by David Hodges
The scorekeeper signaled two points, Aatu.
Everyone in the crowd was on their feet cheering, the sound was deafening.
As Aatu pulled his blade away, he leaned in close to Faron’s ear for a moment, then turned around. Faron stood there, rigid, staring straight at Aatu’s back, then he looked down with his free hand clenched in a fist. The scorekeeper had to remind him to step back to begin the next round.
As soon as the round began, Faron charged. He swung once as he neared Aatu, and when his strike was blocked, he continued forward into a reckless tackle. He pinned Aatu to the ground, and tore off Aatu’s helmet. He began striking at his face. One furious punch after the other. He was not stopping.
The scorekeeper was as stunned as the audience, frozen in place.
Aatu’s wolves closed in on the ring, their heads hung low and their hackles were straight up. Hazel could see them baring their teeth from the stands. Aatu appeared to be waving them off as he took the beating.
Coinín got up and ran down the stands.
A few contestants near the ring ran in to stop Faron. It took several of them to tear him off of Aatu. When they released him, Faron took off his mask and threw it to the ground, then stormed off.
Ayalon was in the field now, walking toward Faron. Faron shouldered him out of the way and charged past him.
This was the last thing Hazel would have expected from Faron.
“So, did he win?” said Fergus.
27
CAMERON
Cameron swung his axe down onto the end of a thick log of dry yew. The wood split, one long fracture along the entire length of the log. He yanked the axe from the end of the log and stepped back to examine the wood. A clean split, though the break was a bit skewed. It would be sufficient for a single bow.
He looked over toward the pair of Laochra that were watching over him. One of them was an archer that seemed interested in Cameron’s work, the other was an indifferent giant with a massive pole-axe strapped to his back. Cameron had woken that morning to find the pair of them outside his flat door, replacements for the pair that had escorted him back from Ayalon’s office the night before. If his chances of leaving the village to find Alexandra were slim before, they had been reduced to a sliver.
If only he could have told one of the soldiers at the camp he was still there, still searching, he would at least be relieved by the possibility of General Marlow’s continued faith in him.
He angled a piece of the wood to split once more.
“Is that a longbow you’re cutting?” Alviva’s voice called out from behind him.
“It is,” replied Cameron as he sat down his axe. “G’morning. You’re supposed to be at the tourneys, aren’t you?”
There was a sadness behind Alviva’s smile. “I’ve got a bit of time. I was actually wondering if you’d like to come with me... to compete.”
“No, I’m sorry.” He moved to pick up his axe.
Alviva touched his shoulder. “I’d love to see my pupil in action, you could enter just one of the competitions... you’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?” implored Alviva uncharacteristically.
Cameron sighed. “Look, I appreciate your help and encouragement, but I’m just not up for it.” He looked at the guards, “Besides, I doubt these two are even allowed to let me hold a bow.”
“It’s already taken care of, most of the Laochra will be there watching anyway.” Alviva thought to herself for a moment, then said, “Do you remember what Daniel said about proving yourself? About how Ayalon might give you a bit more leeway if he trusted your ability to defend yourself? I think he was right. You should’ve seen your sister yesterday, she dazzled the crowd, everyone was watching.”
“It won’t make a difference, not after the stunt I pulled,” said Cameron.
“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” pleaded Alviva, betraying a hint of worry, desperation even.
Cameron took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll do it.” He could not let her go on begging him.
Alviva looked more relieved than excited at her success in persuading him. “Thank you. Come with me.” She began to turn away.
“One thing first, though. A question, answer truthfully and I’ll come,” said Cameron.
“What is it?” she asked apprehensively.
“Did you know about the soldiers at the old castle? General Marlow’s men?”
“No.” She shook her head rather unconvincingly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
With a look of consternation, she looked at the guards then back at Cameron and in a hushed voice, she said, “Cameron, I’m not supposed to know about the soldiers, few people are, you need to be careful who you talk to.”
Cameron did not understand. Surely all of the Laochra were aware of the men searching the estate. Cameron whispered to her, “Why is Marlow’s search party a secret? What’s there to hide?”
Alviva was worried. “That’s all I have to say.”
Cameron could hear the murmurs of the crowd as he rode over the pasture and approached the far end near the quarry. Tall wooden stands were arranged in two long lines, facing one another. In between, a variety of targets were spread out. The center of the setup was occupied by an empty circular ring.
Cameron realized that the venue was not far from where the funeral had been held two days prior. This event had attracted a much larger crowd.
He followed Alviva onto the range. Dozens of archers were preparing their bows and practicing on the targets.
“The speed preliminaries begin soon,” said Alviva. “The placing will determine who gets to enter in the duels. The ranged competition is at the end of the day, that’s your best shot at placing well. You can go practice down range until the duels if you’d like.”
“Alright, when are you up in the preliminaries?
“I’ll go in the second round. We compete four at a time, the semi-finalists from the summer tourney are up first.” Alviva paused for a moment and suddenly looked melancholy, “Three of them at least.”
Her father.
A deep drum sounded off with a few beats. The crowd let out a cheer. Alviva pointed over toward a man next to a table and several racks full of quivers and arrows. “Go talk to the fletcher, he’ll get you set up. I’ll see you shortly.”
Cameron nodded. “I expect to see you in the duels.” He gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Alviva gave a weak smile and left.
Cameron walked over to the fletcher.
“Can I help you?” the fletcher asked.
“Yes, I’d like to enter the ranged competition.”
The fletcher opened a scroll on the table in front of him and picked up a magnifying glass. “Name?”
“Cameron Lewin.”
“Ah, yes, Alviva told me to expect you. Here, let me get you started with some arrows.” He scanned Cameron’s bow. “Using that bow?”
Cameron nodded.
“These should work.” The fletcher handed Cameron a dozen so arrows.
A horn sounded, and the crowd grew silent. Cameron looked back and saw that four archers waiting about fifteen yards from a row of four targets, one directly in front of each of them. Cameron knew one by name, Cuyler, the newly appointed first captain of the archers, the replacement for Alviva’s father.
In front of each of the targets, two dozen eggs rested in small metal cups so that only the smaller top halves of the eggs were exposed.
Four scorekeepers, one behind each of the archers, each held a large, rolled up scroll in one hand and a small pail and paintbrush in the other.
The announcer signaled for the crowd to quiet down, then when nothing but low murmurs and soft whispers was audible, he abruptly yelled, “Three!”
The competitors were honed in on their targets, their stances rigid.
“Two! One! Go!”
The archers unleashed a hail of arrows at the eggs. Splashes of yellow yolk popped up into the air as the arrows hit their targets. Wi
thin a few seconds, the hay bales were already riddled with arrows
Cameron was close enough to hear the relentless arrows swooshing through the air and the pops of eggs cracking apart.
After ten seconds, the timekeeper yelled “Stop!”
The archers lowered their bows and arrows, and their scorekeepers walked ahead toward the targets where they began counting. After their counts, they set to unraveling their scrolls and they held them up to the sides of the targets while they painted on each side of them, careful not to reveal the scores to the audience. When they were finished, they looked at one another then to the contestants, and waited.
Four hawks flew out to the targets and the scorekeepers handed them the opened scrolls. The hawks flew over the range with them dangling from their talons, revealing them to the audience. Seventeen, seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-one for Cuyler.
Despite having seen the archers practicing on the range, Cameron was as astonished as the rest of the audience. Seventy-six dead men in ten seconds. He would have loved to see Captain Henry Marsden’s take on the display, perhaps he would revise his definition of a proper weapon.
Alviva was among the next set of archers that approached the new targets. She waited with the others while the eggs on the targets were replaced. Cameron noticed that there were only three of them. He heard Alviva ask, “Where’s Faron?” The other competitors shrugged. A few moments later, a fourth competitor joined them.
“Faron’s withdrawn,” said the woman.
Alviva looked concerned as she nodded. She quickly shifted her attention to the opposite end of the field where the crowd was beginning to cheer. She turned back toward Cameron and shouted, “You should go watch,” as she gestured toward the far end of the field.
“I’ll watch from here, I can see it up close when you go.”
At the end of the field, Cameron could see the first set of archers lining up. Then, at least a dozen hawks flew up through the air from a perch and dispersed. Cameron focused and his vision sharpened. There were colored blocks of wood dangling from their talons. Most were orange, several were green, and one was a light blue, barely visible against the clear sky behind it.
A scorekeeper waved his flag, and two of the hawks dove from far above, launching their orange blocks farther and faster than Cameron had ever seen in practice.
The archers unleashed their arrows. Two arrows made contact with the blocks, diverting them off their trajectories before the lagging arrows could make contact. Before the blocks hit the ground, another set of arrows was fired with the same result, leaving a pair of arrows in each block when they tumbled over the ground.
All of this took place over no more than five seconds, and the next pair of hawks immediately dropped their blocks. This continued for another three lightning fast rounds with no rest, the blocks progressing from orange to green. After the fifth round, there was a delay in the appearance of the final hawk. The scorekeeper waved a blue flag and the crowd cheered wildly.
Instead of a single hawk appearing with the final block, all twelve of the hawks dove toward the range. The archers scanned and aimed at different hawks with no consensus on which one carried the block.
Cuyler released the first arrow. It looked as if it were halted by an invisible wall before it came tumbling down. The other archers fired at the newly marked target, a light blue block, until there were two more arrows in the target. One of them was another of Cuyler’s.
The scorekeepers set to collecting the blocks and counting each of the archers’ uniquely marked arrows. When they were finished, they painted the scores on the scrolls as they had before and they were flown over the range, spurring the crowd into applause. Once again, twenty-one points for Cuyler.
The audience’s attention shifted back toward Cameron’s end of the field, where the scorekeepers were positioning themselves for the start of the round.
The archer’s readied themselves. Alviva stretched her back and shoulder, twisting to one side in an athletic stance. Cameron caught himself scanning her physique a bit too closely and shifted his focus to the announcer who was unrolling his flag.
The diminutive man silenced the audience immediately as he held his flag straight up over his head while he stared down at his pocket watch.
The competitors assumed their rigid stances, anxiously waiting to uncoil.
The announcer counted down and dropped his flag, and arrows flew, as unrelenting a flurry as the previous round. It was hard to differentiate the competitors’ speeds, but when the round was halted by the announcer, Cameron noticed that the hay backing of Alviva’s target was particularly saturated with yellow yolk. Her arrows were arranged in perfect rows and columns, she had not missed a single shot.
The scorekeepers made their counts, and their painted parchments were flown over the field. Cameron looked to Alviva’s score first, twenty-two.
Alviva waved to both sides of the applauding stands as she walked back toward Cameron.
“Not bad,” said Cameron with a smile that conveyed more than his words.
“Best of the day if I’m not mistaken,” she replied. Some of her sadness seemed to have subsided with her excellent performance.
“Aye. I expect the same for the hawks.”
“I’ll try my best.”
Cameron followed her to the next event. As the hawks took to the air at the commencement of the round, Cameron was mesmerized by the contrast between their auburn and scarlet feathers and the blue sky. They gained elevation quickly and were little more than specks to most of the audience.
The round began, and the first pair of hawks dove down. Their speed was even more startling up close. Cameron focused only on Alviva’s shots, and counted three arrows on the blocks in the first drop alone. She scored consistently through the end of the event. Cameron was not sure of the exact score, but he knew she was the best of her round.
The scorekeepers tallied the arrows and revealed the scores. Twenty points for Alviva, just shy of Cuyler’s top score. The crowd was pleased with her result.
“That ought to get you to the duels,” said Cameron as Alviva approached him.
“Should do the trick,” said Alviva. It was the first time she looked genuinely happy in days. Her red kite landed on her bow. The big bird was glancing left and right, distracted by all of the movement on the ground. She gave the kite a light stroke with her hand, sending it away with her bow and quiver dangling from it’s talons. “I’m going to go find Daniel. The duels shouldn’t start for a while. You should go practice on the range.”
“Alright, see you in a bit.” Cameron walked past the filled stands toward another set of empty stands that were set up closer to the quarry. The three hundred yard range in front of them had four rows of four targets placed at varying distances. The farthest row of targets looked to be only a few yards from the quarry’s cliff.
Cameron focused on the farthest target. He was relieved to see that he could make out the bull’s-eye as his vision cleared. Still, it was farther than any shot he had ever made. If it were one that his competitors made with regularity, he would not stand a chance.
He strung his bow and quickly let a shot off at the nearest target. It was a fifty yard shot, the arrow was an inch high of the bull’s-eye. Cameron was disappointed for a moment before remembering the first of the few archery competitions he had entered in Leicester. He had practiced for weeks, and was exuberant when one of his many shots had hit a fifty yard target, and only just. General Marlow had been at the competition. In fact, Cameron had only entered the competition at his suggestion. It was not long after he had begun his apprenticeship at the fletchery, another suggestion of Marlow’s.
Cameron remembered his first day on the job clearly. It was his twelfth birthday and he was making a delivery to the Marlow residence. He was excited to see what General Marlow would give him. He had deliveries scheduled every year on Cameron’s birthday, and he had given him gifts for as long as he could remember. As usual, General Marlow him
self greeted Cameron at the door while one of his servants retrieved the groceries.
Cameron noticed that General Marlow held only the usual coins, there was no sign of a gift. Cameron tried to hide his disappointment.
“Good morning, Cameron, are you alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you come with me? I have someone I would like you to meet.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Cameron, confused.
Cameron walked with General Marlow to the stable where a driver was helping a woman and a young girl off a carriage. The girl was a bit younger than Cameron with golden blonde hair. When she noticed Cameron she waved and said, “Happy birthday, Cameron!”
Cameron blushed and waved back.
Mrs. Marlow shuttled her off without acknowledging Cameron. She had never seemed fond of him. Cameron figured it was just her personality.
Cameron and Marlow took the carriage for a short ride and stopped outside the fletchery. While Cameron waited outside, Marlow went in and returned with Mr. Pegg, who was a stranger to Cameron at the time.
“Cameron is my grocer, he’s of the right age to start an apprenticeship. I wondered if you might have any interest in taking him on.”
“Well, business is less than...” The man seemed to notice something in Marlow’s expression that gave him pause. “Of course, sir. I can’t promise great earnings, but I’d be happy to teach the boy.”
“You will compensate him fairly for the work he does complete.”
“Of course, sir, of course.”
“Good, are you working on anything today?”
“Well, just a few arrows sir, it’s not...”
“He’ll begin today. Have him off to home before dark.”
“Yes, sir,” said the fletcher earnestly.
Cameron looked up at General Marlow. The always serious man placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he had on a few occasions. “This is a gift that will last. Work hard.” He seemed to be searching for a word. “Cameron.”
He let go of Cameron’s shoulder and abruptly turned back toward his carriage.
“Thank you, General Marlow!” Cameron shouted.