Path of the Specialist

by Pedro Urvi

  “Lasgol, do you want to add anything to my decision?”

  “No, Mother Specialist. It’s the right decision.”

  Ingrid was unable to stay quiet. “It’s not the right decision,” she said.

  “It’s my decision, and for that reason you will accept it,” Sigrid said, and grasped the staff she was carrying at her back. She struck the ground with it, and it gave out a silver flash. Ingrid and Isgord were startled, but Engla and Ivar put their hands on their shoulders to restrain them.

  “Listen to me carefully,” Sigrid said. “I’m the Leader of the Shelter, and my word is law here. You will do as I tell you, always. The decision has been taken. There will be no more fighting, no more attempts on anybody’s life, neither that of Lasgol nor that of Isgord, as long as they’re at the Shelter. Not by you, or by any of your colleagues. If there are any such attempts, you two will pay, and you will pay with your lives. I swear this.” She pointed the staff threateningly at them. “Do you understand my words?”

  They both nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Mother Specialist,” Lasgol said, trying to ease the situation.

  “I want to hear it from their lips.”

  Ingrid’s jaw was clenched. She would have killed Isgord gladly there and then, but she had to restrain herself and accept Sigrid’s orders.

  “There won’t be any more fighting,” she said through gritted teeth. “And no attempts on his life.”

  “Good. Do I have your word?”

  Ingrid swallowed. “Yes, I swear it on my honor.”

  “Isgord?”

  “I swear on my honor, there’ll be no fighting and no attempts on Lasgol’s life.”

  “That’s the way I like it. Annika, have you set it down in the Logbook of the Shelter?”

  “Both oaths have been duly noted.”

  “If you break your oaths, I will execute you myself at this site of power. I am within my authority as Leader.” She said this so sternly that Lasgol shivered.

  “The Mother Specialist has spoken,” Annika said, and closed the tome.

  “Go now, and always remember that your oath has been recorded, as well as the sentence of death if you should break it.”

  The glance Isgord gave Lasgol was charged with venom, and he lost no time in retreating rapidly. Ingrid and Lasgol bowed respectfully to the Elders and left. Lasgol was not all happy with the sentence; he knew in his heart that Isgord had acted on purpose, but on the other hand he did not want him to be hanged. He did not want his blood on his hands. One day Isgord would get what he deserved, but he did not want to send him to his death, however mean he might be or how much he might deserve it. Viggo would have called him sentimental and weak, but he did not want anybody’s death on his conscience. He was sorry for Ingrid, who was cursing aloud as they went down the hill towards the entrance to the Lair.

  When they got there, the entire group was waiting for them.

  “What happened?” Erika asked them, wide-eyed.

  “Nothing good,” Ingrid replied.

  “That viper’s back,” Viggo said with a nod toward Isgord, who had rejoined his ‘best’ group and was strutting about as if he had won the trial Sigrid had subjected them to.

  “I’d better tell you what happened,” Lasgol said, “as there are repercussions for all of us.” And in a calm, quiet voice he told them everything.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Viggo protested. “What do you mean, we can’t get rid of him?”

  “No fighting and no attempts on his life by anybody,” Lasgol told them all. “And that includes all of us.”

  “It’s not a fair verdict,” Astrid said, and her eyes glittered with rage.

  “That’s what I said myself,” Ingrid agreed.

  “Given the evidence, it’s the most prudent one,” Molak said.

  “You’re always Captain Fantastic,” Viggo reproached him, “so you needn’t always agree with the Mother Specialist.”

  “I don’t agree with her verdict because of who she is, but because I think it’s the right decision.”

  “Bah!”

  Ingrid was shaking her head. She did not agree with Molak.

  “We’d better be careful,” Lasgol pointed out. “A fight can break out for all sorts of reasons.”

  “We’d better avoid him,” said Luca. “Ignore him. That way there won’t be any conflict.”

  “Yeah,” Molak said, “that’s what we’ll have to do until the end of the year, particularly you two,” he added, and jabbed his finger at Ingrid and Viggo.

  “I won’t touch a single hair on his head,” Ingrid said.

  “Nor me, as long as he’s in the Shelter,” Viggo said. “One day we’ll settle accounts, once we’re out of here.”

  “Well said. I’m with you,” Astrid said to him, and they exchanged a somber look.

  Lasgol was troubled about this. He had caught something sinister and complicit in that look. They weren’t going to take justice into their own hands, were they? That would be a terrible thing which he did not want in the least. Granted, Isgord was despicable, more than he had originally imagined, but he did not want Astrid or Viggo, using what they would learn in the specialty of Expertise, to go after him and kill him. The mere thought of that made him shiver.

  That evening Lasgol was playing with Camu, trying to get away from everything that had happened and relax a little. It had been an extremely unpleasant experience, and all he wanted to do was leave it behind and have some fun with his little friend.

  He was throwing a stick and trying to make Camu bring it back the way he had once done with his dog. But Camu was not a dog and refused to bring him the stick.

  Bring the stick, little one.

  You throw.

  Yes, I throw it and you bring it back to me. It’s a fun game.

  Camu looked at him, then at the stick, then back at him with his bulging eyes.

  You bring.

  No... I throw it and you bring it to me. It’s fun.

  Camu looked at the stick again and then at Lasgol.

  Not fun.

  Yes, it’s fun, like when we play hide-and-seek.

  Hide-and-seek fun.

  That’s right. So is the stick.

  Stick not fun.

  Lasgol rolled his eyes and gave up.

  “He’s not a dog, so you can’t play with him as if he were,” said a voice coming from the forest behind him.

  Taken by surprise, Lasgol started and turned around like lightning. “Astrid!”

  She smiled. “Relax, it’s only me.”

  “You startled me,” he said with his hand on his chest.

  “You know I keep an eye on you... because of what happened.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Yeah, but sometimes I forget.”

  “That’s because you’re having fun.”

  “Very true.”

  Camu came running to greet Astrid the moment he saw her. He leapt on to her chest and began to lick her cheek.

  She stroked his head. “Hi, Camu, did you miss me?”

  Camu, delighted with the fuss, gave several little shrieks of joy and wagged his tail happily.

  “He loves being made a fuss of,” Lasgol said.

  “I noticed that when I had him with me,” she replied, smiling.

  “He seems to like you.”

  She good.

  Yes, she is.

  She look after me.

  Yes, when we were in the King’s dungeons.

  Like her.

  Lasgol smiled. Yeah, I like her too.

  “Are you talking to him?” Astrid asked.

  “Yes, sorry. We exchange mental messages.”

  “That’s amazing, and at the same time very weird.”

  “Is it really?”

  “All your skills are, but this one... to be able to communicate with animals, is really awesome.”

  “Except that really I can only communicate with Camu. With other animals I can only send messages, but not receive them. I think it has to do with th
e fact that you need to have the Gift to send them. I have it and so does Camu, and that’s why it works both ways.”

  “Even more fascinating and weird,” Astrid said.

  “You don’t think it’s too strange?” he asked, a little worried that she might not fully accept his “oddities”.

  Astrid smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not some weak impressionable girl, far from it. It would take a lot more than a little magic to throw me off. A little specialist with unthinkable abilities and his charming invisible pet aren’t too weird for me, they’re lovable.”

  “Great!” Lasgol said smiling. Deep within, he felt an enormous relief.

  He went up to Astrid, put his arms around her and kissed her. Camu, caught between the two of them, gave a questioning shriek.

  “Careful with Camu,” Astrid said, smiling.

  “Don’t worry and kiss me, he’s perfectly all right.”

  They kissed, and Camu’s head went from Lasgol’s face to Astrid’s and back again. Suddenly he started flexing his legs on her chest and doing his happy dance.

  Both had to stop kissing to make room for him.

  “Look how happy he is,” Lasgol said.

  “Me too,” Astrid replied. She looked lovingly into his eyes.

  Lasgol felt truly happy at that moment.

  Chapter 9

  One of the things Lasgol most enjoyed at the Shelter was when he was allowed to watch his friends being taught. That afternoon they were lucky that Gisli was occupied with Sigrid on some maintenance task at the Lair, and because of that he had given them leave to watch their friends practicing.

  Erika, Luca and Lasgol had come to see Ingrid and Molak learning under Master Ivar’s strict teaching style. As soon as they set foot in the training area, Ivar came up to them looking unfriendly.

  “You can watch, but I don’t want to hear a word from you. You’ll have to keep out of the exercise area.” He pointed to a line on the ground marking off part of the archery field, which was a wide expanse situated between two woods and a lake. They could release from up to six hundred paces away, because the whole area was clear. It had been specifically chosen, and any visual obstacle eliminated. “It wouldn’t be the first time an arrow ended up in a spectator unintentionally,” the Master commented.

  Lasgol became aware that Isgord was looking at him with a malicious smile. Would he be capable of launching an arrow at him ‘accidentally’? He would not dare to at the moment, with everything that had happened still so fresh in everybody’s memory. At any rate, he instinctively took a step back just in case.

  “Of course, Master,” Luca said.

  “Thank you for the honor,” Erika added.

  Ivar glared at them sternly for a moment, then nodded and went back to instructing his students.

  Leaning against a fallen tree-trunk were several special bows belonging to the Master: a particularly long one that looked thinner than the usual ones; a very elaborate short compound one which looked like an improved model, probably in range and power; a third, surprisingly tiny. This did not even look like a weapon, or at least not an adult’s; perhaps it was for a child. The Master was not letting his pupils use these, but he kept them on view as though they were trophies which one day they might manage to win. At least if they did well and convinced him, obviously. Nobody knew whether Master Ivar would ever allow anyone to use his special weapons, and this was a topic of debate many an evening at dinnertime.

  Molak was practicing with the long bow. Lasgol noticed that it was a special one, not the usual long bow of the Rangers. It looked more manageable, perhaps slightly smaller, and was reinforced at the ends, which surprised him. The arrow too was special, longer and heavier than the usual kind for a long bow. Molak was aiming with great care.

  “He’s been aiming for quite a while,” Erika pointed out. “Isn’t he going to release?”

  “It’s not that,” Luca said. “How far away do you think the target is?”

  “I’d say... about four hundred paces?”

  “It’s a bit more than that. I think he’s going to release at four hundred and fifty paces.” He squinted. “How many paces d’you reckon, Lasgol?”

  “Hmmm... yeah, I agree, I think it’s about four hundred and fifty. That’s quite a distance.”

  “But even so, why’s he taking so long to release?” Erika asked. “His arms’ll get cramped from holding them in position for so long.”

  “I think he wants to make sure he’s going to hit the bull’s-eye.”

  Erika threw up her arms in disbelief. “At four hundred and fifty paces? That’s crazy.”

  Lasgol, who was looking from the target in the distance to Molak and back, agreed with them. Molak wanted to get a bull’s-eye, and at that distance it was insane.

  Ivar came up to Molak and whispered to him: “The Forest Sniper doesn’t release his arrow until he is absolutely certain he’ll be accurate at that distance. Calm, patience, strength of arm and precision are his way of life. Thanks to them, he’ll either hit or miss. He’ll come out victorious, or else he’ll be found out by his mistake. Thanks to them, he’ll live or die.”

  Hearing this dogma, Lasgol felt his stomach tighten into a knot. If Molak failed his shot, he was risking his life. And that would be true with every shot he would ever have to take, because his missions would mainly involve only a single shot. And one from long distance, at that. Hit the target and escape silently, or else miss, be found out and die while getting away. Molak himself had told them this during dinner a few days earlier. Ingrid’s expression had gone from determined and invincible to deeply concerned. According to what Molak had told them, a sniper would hide in the forest and prepare the perfect shot from afar to eliminate a threat, human or any other kind.

  Erika looked horrified. “That didn’t sound very hopeful.”

  “Now you know why he’s taking so long,” Luca said to her.

  Lasgol felt the breeze on his face. “He’s waiting for the wind to change direction.”

  Erika and Luca looked at him in surprise. “You think so?” Erika asked.

  “I’d say so... it’s blowing from the east, too strong for the shot to be accurate.”

  Luca looked towards the east, and the breeze ruffled his hair. “Lasgol’s right. At this distance and with this wind, he won’t hit the target.”

  The three of them waited for Molak’s shot. He had been still for so long, with the bow ready and aiming, that he looked like the statue of an archer sculpted in granite.

  Then the wind changed and was now blowing from the north. Lasgol smiled. The target was placed to the north.

  Molak released, and the arrow flew. The three friends, along with Molak and Ivar, followed its flight with their eyes.

  It traced a perfect arc and hit the center of the target.

  Lasgol was about to clap, but he held back at the last moment. Erika gave a cry, and Luca raised his clenched fist in a gesture of victory.

  “Bull’s-eye,” Ivar called to Molak. “You live to tell the tale. Now run before you’re captured.”

  Molak left the bow on the ground, ran off like lightning and was lost in the forest behind.

  “Phew!” Erica said. “What a shot!”

  “Incredible,” said Luca.

  “Molak is a genius,” Lasgol said, full of admiration.

  Ivar looked at them for a moment, and the three of them fell silent. The Master went to see another of his pupils.

  “Look at Isgord,” Erika said.

  Luca and Lasgol followed her pointing finger. Isgord was releasing at five targets set at different heights and distances. He was doing this very fast, and apparently not even aiming. The distance was not far, and he was using a short bow, which was much easier to wield. Even so, the speed he was releasing at was surprisingly high, as if he were trying to do it as fast as he could. The most impressive thing was that he was not missing a single shot. They all hit the bull’s-eye. Over and over again. He released twenty times or so, choosing a
different target for each shot, and every arrow found its mark.

  “He’s not so bad either,” Luca said, impressed.

  “He hasn’t missed a single one,” Lasgol said. He too was impressed, but not happy in the least.

  “The Infallible Marksman is instinctive and lethal,” Ivar recited for Isgord, from where he was sitting beside him, in the manner of a dogma. “He releases without thinking, in a reflex act. He is as fast as lightning. He does not grant his opponent any opportunity.”

  Isgord stopped. “Yes, master, that’s what I’m doing,”

  “Well then, try doing it with more force. You’re not impressing me.”

  “Yes, Master,” Isgord replied. His expression indicated that he did not agree, but he said nothing more. He bent down and picked another quiver filled with twenty-five arrows and began to release again with incredible speed and accuracy.

  Lasgol sighed. He did not like seeing Isgord using his short bow like that at all. He knew he was good, but seeing it in person was something different, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. One day in the not too distant future, he himself could easily be the target of several infallible shots. In the heart.

  He shivered.

  Next, they concentrated on what Bjorn was doing. Very carefully, he was handling some arrows which were spread out on a blanket on the ground. He had separated them according to the color of their shafts. Some were red, others blue, others brown, the last ones white. He counted them and looked at them carefully one by one, making sure they were perfect, then picked up each group of arrows and began putting them in the special quiver he had set beside the blanket. It was larger than a normal Ranger quiver and had special compartments for each group of arrows.

  Luca arched an eyebrow. “This could be interesting.”

  Erika smiled and rubbed her hands.

  “Yeah, I think it will be,” Lasgol agreed.

  Bjorn picked a special bow: a compound one which had been modified and covered with protective material. He nocked an arrow with a red shaft, aimed at a tree a hundred paces away and released. The arrow hit the tree and there was a small explosion, followed by a burst of flame.

  “That was a Fire Arrow,” said Luca.

  “Well,” Erika pointed out, “he’d better do something, or else the tree’ll catch fire.”