by Chris Ward
‘I offer these for the smallest fee to any who would step in faith into my tent and receive this gift. I seek nothing more in return; I merely offer that which you need.’ He smiled. ‘And you all need such a wonderful thing.’
In no time a small group had pushed forward as though waiting for this very moment, and Rema and Andes realised that this was clearly not the first time, and that word had spread of this apparently amazing gift.
‘Diabules?’ Andes whispered. ‘What in Revelyn is he talking about?’ Rema shook his head in bewilderment.
They watched as the man called Gryfnor allowed a small group into his tent and then with the disappearance of the magician the crowd suddenly dispersed leaving Andes and Rema alone. Rema then remembered the beautiful young woman and turned to look for her. Andes stared at the tent and thought of the gift which this strange Gryfnor had offered, and deep in his heart he wondered about it. They waited by the tent for a time but as nothing further happened other attractions beckoned and soon they were wandering the market once more, Rema looking at every face in the crowd, hoping he might see the woman once more, Andes wondering about the magician and only half seeing the other enticements which surrounded him.
Some time later Rema returned to the Public Hall of the Palace where the Judgiem had been held the previous day. He went alone, Andes wanting to wander the market some more and perhaps explore the city. Rema took his bow and three arrows. He wrapped them in the wonderful gown which had come to him the day The Safeness had been destroyed by the volcano, for he had no wish to walk the streets of Ramos with his weapon in full sight. The Hall was not nearly as full as the day before but still there was a small but better behaved crowd, and Rema guessed that they all shared a common interest in the great sport and skill of the bow. He approached a bench which seemed to be the only place for enquiry about the tournament.
‘You wish to make application young man?’ Rema was immediately much heartened by this greeting from a city official, so different and accepting from that he had received at the fort where his inquiry had been summarily rejected.
‘I do sira,’ Rema replied. ‘How do I go about this?’ The official, an older man with a keen eye looked him up and down.
‘You have a bow and some arrows?’
‘I do.’
‘Well take them over to Captain Bjorkman. He’s the one with bald head over there. He will see what you can do. If he sends you back you’re in. Good luck.’ Rema nodded in thanks and did as he was directed. He joined a line of waiting archers as Captain Bjorkman dealt with another eager applicant, whose turn it was to pass the skill test for entry to the tournament. The small crowd of supporters stood back behind a rope barrier and shouted encouragement to their favourites.
‘Stand on the line son,’ Bjorkman growled at the next in line. Clearly he was a somewhat impatient man. He was obeyed by a youth whom Rema thought no older than sixteen summers, a rather spindly lad with a tall traditional bow. He held it well but Rema thought perhaps lacked the strength to shoot accurately.
‘Three arrows lad, in your own time. One in the close target, one in the next and the last in the far target. Do you understand?’ The boy nodded, but seemed quite nervous. His first arrow hit the single red circle at the centre of the close target which was no more than twenty paces distant.
‘Well done son,’ Bjorkman encouraged. ‘Next one now!’ The lad’s next arrow struck the required target some thirty paces distant but only just, lodging in the rim and a hand span outside the large red circle which again marked the centre. Bjorkman shook his head which did not help the lad at all. He took his time but the last arrow missed the far target altogether and struck the stone wall beside it and shattered. The youth looked crestfallen, but Bjorkman had a job to do.
‘Maybe next time son,’ he said dismissing the lad, ‘Next!’
Rema watched a half dozen men attempt the test. All passed but with varying degrees of success. Bjorkman seemed little impressed with any but they all were allowed to return to the main bench and receive their entry token for the tournament which by now Rema had learnt was to commence the very next day.
‘Next!’ Bjorkman called, and Rema knew it was his turn. He unwrapped his bow to some laughs from the crowd.
‘A toy, he’s using a toy,’ came one taunt. Bjorkman came closer and inspected the bow.
‘This thing work?’ he growled. Rema nodded.
‘You need feathers on your shafts man, what hope have you got with these,’ the Captain continued impatiently looking at the three arrows which Rema carried. Rema ignored him but took up his position. The crowd was murmuring now, waiting to see Rema make a fool of himself.
‘I’ll buy you your first ale man, put some hairs on your chest if you hit the close target.’ The taunt echoed throughout the hall. Bjorkman just shook his head; he had seen it all before. Another hopeful with a silly bow which he’d probably made in a fit of enthusiasm and visions of glory.
‘You know what to do?’ Bjorkman inquired. Rema nodded.
The crowd had just enough respect to fall quiet as Rema drew his first arrow. He held for a moment, sighted and let it fly. It flew above the close target, missing completely, it passed over the second, a little lower and went on to the far target some fifty paces away by the rear stone wall, where it landed dead centre of the small red circle which marked the bulls eye. The crowd murmured, not sure what had happened. Then laughter rippled through the assembly.
‘Lucky shot!’
‘He shoots for the close one and finds the far one!’
Bjorkman shook his head. He knew it was no lucky shot.
Rema drew once more. He held and fired when the crowd was quiet. This arrow followed the first, lodging next to it in the far red circle. This time the crowd gasped in amazement. Rema quickly fired his third arrow and it too found its mark next to the others, all three separated by less than a handspan. Silence enveloped the Hall until Bjorkman interrupted it with gruff...
‘You’ll do!’
Rema fetched his arrows and without a single look at the stunned crowd collected his token and left the Hall, returning immediately to the square. Andes was not to be found, so he searched for a time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the beautiful young woman he had seen there by the magician’s tent, but his fears were realised.
I will never see her again, he thought glumly, but was I to do? I could not just walk up and introduce myself. She is most likely betrothed or even married already. Rema then shook his head. What am I thinking? These thoughts have no place in my life at this moment. But try as he might he could not put her far from his mind.
He found Andes back at the Inn where they shared a hearty meal in the drinking room which was full that evening, and according to the innkeeper, who seemed much happier now, always was when the market was in full swing. Back in their room after a few too many ales they talked into the night about what they had experienced that day, until Rema finally fell to thinking about the archery tournament and what seemed the only chance to gain access to the Queen, and then the vision of the beautiful young woman almost overwhelmed him for he knew in such a big city it was most unlikely that they might cross paths again. Andes wondered about the magician and his amazing Diabules. He fell asleep utterly in confusion about what they were and how they could possibly do what this man Gryfnor claimed; and yet so many seemed eager to try them he thought. Finally Fryn filled his mind, although the tall woman seemed to float annoyingly about the edges of his fading conscious.
And then they slept; a sleep full of intense dreams, and Rema woke to the new day with a new understanding that his quest was far bigger than he had ever imagined, and El-Arathor’s words that evil had returned to Revelyn suddenly seemed as fresh as when first given at their strange encounter so long before.
‘Come, Andes,’ he said quietly, as the giant emerged from his slumber, ‘I have a tournament to win. The least you can do is cheer me on.’
Chapter 8
Rema and And
es discovered that the market had been altered overnight. Instead of the city square being completely taken up with stalls of every description, a central avenue had been cleared allowing for the archery tournament to take place right there amongst the people. Stands had been constructed on each side of the avenue which was no more than ten paces wide. Rema immediately thought of the accuracy he had witnessed at the skills test the day before and immediately feared for the safety of some who might wish to sit so close to the action. He estimated the avenue was no more than sixty paces in length, allowing, Rema guessed, for a maximum shot of no more than fifty, by the time the targets were positioned. At the northern end, where the road ran out of the square and up to the White Palace, a tall pole had been erected and a series of pulleys and ladder attached. Rema wondered what that could possibly be for. Also at the northern end the avenue was completely blocked by a tall wall made of neatly stacked hay bales. That at least will prevent any arrow from travelling further up the road, Rema thought.
The market was busy all around the avenue, and animals and people strayed up and down anticipating the coming competition. The contestants were required to bring their entry tokens to the official booth at the southern end of the avenue before the noon, which Rema duly did and in turn received a brightly coloured numbered yellow vest to be worn throughout the tournament. Having done all that was required of him, Rema and Andes went and sat in one of the stands and waited for further directions.
‘I figure there are about two hundred contestants,’ Andes said having done his best to count all the yellow vests mingling in the crowd. Rema just nodded in agreement, only half aware of his friend’s remark for he was watching a man, also wearing the yellow of the competition. He was tall and sombre. He stood alone opposite them in another stand and seemed like a statue carved from stone, such was his aura of intense concentration.
‘He hasn’t moved a muscle for a span,’ Rema whispered to Andes. ‘Not a single movement.’
‘Who?’ Andes replied, and then followed Rema’s direction. ‘He surely looks like he is taking matters very seriously,’ he continued having surveyed the man. ‘His bow is tall. He holds like it is a part of him.’ Rema nodded.
‘It is the man called Gravyn. I am sure of it. You watch his face. There is no expression. No smile or frown or any indication that he feels. I am not close enough but I would wager his eyes are surely the same.’
‘And the number on his vest is the number one,’ Andes said, ‘He is the champion of whom the soldiers spoke; unbeaten for the past five tournaments they said... yes that is surely the man Gravyn.’
It seemed then to Rema that the man looked at him and their eyes met. He smiled and waved in acknowledgement but the other did not show any sign at all that he had even noticed him.
A fanfare suddenly rang out and an official ran about calling for all those with the yellow vests to come to the southern end of the avenue. Rema left Andes and joined the throng of those who like him wore the vest of competition. Within a short space all who were to compete were sitting in a stand made especially for them. All along the avenue the other stands were now filling with spectators and a great sense of anticipation filled the air. The official who had ordered them to their stand now stood in the avenue before them and in a loud voice explained the rules.
‘Welcome,’ he began. ‘This competition marks the one hundredth staging of the greatest Archery tournament in Revelyn. The winner of this tournament today will be especially honoured.’
‘That means Gravyn,’ a competitor sitting next to Rema said quite loudly.
‘No, it’s my turn this year said another,’ but clearly in jest for his tone was more in agreement with the first to speak.
‘The rules are simple,’ the official went on, ignoring those who did not listen. ‘You will start with a single arrow. If you fail to hit the red circle you are eliminated. There are no second chances.’ He paused to allow this to sink in. ‘We aim to eliminate all of you, down to the last ten. This will be done quickly. You will shoot in any order. Should you fail, your vest will be taken immediately and then you are free to join the rest of the crowd, or leave in disgust. I don’t care.’ He paused and gave a big smile. ‘We are only interested in the best ten archers here today. Take care you don’t shoot any in the crowd for there is a penalty for that which you will not want to experience.’ At this several of the competitors gave a loud OOOH in mock fear but Rema noticed a few of the younger ones look around nervously. The mood seemed good and as Rema waited patiently for further instructions another fanfare rang out.
‘All stand for the Queen of Revelyn!’ came a cry, passed down from stand to stand. All stood. Rema noticed that at the northern end of the avenue where the targets were to be placed a carriage arrived and he glimpsed the white gown of the queen as she stepped down and was escorted up into the royal stand which stood close to the targets, but protected by a solid wall of wood and hay from any stray arrow which might come her way. And then the action began.
‘You will fire one arrow at forty paces,’ the official cried. ‘There is a single target. The red circle is clear enough. If you can’t see it then you should leave now.’ This droll remark brought a solid round of laughter from all who wore the yellow vests. ‘I would advise you to make a start. Form a line where I will stand. There is also a time limit so don’t be the last.’ He then turned and walked a short distance up the avenue and stood by a white line painted on the ground which was their first mark. In a moment the stand began to empty and the competitors formed a line. The first to shoot was given a rousing cheer by all in the stands, and this must have affected his nerves for his arrow missed the target completely and buried itself in the hay bale beyond. He cursed loudly but gave up his yellow vest without protest to the waiting soldiers, both big burly men, before slinking off to allow the next competitor their chance.
This part of the competition went quickly. In three spans the two hundred competitors were reduced to a hundred, the action accompanied by much cheering and clapping from the spectators, many who had consumed a few too many ales, but the mood was generous and Rema reasoned they were all waiting for the last ten when perhaps the real skills would come to the fore. His first shot was easy enough, hitting the red circle in the centre as did most of those who passed the first round. The next line was formed at fifty paces and the task repeated. Once more Rema was not troubled but those who wore the yellow vests were again quickly reduced to thirty. Of these three were women and Rema assessed them to be the best except for the tall one called Gravyn who received great respect from all the competitors and huge cheers from the crowd when it was announced that it was his turn to shoot.
The last thirty were then addressed by the official once more.
‘Well done men.... and women,’ he managed to add quickly when one of the women stood immediately at his omissions and glared at him. ‘We will now eliminate another twenty of you. To do this you fire two arrows. These must be done in quick succession. A new target will be set up. It will have a small door in the centre the same size as the red circle you have already successfully hit. However this door is square and will be open only for the count of ten following your first arrow passing through. So you have that count to shoot your next arrow. Any arrow which fails to pass through the door will eliminate you.’ He paused, waiting for questions. There were none. ‘Alright let us proceed. You will fire again from fifty paces.’
The remaining competitors formed a line at the same mark as before and Rema took care to take a place toward the end. He wanted to see what the breeze might do, and any other thing which might play upon his chances to win the tournament. He noticed the Gravyn stood last in the line as if by right and none challenged him on this. The crowd was now much more interested in the competition and the names of favourites were called out in encouragement. Rema noticed that around the stands bets were being made and so the tension was pushed to new heights. This time the first three competitors, despite hitting the red circ
le in the previous round failed to even fire their first arrow through the small door in the centre of the new target, and so were eliminated even before they had the chance to fire a second arrow. There were groans from the crowd. One of the women was gone.
Rema found little trouble in completing the round, which resulted in eighteen remaining to fire again. This time the count between arrows was reduced to eight. To the cheers of the crowd another five were eliminated, including another woman. Once more they had to repeat the task but with a count of five only, half the time of the first round. Rema knew it was getting to a stage where his skills would be severely tested. It was one thing to be accurate. It was another to notch a second arrow successfully in a limited time. He felt nervous now for the first time. He looked at Gravyn standing alone, and saw that his countenance was as before. There was no emotion in his face. It was stone.
I could use your nerve at the moment, Rema thought, no wonder you have won this so many times. It’s nerves which take away the skill. You seem to have none.
There was no talk between the competitors now. Each was completely focused upon what they needed to do. They checked their bows and selected arrows with the best feathers. They stretched and thought about the task. Each was in a small world where none else mattered.
The task was repeated once more, but with a count of four. Rema suddenly realised that he was at a disadvantage now for his arrows travelled so fast that he had less time, while the first arrow was in flight to start to notch the second. This time he did not draw back the string to its fullest and so as his first arrow travelled more slowly he found more time to prepare his second. In this manner he and eight others succeeded, to the great cheers of the crowd, in forming the elite group who would show their skills in the final challenges.
‘Well done all,’ the official said in genuine praise. ‘Nine yellow vests remain, not ten but this is sufficient. Each of you will receive a reward for reaching this point in the competition but now we are looking for the champion of all Revelyn in this, its hundredth summer. Your target will now be moving. It will be in the shape of a deer, something I am sure you have all hunted in the past. The beast will move left to right across the avenue in front of the hay bale wall. Painted in red upon the deer will be its heart. You will fire one at the time, as the deer is pulled across the avenue. If you do not fire in time you will be eliminated. All the arrows will remain in the deer, and at the end of this round the closest two arrows to the heart will shoot off for the title of Champion of all Revelyn and gain an audience with the queen. The rest will be eliminated. Good luck.’