxiety that some of the strangers might come in right then. It seemed that he should be hoping some of those strangers would arrive while the Sheriff and his men were there to check them out.
The people who came through the door were all townspeople Tarc noted with some relief.
But as he took the buckets out for more water, he wondered again just how well the deputies would do against the kind of hard men that been stopping in the tavern recently.
***
Jacob and Tarc walked to the armory together, Jacob excitedly telling Tarc about a couple of strangers he’d seen. “They came in my family’s shop to get their boots repaired. Now I know what you mean when you say they looked, ‘hard.’ They were dirty, and their clothes were worn with patches, but made of heavy cloth. They weren’t hugely muscular like John the blacksmith, but you could tell they were strong. They weren’t wearing uniforms like a soldier would, but still; you got the feeling they were soldiers. Or maybe used to be.”
Tarc said, “My dad’s been worried about them. Why are there so many of them lately? He wonders if they are planning to rob us, or maybe someone else.”
Jacob scoffed, “They’d have to be crazy to do something like that. They wouldn’t get back out of the walls before the deputies were all over them.”
Tarc looked at his friend out of the corner of his eyes, “But there’s a lot of them. And… I’ve seen them next to our deputies. In a one-on-one fight with one of our deputies? I wouldn’t want to be betting on our guys.”
“Tarc, deputies don’t fight fair. There’s always more than one of them when they take someone on. Those guys might be tough, but they won’t be able to get away from an entire patrol.”
They were turning into the drill center so their argument ended with the last shot from Tarc, “There’s a lot of them. If they all came at once, the deputies would be in trouble.”
Tarc’s turn defending the wall went better this time. He was able to stop someone with his spear, and got in a good blow against another attacker who managed to climb the wall at Jacob’s position. He felt proud of himself, but realized that if he’d been up against Sergeant Garcia he certainly would’ve lost again.
They finished up their wall training a few minutes before the bell rang to switch to swords. Tarc went to Garcia, “Sarge, I’ve gotten interested in throwing knives. Could you give me a few pointers?”
Garcia smiled at him, “Sure, have you been trying to use a spin, or no spin technique?”
“No spin.”
“Let’s see your knife.”
Tarc got out his knife. His dad had given it to him for Christmas several years before. It was a good all-purpose knife with a wooden handle and a sheath. Garcia took it and said, “Well, this isn’t a bad knife for throwing compared to a lot of other knives out there. You’d do a lot better with a real throwing knife of course. They’re better balanced.” He lifted his chin, “Show me what you can do with this one.” He pointed at the practice wall, “Try to hit the big knot.”
Tarc looked at the wall. He’d never noticed before that there was one knot that was quite large at about 3 to 4 inches in diameter. The wall was moderately splintered around it, as if Tarc would not be the first to use it as a target. They were 30 feet from the wall, fairly far compared to the distances Tarc had thrown his knife so far. He was tempted to walk closer, but instead simply threw it from where he stood. He guided it with his ghost, but the knife was large and at that distance he had little effect near the end of its travel. Nonetheless, it did stick in the wood right at the edge of the knot.
Garcia slapped him on the shoulder, “Not bad! Was that luck or skill?”
Tarc shrugged. Garcia pulled one of his two throwing knives out of i
ts sheath and handed it to Tarc. “Show me how you’re holding it.”
Tarc took the knife, excited to be allowed to handle a real throwing knife. However, as soon as he had it in his hand he was dismayed to realize that it was quite heavy. He would have trouble controlling it with his ghost. He showed Garcia the way he’d been gripping the knife.
Garcia had him place his index finger out straight along the back of the knife. Then he gave Tarc some pointers on how to throw, guiding his arm and body through the motions slowly with his hands. “Stroke that pointer finger off the back of the handle as the knife leaves your hand. That’ll slow down any last bits of rotation and help prevent spin.” Tarc went through the motion by himself; then Garcia said, “Okay, try to put that one in the knot.”
Tarc went through the throwing motion slowly one more time; then threw it. He guided it to the knot as best he could, though it was hard to influence such a heavy knife very much. This time it hit about an inch from the edge of the knot, burying its point on the opposite side from Tarc’s own knife.
Garcia slapped him on the shoulder again, “Get out! Are you really that good?”
Tarc had been feeling embarrassed that he hadn’t hit the knot with either throw, but now realized that even hitting close from 30 feet must be pretty good. The sergeant proved that by throwing his own knife next. It stuck in an inch to the left and about 5 inches high. Tarc trotted down to the wall and got all three knives. When he got back to Garcia he was hoping the sergeant would give him some more pointers and let him throw the sergeant’s knives a few more times, but the bell rang.
“No rest for the wicked,” Garcia laughed, taking his knives. He winked, “If you’re that good with the sword, your opponents are in for a rough time today. We’ll throw knives again some other day.”
Tarc’s ghost provided no help with the sword so he took a couple of good beatings in the practice ring. His distraction with thoughts about throwing knives probably contributed something to his losses.
They moved on to archery. Tarc felt very excited over the prospect of trying to guide an arrow with his ghost. After all they didn’t carry much weight and so he should have fairly good control. Unfortunately, they flew a long way and he would have little influence at distance.
Grabbing a bracer and a marked bow with blue, Tarc picked up a quiver of arrows and moved to the shooting line. The first arrow he pulled out had a slight bow to it. Unfortunately, almost all of the practice arrows had minor flaws. The best arrows stood in quivers at the wall tower armories, ready to be distributed in case of an attack. He nocked it on the bowstring, then brought the bow up and pushed his left hand out. Seeing his target over the tip of the arrow, he let fly.
Tarc’s ghost let him feel that the arrow’s track would fly slightly to the left. He used his talent to guide it back to the right. He could also feel that he hadn’t lofted the arrow enough. He lifted the head of the arrow and it flew a little higher, however he could tell that this also slowed the arrow. In fact when it struck the target, it hit just below the yellow bullseye but penetrated poorly. It dangled sadly from its point.
Sergeant Banes chose this moment to arrive behind Tarc, “Well, young Hyllis, good aim, but that shot lacked oomph. T’would merely piss off our enemy, eh?”
“Yes sir,” Tarc said, feeling disappointed. He thought that striking so close to the bullseye deserved more praise. Pulling another arrow, he nocked it and fired again. This time he intentionally aimed a little high. As it left the bow he could tell it would miss the entire target without the influence of his ghost. However, he reached out and pulled the tip down, feeling surprise that somehow his ghost knew just how much to lower the tip to compensate for his initially high aim. His ghost followed the arrow to the target, influencing it less and less as it traveled, but having some effect right up to the moment it buried its head deeply into the exact center of the bullseye!
“Ho! Young Hyllis!” Banes began a slow clap which brought all the other archers’ attention to Tarc’s target. He bellowed so everyone at the line would hear, “I’ll buy a beer at Hyllis’ tavern for anyone who beats that shot today!”
Tarc felt his cheeks heating as everyone turned to stare at him. He heard a number of them muttering, “lucky,” but nonetheless enjoyed feeling their envy. Worried that he shouldn’t suddenly gain an astonishing ability in archery for fear people might suspect his talent; he didn’t follow that shot with more bullseyes. Instead he purposefully took aim at a spot in the red ring that surrounded the bullseye. He buried his next arrow exactly where he aimed, on the inside border of the circle of red paint just to the right of the yellow center. The next one he put on the edge of the red paint directly below the yellow bullseye. About to place one the same distance to the left, he realized that he was forming a pattern on the target that anyone would recognize had been purposeful. Instead, he continued placing arrows within an inch or so of where he aimed them, but aiming them at various locations that he tried to make look random. He put some in the yellow center, and some in the red ring around it, but none as far out as the blue second ring.
His sudden ability to place arrows almost exactly where he wanted them to go sent a sudden rash of goosebumps run down his right side. Glancing right and left he saw that, even purposefully scattering his shots, his arrows clustered much tighter than anyone else’s. Banes noticed this too and came over to stand behind him. “Where did this sudden ability come from Hyllis?”
Thinking that Banes didn’t know the half of his new ability, Tarc shrugged and said, “I think I’ve just gotten strong enough to use the blue bow without trembling sir.” With a sudden thought he followed up by saying, “Those pointers you gave me last time have really taken hold today.” He hoped the sergeant didn’t remember just how badly he’d shot last week.
The sergeant stood staring at Tarc’s target for a moment, then said musingly, “Last week… you shot terribly. This week… you’re shooting so well I’d swear you must have snuck down there and stuck the arrows in the target by hand!” He turned and looked at Tarc, then looked back down at the targets and said, “Well, young Hyllis, if you can keep shooting like that; you’ll be helping your father defend the town from the towers.”
The towers! Tarc thought with a thrill of excitement. The towers were where the very best archers stood to pick off enemy commanders. The very assignment he’d always dreamed of…
On their walk back home Jacob excitedly asked, “Can you teach me to shoot like that?”
“Uh,” Tarc said, unsure how to respond. “I can try, but I think Sgt. Banes can probably teach you a lot better than I can.”
“Oh come on!” Jacob said dancing a few steps alongside Tarc as they walked, “Even Banes puts some in the blue ring sometimes. All of yours were in the yellow or the red!”
Tarc suddenly realized he’d never watched Banes shooting. He’d never thought that the town’s master archer might put some in the blue ring. To Jacob he said, “I think I was just… really lucky today. I probably won’t do that well in the future and if I do, I wouldn’t know how to teach you. Banes has been teaching forever!”
“I saw you throwing knives with Garcia. You’re really good at that too. I’ve got a couple of small throwing knives my uncle left me. I’ll give you one, if you’ll teach me how to throw and shoot.”
Tarc had been wondering how he could get a small throwing knife. One more suited to control by his ghost. He’d considered visiting John the blacksmith to look over the knives the smith had for sale. Unfortunately, Tarc knew those knives would cost far more than he could afford on the tiny share of the tavern’s earnings that his parents paid him each week. Perhaps if he traded in his own knife and used some of the little money he’d saved, he could get a knife better balanced for throwing? However, he didn’t think his father would be happy if Tarc traded his working knife for one designed as a weapon.
Knowing that he couldn’t actually teach his friend archery or knife throwing Tarc decided it would be dish
onest to make the trade. “I’ll try to teach you, but you don’t need to give me anything unless you actually do get a lot better.”
“You’ve got a deal!” Jacob put out his hand and Tarc slapped it.
***
Tarc carried in the last two buckets of barley malt and poured it into the tank. Daum came in from the kitchen side of the brew room carrying buckets of hot water. Daum had been at his own drill practice, though his practices were much shorter. He only had to maintain the skills he already had after all.
Tarc was glad to see him. Even though Tarc felt that he understood the brewing process pretty well, he always feared that he might make a mistake and ruin an entire batch when Daum left him to do some of the steps alone.
Daum quickly quizzed Tarc on what he had done so far. Pleased with Tarc’s answers, he grinned at his son and said, “We’ll make a brewer out of you yet.” As Daum and Tarc stirred the wort, Daum looked up at him and said, “Sgt. Banes says you did fairly well at archery earlier this week?”
Tarc shrugged.
“Don’t shrug at me boy. That’s something to be proud of.”
“Yes Dad.”
Daum studied his son for a moment; then said, “He also told me you shot terribly the week before?”
Tarc nodded.
Daum grinned at him. “So, this week you used your talent to guide the arrows?”
Sudden realization washed over Tarc. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t grasped that the reason Daum was an archer had to do with Daum’s talent. “Yes,” he breathed. “You guide your arrows too, don’t you?”
Daum nodded, but gave a little shrug. “But it doesn’t help all that much. By the time I can tell exactly how the arrow is going to miss, it’s so far away that I can’t influence it much anymore. I have to shoot it pretty well in the first place.” He narrowed his eyes at his son, “From what the sergeant says, either your basic archery skills are much better than I would think, or somehow you’re able to do something different than I can with your talent?”
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