by Matt Rogers
Chapter 11: Tournament
The Second Journey (Blight’s Encampment)
They met at the rendezvous point. Deadaim had been waiting, thinking of the friend he knew would find his message and act accordingly. They’d met as adversaries, tested each other in combat and walked away as equals. Both were secure in the knowledge neither had ever known a better marksman. It had started, of course, the way all had begun; two rulers ordering others to fight for their gain.
Deadaim had been employed by Queen Victorious. Hawkeye by her sister, Empress Elizabest. Both were arrogant, insulting, demanding and completely hapless in the ways of warfare so they surrounded themselves with others who were knowledgeable and they, in turn, chose to unleash their best weapons to prevail. The two had entered the fray and from afar brought havoc on the other side’s soldiers. It didn’t matter the defenses for none were sufficient where the two archers were concerned. The toll taken was unsustainable for while mercenaries would fight to the end they would not do so sitting in defenseless positions as shafts of death rained down from locations unknown. A bargain was struck and the deadly duo ordered to return and determine the outcome before both armies were lost through sniper-like efficiency and mercenary abandonment. The event was held for all to see and a circus-like atmosphere sprang to life.
“Quiet! Quiet! Everyone shut up so we can get on with the tournament!” the herald yelled.
They were in an arena erected when the two Monarchs agreed the battle would be decided by which archer was supreme.
Things settled down and the man continued.
“On this side, representing Queen Victorious, is an archer of renown, a man who needs no introduction, the one, the only…!” he paused for effect.
“Deadaim!”
And the mercenaries in Victorious’ employ erupted with mighty vigor because not only would they receive their earnings for triumph without fighting but also were heavily involved in side-bets with their competing brethren opposing them.
“And on this side, representing Empress Elizabest, we have another who needs no introduction, another who is legendary in name, the undisputed, undefeated, Original archer of the world…!” again, pause for effect.
“Hawkeye!”
And the mercenaries in her employ burst out with cheers for they too were more than happy to earn their income without the unwanted addition of actually battling for the prize.
The two archers bowed to their respected authorities, walked up to the other, touched bows and turned to face the first challenge.
“We will now begin the Bull’s-eye phase of the competition!”’
As the target was brought out the Monarchs were, unsurprisingly, sitting together in the top balcony erected for their comfort.
“It’s very nice to see you again, Victoria.”
“You too, Eliza.”
“Are those new shoes you’re wearing?”
“Yes! Aren’t they adorable? I found this new cobbler in the village…”
As everyone widely knew the two were actually on very good terms. They had grown up in the lap of luxury and were only fighting because the other rulers in the kingdoms would find it odd if they weren’t.
With the target in place the competition began.
“Up first, Deadaim!”
He pulled the string taut, sighted the one-inch circular spot and let fly. It hit dead center and Victoria’s side jumped to their feet to taunt their opposition.
“Up next, Hawkeye!”
It was a mirror-image execution of his opponent’s shot. When it split the arrow in the circle Eliza’s side leapt to their feet and returned their opposition’s teasings.
“And again, Deadaim!”
What followed left the audience speechless for two reasons. First, each time their archer shot they knew for certain he could not be beaten for his arrow would pierce the one which had previously pierced the one which had previously been pierced by another. Secondly, they began to realize they were witness to something which had never before and, in all likelihood, never again be seen; two quivers of arrows, twenty-four in all, unloaded unerringly into the exact same spot by two archers who were perfection in marksmanship.
“Um… okay. I declare the first phase to be a tie!” the Herald screamed and no one objected for they were all sitting in shock at what they had seen.
“The next phase is the moving target competition!”
The prisoners were brought forth and, of course, both pelted with produce and mocked by the spectators. They didn’t care. They were the small time crooks, the ones who’d committed petty thefts or unwise cons and jailed for their offenses. They’d been offered a choice; participate in the tournament and go free or don’t and do whatever time they had remaining. Most, at first, balked at the idea of being used as moving targets until the rules were explained to them. They would put an apple on their head which would be kept in place by twine tied under their chin. Absolutely no one was willing to do the deed until the contestant’s names were announced. Afterward a lottery was held for every prisoner volunteered to do a duty which they knew was un-fraught with danger.
“Up first, Hawkeye!”
While the knowledge of the archer’s fame was intellectually comprehended the truth was the prisoner had a few reservations about walking across a field as the contestant took aim from a hundred meters away to remove the fruit. He did walk because refusal meant receiving a different, yet similar, fate; facing a full squad of archers aiming a little lower than those in the competition. He moved, Hawkeye shot, an apple split in two and the crowd went wild.
“Up next, Deadaim!”
And the audience again sat in wonder as the two put on an exhibition previously thought impossible. Neither missed. It got to the point where the prisoners were actually having a good time because after each successful shot a cheer would arise and it became infectious. Near the end straws were drawn not to avoid wearing the ripe little red target but the opposite. They were so sure of their safety they wished to feel the thrill of the crowd’s ovation.
“Okay, I guess we have another tie!” the Herald hollered.
The crowd wholeheartedly agreed.
“The final phase is the speed round!”
The idea was simple. Two targets were set up ten meters apart and a cloth placed over both. When the cloth was pulled the time began and both men would fire as many missiles into their targets as possible. The segment ended when a single rope was pulled. It was tied to both targets so they would fall at the same time. Whoever hit their target most would be declared the victor.
“Ready!”
Two bows were raised.
“Set!”
Two strings drawn taut.
“Fire!”
And the silenced which followed was mesmerizing. No one spoke for a full minute and then everyone asked the same question at the same time.
“Did you see that?”
The rope was never pulled. The man responsible saw no reason because what transpired made it pointless. In less time than it took a man to mount a horse both archers unleashed their full complement into the targets. Every single one hit center mass. Even the women in charge of the armies were in awe and reportedly uttered the same response.
“I wish I wasn’t betrothed.”
The crowd regained their composure and went berserk. The place was wild with delight at what they’d witnessed and secret promises were made to always carry white flags for quick surrender waving if they ever found themselves facing either archer. As the spectators were buzzing in wondrous amazement the two who caused it all moved toward the other. People began to fall silent as the men met in the middle of the arena. They waited in wonder as the two spoke, shook hands, then proceeded to make their way toward the targets which lay still with arrows quivering in the middle. A small knot of worry began to be heard.
“What are they doing?” Victoria asked.
“I don’t know” Eliza answered.
In everyone’s life the
re came a time when they wished to test their metal. What the crowd was beginning to realize was the two who had no equal were curious if it were so. They each took one arrow from their targets and moved fifty paces away.
“Are they…?”
“No, they couldn’t be, could they?”
The air in the arena grew thick as all realized they were about see something they previously would’ve paid a month’s wages for. The competition had altered their views.
“Someone stop this!” someone yelled.
And two tried.
“As your Queen, I forbid this!”
“As your Empress, I order you to stop!”
The two men ignored their sovereigns for they knew the truth; in the arena, in the realm of their chosen occupations no one held authority above them.
The crowd began to rise as worry turned to anxiety and finally horror at what they were about to witness. The Herald was silent, glancing toward the Monarchs with questioning eyes asking what he was to do. An uneasy feeling of something wrong, something abhorrent filled the stands and the whispering began.
“One!” Hawkeye yelled.
The whispering halted.
“Two!” Deadaim screamed.
The arena froze.
Three was never shouted. The cadence was set, so they lifted their bows, pull their strings and released their deaths. Both stood still wondering if their beliefs were correct. They were. The arrows met in the middle, point struck point and two who had never met their match walked away satisfied they had, indeed, met their challenge.
He heard them coming before they arrived.
“Deadaim?” a quiet voice asked
“Over here, Sergeant.”
The three again became one as Savage, Brutus, and Deadaim went in search of Midglings who might hold the promise of retribution in their hands.