Shard

by Wayne Mee

  Thorn's eyes were wide at his sudden revelation. "And so Erin and Gildar, though born worlds apart, speak the same language!"

  "Of a sort," Mithdar nodded and relit his pipe.

  Timin scratched his shaggy head. "It's far too sharp a point for my dull brain, but whatever the reason, Erin can hold his own with Master Gildar and that's all that counts. Now, the tea's ready and I saved a piece of that sweet cake for a wee snack!"

  Thorn and Mithdar smiled as the chunky little Kirkwean poured the tea.

  ***

  "What was that?!" Tartif was sweating despite the fact that all three of them could see their own breath.

  "Just the wind," Nex barked out of the growing darkness. "Hurry up with that wood, I've got the fire nearly ready!"

  Ragnol, his stolen blanket wrapped around him, stood at the edge of the clearing and gazed into the depths of the forest. His good hand clutched the long kitchen knife he had taken from the woodcutters hovel. Its former owner would no longer need it, having just recently had his throat cut with his own blade.

  "There it is again!", Tartif said, dropping his bundle of firewood and raising his rusted axe. "N' don't tell me it's just the quiffin' 'wind'! I ain't no bloody fool!"

  "A debatable point," Ragnol quipped; "but I think now is not the time." He turned to Nex who still knelt by the fledgling fire. "I thought I saw something move deep in the shadows. It could be nothing, then again ---"

  Before he could finish Tartif screamed. A black shadow sailed over them and Nex caught a glimpse of something he would rather not have seen. Big it was, and black, with wide leather-like wings and a serpentine tail that lashed about as it swooped and soared by them.

  "Quick!", Ragnol yelled. "Into the trees!"

  Nex was sprinting beside him, the fire now forgotten. Tartif however, was still scrambling to his feet.

  "Get down!", Nex bellowed from the relative safety of the woods, but Tartif just stood there, transfixed by the flying terror that had banked and swung around for a lower pass. In mute horror the two Slathlanders watched as Tartif was snatched up like a panic-stricken hare and lifted skyward. The sound of bones crunching was followed by a high pitched screech that pierced the ears and almost made Nex's bladder let go.

  Then the dark thing soared up over the trees and was gone, leaving no trace of either itself or of Tartif. The rusted axe lay impotently on the ground.

  "What in Slath's name was THAT?!", Nex breathed.

  "One of Tartif's fears come to life," muttered Ragnol, eyeing the fallen axe. "What did he call those things he said could fly, a 'gulock'?"

  "Whatever it is, prey to Slath that it doesn't come back!" Nex was visibly shaking; not so much out of fear as out of shock and disbelief. He had heard about such things as gulock or 'flyers', but had only scoffed at them. Suddenly all that had changed, and the dark forest took on a much more sinister look.

  "What's this?, Ragnol said in mock surprise. "The great Nex afraid of an overgrown bird?"

  Nex fixed him with his cold stare. "THAT was no bird! It had scales and a serpent's tail!"

  Ragnol chuckled. "The world is indeed a wide and wondrous place, Nex, filled with things beyond most men's imaginings --- especially that of an ignorant sailor."

  Nex felt anger wash over him, pushing aside his earlier fears. It felt good, and he suddenly wanted to kill this pompous foreigner more than anything else in the world. Lunging for Tartif's fallen axe, he was about to snatch it up when Ragnol's rag-wrapped foot trod on his hand. The sharp point of the stolen kitchen knife pressed against his throat.

  "Not a very wise idea, Nex, especially under the present circumstances."

  The burly Slathlander glared back at his one-time commander, hatred-filled eyes blazing like coals in a fire.

  "As much as I dislike having to admit it, we have a need of each other. We are still a long way from Slathland, and the bulk of Wierwood has yet to be crossed."

  Nex glared up at the hated foreigner, then pulled his hand free. Ragnol smiled and lowered his blade. "A 'truce', Nex? At least until we reach the 'fatherland'? Then the High Lord Slath himself can judge just who is guilty of what."

  Nex grunted and picked up the fallen axe; then, without a word, he began to march northward.

  ***

  Chapter 19:The Contest'

  "But I WILL shoot, and neither you nor my 'royal sire' will stop me!" Zoean Ithilian, only daughter to Zorka Agwain, stood with hands on her shapely hips and glared at Bar Gildar.

  "But Zoean," Gildar pleaded; "be reasonable!"

  She rewarded him with a toss of her tawny mane, then went about stringing her bow.

  Gildar felt foolish arguing with a mere female, even though this particular one was both a princess and the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He had been drawn to Zoean since she was little more than a freckle-faced child running wild with her hounds. Now, a child no longer, her flashing eyes, glistening black cascading hair and long, tanned legs tormented his dreams. To his heart-felt sorrow, she barely seemed to notice that he was alive.

  "Females have not competed with males for centuries!", Gildar continued. "Here in Gareth Withrin there is no need for warrior maids."

  She rounded on him with such furry that he had to check himself from stepping back. "Another one of my royal sire's decrees? He talks long about 'living as our forefathers once did' and 'upholding the old beliefs' --- yet he wants the females to remain quiet and docile! Well, not THIS female!"

  Gildar sighed, for in his heart he could deny her nothing. "Very well, but as your father's Norlabrin and Master of the Games, I must protest."

  "Protest all you like, Gildar, just stand clear of my bow!"

  "Greetings, Lady Zoean. I see you've grown some since last we met."

  Zoean turned to look up at a tall, slender archer. He was dressed all in leather with a long, forest green cloak fastened at the shoulder with a silver broach. Long brown locks were held in place by a thin braided cord around his forehead. Though his hood was up, his lean, weathered face was clearly visible, as was the smile on his handsome mouth.

  "Flynnial!", Zoean exclaimed, her large eyes going suddenly wider. Then, heedless of her 'royal position', she threw herself into the tall archer's arms. "I made offerings to Quent so you'd come!", she squealed, giving him another hug then standing back to look at him. "And now here you are!" Behind her Gildar saw that she still tightly clasped the archer's hands. "You haven't changed a bit, though I think it cruel of you to stay away so long. I'd like to think there was more here at my father's hall than a yearly archery contest." She tilted up her sun-kissed face and regarded him through her heavy lashes. Gildar, feeling a surge of jealousy, coughed over loudly --- and was ignored.

  "The forests are long and wide, Lady Zoean, and as the Zorka's Narthrond, there is much to oversee."

  "Being Forest Master is a lonely job, Flynn, and a dangerous one. You should dwell closer to us and let your apprentices guard the wilder lands."

  Flynnial smiled at her, gently removing his hands from hers. "But then I would no longer be worthy of being the Narthrond."

  Her voice took on a throaty quality. "Would that be so hard to bear? You'd still be the best archer in the silv."

  He sketched a small bow. "As to that, we shall soon see, for I overheard that you will be shooting this day."

  Casting a glance at Gildar, she replied: "Indeed I shall! And I warn you, I'm much better than the skinny little girl you once taught!"

  Just then a horn sounded and a herald spoke out loud and clear. He told that the contest was open to all comers and that each participant would have a flight of three arrows. Eliminations would continue until there were three shooters left. The prize for the best of the three was a black mare and saddle, a horn bow and twenty silver-tipped arrows, and a quiver of the finest doeskin handcrafted by Zorkana Elandilmir herself! The crowd responded with nods of approval and the archers moved into place.

  Kel, led by Mithdar, moved up to the far end a
nd strung his long, bamboo bow. Those near him looked sideways at both himself and his strange instrument. A few even laughed outright, though after the first flight of three arrows all laughing soon stopped. The small, slant-eyed Chin had scored three perfect hits!

  The two score archers were soon whittled down to a score, then ten, then five. Kel was one of them, along with the tall Narthrond or 'Woods Master', Flynnial. The Lady Zoean was the third.

  The betting began in earnest. Odds were four to one in favor of Flynnial over 'Zoean-The-Wild', for though her aim was sound and true, she was often impatient and loosed too quickly. Only five of her nine arrows had landed within the small, red circle; three had been in the yellow and one in the outer blue. Only Flynnial had scored nine 'reds'. Most had expected this from the Narthrond, for he spent his life with a bow in his hand. The short stranger with the gigantic bow however, was a mystery. Though Kel had hit the center eight times out of eight, few placed their coins on him.

  Few that is except Erin. The tall 'manling' that spoke a strange version of their own tongue was covering bets faster than little Timin could scribble them down on a piece of parchment!

  Mithdar tapped Erin on the shoulder. "Have you the where-with-all to pay up should the stout Chin miss the mark?"

  Erin's smile lit up his face. "Ah, friend tinker! Kel may be a surly, sour-faced quiffer, but I'd bet my life on his skill with that tree trunk o' his!"

  Mithdar sighed and shook his head. "Fail to keep your given word to a Nim-Loth and that's exactly what it will cost you!"

  Erin cocked his head sideways and gazed at the old man before speaking. "Then, Master Wizard, for all our sakes you'd best be able to turn led into gold, for I've barley two copper pennies to rub together!"

  Mithdar groaned just as the crowd let out another roar. Kel had hit dead-center for the ninth time. The contest was down to the desired three and now the real betting began!

  ***

  Kel took a deep breath and began the ancient meditation technique he had been taught by his Ja~Din masters. It slowed the heart and caused the chosen target to 'glow' in his mind's eye. A deep calmness settled over him, allowing him to sense the slightest of movements or shift in the wind. The bow became an extension of his arm, while his eighteen fisted shaft took on an almost mystical quality; a physical representation of his inner thought. The arrow would go where he WILLED it to go, for it was now a part of his inner being. He BECAME the arrow. The Ja~Din had taught him well, yet in the end it was not so much something that could be 'taught' as 'felt'.

  Deep within himself Kel knew that somehow the tall Narthrond also felt this. The Chin was both greatly surprised and honored to be matching his skill with another 'master'. Win or lose, Kel would lock this moment away deep in the inner place of his heart reserved for just such rare occasions.

  As for the noisy female, Kel dismissed her as a somewhat gifted amateur, for though she did possess skill, she foolishly allowed her emotions to surface. In short, she lacked the inner control or 'wa' needed to attain harmony. Kel knew this was not because she was a female, for the Chin had found out quite early in his Ja~Din training that the 'gentler sex' could be just as deadly, if not more so, than males. Discipline, training, the power to concentrate, to attain a state of inner balance was the very essence of the art of Tanj-Ka. Few were the men or women who could so dedicate their lives to reach such a lofty pinnacle.

  Flynnial the Narthrond seemed to come by it naturally, and the Chin felt deeply honored to stand beside him.

  ***

  In this last stage of the contest the three contestants were to use the same target, which had been moved back another twenty vels, making a total of seventy in all. The crowd murmured and strained closer. The betting became furious, with the odds now three to two in favor of the Narthrond over the slant-eyed 'outlander' and his ridiculous bow. The odds for Zoean had shrunk to ten to one. She could not possibly win and all there knew it; still, she refused to give up.

  "Well, sister-mine," said a deep, deceptively soft voice. "You have gotten further than I expected. Why not leave the family's honour intact and bow out gracefully for a change?"

  The crowd parted to allow the tall, golden-haired prince to approach. A pace behind him Gildar followed, looking like a surly child that had tattled on his playmates.

  "What brother-dearest?", Zoean quipped. "And leave quiet Flynnial to stand alone against this strange-eyed outlander? Never!"

  Arthdain Ithenial shrugged. "Do as you please, little sister. Far be it for me to try and mend your pig-headed ways. But should you come in a poor third, as you will, expect little sympathy from your kin."

  "Sympathy is the one thing I will never ask of my 'kin', brother, for I would not ask what you know not how to give!"

  Arthdain's blue eyes darkened, then, regaining his composure, he bowed and turned to Flynnial. "Well, good Narthrond, it seems your one-time student still balks at obeying her elders. I leave it in your capable hands then to uphold the silv's honour."

  Flynnial nodded towards the prince. "I shall do my best, Lord Arthdain, though in truth I've never seen an archer with this manling's skill. If I do win, I fear it will not be by overmuch."

  Arthdain's graying brows lifted. His voice held a cutting edge to it. "Take care my friend, for a Narthrond who allows a 'outlander' to best him might find his title suddenly under question."

  Gildar smirked at the tall archer, more than a little content to see the object of Zoean's much coveted affection reprimanded in public. The sneer transformed to shocked anger when he heard Flynnial's reply.

  "Being a good Woodsmaster, Lord Arthdain, is in many ways like being a good Zorka --- there is considerably more to it than merely hitting a target."

  The crowd fell silent at this, for none there could fail to notice either the veiled threat or the curt response. Arthdain however, merely smiled and bowed low, for despite his open animosity towards any that were not Nim-Lothian born, to those of his own blood he was unswervingly loyal. Both young and old looked to him as the hope for their future, and the warriors would willingly follow him to the death. "Point well taken, Woodsmaster. And now I shall leave you to do that which you do best. May the Blessed Light of Oma guide your hand."

  Prince and Woodsmaster eyed each other for several heartbeats, then Zor Arthdain turned and strode regally back to the viewing stand.

  Erin, standing just behind Kel, turned to Mithdar and the two Kirkwean. "He's a puffed-up one to be sure, but he took the green-clad archer's lip right smartly! He was wrong 'n not afraid to admit it. Reminds me a bit o' Ap Connell in his younger days!"

  "And just who was 'Ap Connell'?", Timin asked.

  "The man that taught me to use a sword."

  As the prince turned away, Gildar followed, casting a backwards glance at his rival. Black bile rose up in his throat and he cursed the fates that had contrived to make Flynnial an archer and not a swordsman. If Flynnial had followed the 'warrior path', than as Agwain's champion, Gildar would have had the satisfaction of facing him on the field of honour, and so winning by force what he could not win by love.

  As it was he had to swallow his ire and bide his time.

  At the end of the next round Zoean threw down her bow and cursed. Two of her arrows had hit the red, though far from the center. The last one however had slammed into the blue. Both Flynnial and Kel had three more reds each. Her grizzled servant Nobert picked up the discarded bow and received a cuff on the back of his head for his reward. He grinned and winked at Zoean, causing her to curse all the more.

  The Master-Of-Arms overseeing the match was clearly at a loss as to what to do. "Lords, ye both have won, yet that cannot be!" He was one of the few Nim-Loth that showed any signs of aging, for though still strong and hale, his hair was both thinning an turning silver round his slightly pointed ears.

  "I've a suggestion, Gaylar," Flynnial said in accented Common. "That is, if it meets with my fellow contestant's approval?" Here the Narthrond nodded to Kel, who bowed
deeply in return. "What say we move yonder target back even further, say another thirty vels?"

  Kel bowed again, this time placing his hands before his face, offering Flynnial the highest honour a Ja~Din can give.

  Gaylar, replying in stilted Common, that such a distance had never been allowed before, yet if neither archer protested, it could be as they wished. Flynnial smiled and selected a single arrow. "One shaft each, winner take all?"

  Kel's heart soared. Here, in this backward, barbaric corner of the world, he had at last found an opponent worthy of his training! The only outward sign of his feelings however, was to raise his left eyebrow and nod.

  The crowd went wild. Impossible bets doubled. Word of what was happening spread like wildfire and people began to line the length of the field. It was all the combined weight of Thorn and Timin could do to stop Erin from thumping Kel from behind. "But the slant-eyed little fool has cost me a fortune!", the tall mercenary roared. "No-one can hit that center from here! Why, it's harder to see that a virgin's cleft!"

  Mithdar stood still through it all, leaning on his staff and gazing at the Chin from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. A smile played at the corner of his mouth.

  Flynnial shot first. Up went the shaft. Up, up, and then down. Breathless moments passed while everyone waited to see where it had hit. Since the target was now at the far end of the field, too far to clearly see a landed shaft, word was sent by way of a raised colored flag.