A Sea of Cinders

by Adam Bishop

  Her disappointment was obvious, but Elis was impressed by her immediate display of skill.

  “One cannot master archery overnight, Krea. It takes years of practice and determination. I’ll tell you one thing, though. Most soldiers here wouldn’t be able to make those shots if they tried.”

  Elis’ words brought a smile to her face. “Really?”

  “I’d never lie to a student. False approval will only hold you back from your true potential,” Elis said as he walked over to Krea. “Now, draw another arrow.”

  As Krea pulled back her arrow, Elis placed a hand on her draw arm. “Relax your muscles. When you ready your shot, the draw should be smooth and effortless. Think of it as one steady motion, like when an eagle swoops down to catch its prey. You know where you want the arrow to go. So don’t let your arm hesitate with what your eyes already know.”

  This time, she let her eyes guide her arrow instead of her arm. She released her bow in one swift and sure motion. The arrow landed dead centre, and her arms were left free of their usual stiffness.

  Elis grinned and knelt beside her. “This is how a true archer guides an arrow.”

  Krea, pleased with herself and her teacher’s words, felt sure she could best any challengers. But before she could give her thanks, a low yelp followed by foreign laughter caught her ear.

  A group of soldiers from Oaksdale stood laughing. One of their archers had pegged a small prairie dog that emerged from a hole just below his practice target. Krea, infuriated by such brutish behaviour, fired an arrow into the archer’s hand without hesitation. His palm was left pinned to his bow, with blood starting to spill out.

  “Krea!” Elis shouted. Before he could react Krea was already marching toward the injured archer. He was cursing her in pain.

  “Bloody abyss! You little shit! My fuckin’ hand!” he cried.

  “You think it’s funny, killing an innocent creature like that!?” Krea shouted as she approached the fuming archer. “You’re lucky I don’t put another arrow through your skull!”

  “Girl, I’m goanna rip—” his hasty words were cut off by Elis as he came running over.

  “Now, now. I don’t think King Richard would appreciate you speaking to his daughter with such hostility,” Elis said. The remaining soldiers clenched their jaws and walked away, and the injured archer sneered slightly and bowed his undesired apologies.

  “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  “Krea, what were you thinking? You can’t just go shooting anyone you please!” Elis exclaimed.

  Still angered by the whole situation, Krea broke her glaring stare away from the murdering bowmen and defended her actions. “He killed a helpless animal! He’s lucky I didn’t put an arrow between his legs!”

  “I’m not saying I agree with his actions. But you just shot a guest in your father’s home … I doubt King Richard would turn a blind eye to such cruelty. But that is for him to decide, not you.”

  Krea smiled with playful cheekiness. “Did you see my shot, though? I did just as you showed me.”

  Elis held back his wanting laughter. “It was a good shot … I don’t think he’ll be competing anymore. However, many others will, and we haven’t much time before your skills are put to the test.”

  Krea nodded and followed her teacher as he walked back toward their practice area. Her eyes lit up upon seeing her father. She ran over to him and insisted that he watch as she took her last few practice shots.

  “I’d presume you’ve been training for the past five years if I didn’t know any better,” Richard said. “Elis has taught you well.”

  “I’d like to take the credit, but the truth is she’s a natural. Best student I’ve ever had,” Elis said.

  “I’m proud to hear it,” Richard replied. “You’re going to do great today, my little feather. Don’t let your age interfere with the competition. You are an Arinfray. Show everyone what we're capable of.”

  Krea smiled from ear to ear. “Don’t worry, Da. I’m not nervous. I’ll outshoot all those old-timers.”

  Both Richard and Elis let out hardy laughs. “I’m sure you will, love,” Richard said with a feeling of pride. “Now, the jousting will begin shortly. Rowan wanted me to tell you that he saved you a seat. I know it’s not your favourite, but your brother enjoys it. I’m sure your company would be much appreciated.”

  Krea nodded to her father. She didn’t want to go, but she would do so for her brother. “I’ll go,” she said. “Just a few more shots first, though. I’m not losing to those older boys!”

  ***

  Krea sat next to her brother just before the jousting tournament got underway.

  Although it was a crowd favourite—as well as his own—Rowan knew his sister hated the idea of animals being used for entertainment ... especially if their safety was at risk.

  “I know you’re not a fan, but I’m happy you came,” Rowan said. “If any of the horses are injured during the joust, I’ll make sure they're tended to immediately. And we’ll leave together no matter how early in the tournament it happens.”

  “Thank you,” Krea responded. “I hope none of the horses get hurt though.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” he reassured. “Are you nervous for the archery competition? If you are, don’t be. I saw how good you’ve gotten … you're better than me now!” Rowan happily admitted.

  Krea shrugged. “A little, I guess. But Elis said I’m better than most of the men here.”

  “That you are,” Rowan agreed. “You’ve only just begun your training and I’ve already heard the Feathered Knights discussing your talent. My little sister, Krea, the elite archer of Talfryn. Has a nice ring to it, no?”

  Krea elbowed her brother in the ribs. “Shut up. You’re just jealous I can beat you at something.”

  Rowan laughed. “That you can, and I’m proud of you for it. I really am. You’ll do great today, I’m sure. And I know father feels the same way. It’s all he talks about. You really are quite the marksmen. Or marksmiss, if you prefer.”

  Krea appreciated her brother’s kind words. She knew that he only wished to build her confidence, yet what he said only added to her nerves. She nodded with a forced smile and watched as the first two contenders readied their lances.

  The crowd grew silent as the two riders got into position. Their horses’ hooves bit at the dirt as they stood waiting for the signal to charge.

  Sir Roland Oakman won the first match, sending Jory Griff flying off his horse and into the dirt with a single calculated hit. The Joust continued for some time, leaving the dirt track littered with wooden splinters and spilled blood. The crashing of armour and the beating of hooves echoed throughout the Kingdom. Even though the spectacle could not match the legendary status of its former glory, the crowd seemed to cheer just as loud. Barry the Brick bested everyone he rode against. He had always been a crowd favourite and was steadfast to uphold his reputation, though his match against Duncan the Dam proved to be quite the challenge. Both men were known for their defence against the lance—hence their nicknames—and neither wanted to live down their titles. Duncan drove his lance into Barry’s chest plate in the first tilt, denting his armour with a crushing blow. However, the Brick leaned in, taking the hit as if Duncan’s lance was a meer twig. After that, the two brutes shared a number of bruising clashes until Duncan finally toppled off his horse, the victim of a rattling blow to the head. Rowan wondered if Duncan would even be able to remove his helmet after such a hit.

  ***

  Despite the breathtaking display of skill and bravery, Krea remained unimpressed. As the Jousting tournament came to an end, she left for the archery yard for one final round of practice.

  The crowd had migrated to the next event. Krea watched as her father, mother, and brother took their seats. She stood frozen in place, nervously awaiting her turn. Her palms were damp with sweat and her heart pounded louder than ever before. It wasn’t her age that was causing her such deep stress—it was that her father a
nd brother held high hopes, and she wanted nothing more than to satisfy their expectations. She rarely ever felt nervous about anything. Her character almost always nullified such distractions, and now she found this discomfort rather odd.

  How can a feeling affect my skill? she wondered. I won’t let it … why should I? I’m a great archer. I know I am and I believe it!.

  She shook the thoughts from her head and took in a few deep breaths, ridding the foreign feeling that was consuming her. The weakness in her legs disappeared, and the weightless churning in her stomach faded. Her confidence had returned, and now she was eager to prove herself once again. She watched attentively, sizing up every shot from her competition. Few seemed ready to challenge her. Most of the combatants scored lower than she anticipated.

  Sir Fredrick of Oaksdale held the lead. Being the brother of the prairie dog killer only fueled her desire to best his score. Because she was the youngest archer and held no prior tournament experience, she was set to shoot last. Only one other remained before it was her turn. Sir Alfred—who came in second place the previous year—took position and readied his first shot. Krea watched intently as he nocked his first arrow. Alfred fired, landing a shot just below the centre ring, adding eight points to his score.

  Krea found herself holding her breath after each of his shots. His turn was playing out in slow motion. In the end, he finished with a score of fifty-four, which was one point lower than the year before, but still impressive.

  Krea heard her name bellow out. The feverish roar of the crowd engulfed her as she slowly walked to her mark. She felt the weight of a thousand eyes staring down on her as she readied her bow—but she did her best to ignore them. She focused on relaxing her arms just as Elis had taught her. She studied her target and removed an arrow from her quiver. Although she was hesitant to take her first shot, it landed dead centre, scoring her ten points. Her eyes grew wide. She glanced into the crowd and spotted Rowan, whose expression lifted her spirits even more. Within that single shot she felt like she had won the entire competition, although she wasn’t that vain. She understood the challenge ahead and quickly composed herself. Her next shot went a bit high, scoring her only eight points. It didn’t dampen her confidence. She knew she still had four shots left, which was more than enough to beat Fredrick’s score.

  Relax your muscles. When you ready your shot, it should be smooth and effortless. Think of it as one steady motion, like when an eagle swoops down to catch it’s prey, she recited her teacher’s words in her head. Her next three shots hugged each other in the centre ring, scoring her an impressive thirty points. The crowd gasped in shock, surprised that a youngster could possess such grace and speed.

  A single shot remained. Krea took a moment to gather her focus. All she needed to do was score in the red and the win would be hers. She thought back to her training once again and steadied her breathing. The longer you aim, the greater your chances are of missing. You already know where you want to shoot, so why confuse your eyes?

  Krea took her last shot. The arrow glided through the air in slow motion, and when it hit the target the crowd went wild. Her arrow landed inches away from the centre, scoring her nine points. For the first time in the history of the tourney, a nine-year-old had won the archery competition. The cheers from the crowd were the loudest they had been in years. Krea watched in pure bliss as the crowed celebrated her victory. The end-day celebrations came early on account of her win and Krea couldn’t be happier. Her father hoisted her up on his shoulders and danced her through the streets. Krea laughed joyfully and watched as the eagles overhead swooped about, celebrating her victory in their own animalistic way.

  “A rider from the north!” a soldier yelled out from the eastern watchtower. The dancing eagles broke into flight and raced towards the unknown approaching rider. King Richard returned Krea to her feet and looked up at the soldier in the watchtower.

  “It must be Durwin!” he said, as if to convince himself. “Just in time for the celebration he is.”

  Krea, along with her mother and brother, shared a joyous glance together. They were anxious for his return and felt a great amount of relief knowing he was but minutes away from returning home.

  Richard rushed to the front gate to greet his friend upon arrival. Such news could not have come at a better time, he thought. I can’t wait to tell Durwin of Krea’s victory. He spotted his friend in the distance, recognizing his horse, which brought a smile to his face. The sight of his friend had finally allowed the anchor of ill-fated assumptions to untether itself from him.

  But then Richard’s ears picked up on the warning cries coming from the scouting eagles. Their noise was high-pitched—not joyous. As he looked closer he realized that a burlap sack had been fastened over Durwin’s head. His gleeful spirits sunk back to a debilitated state. He saw that Durwin was waving his arms about, although it wasn’t long before he realized this wasn’t his doing …

  His arms were severed and nailed to his back, as if to replicate the flapping of an eagle’s wings. Richard rushed down the steep Hill of Eagles. He desperately hoped the face beneath the bag didn’t belong to Durwin.

  As he reached the bottom of the hill, he was met by the masked rider. His legs nearly gave out as he looked up at the mangled body in front of him. He told himself it wasn’t Durwin … it couldn’t be.

  But he knew it was. He knew the face beneath the bag belonged to his childhood friend. He cut the ropes securing the limp body to the saddle and pulled the dead man off his horse. His body gave a hollow thud upon hitting the ground. Richard untied the bag with trembling hands, his heart beating so hard it felt as if it might burst through his ribcage. When he removed the bag he found himself looking into the eyes of his dead friend. Durwin’s throat was slashed—he had certainly been dead for a few days. Richard let out a cry and pulled Durwin into his arms, hugging his friend for the last time.

  His family watched from above, Richard’s pain travelling up to them. Iris doubted Gregor to be responsible. She knew what type of man he was and knew this couldn’t be his doing. Gregor is no butcher. He would never do such a thing, she thought. But who could be responsible? If Gregor didn’t do this, then who did? Is Gregor dead as well? She wanted to bring this to her husband’s attention, but she knew it best to wait.

  As Richard hoisted his lost friend off the ground, he noticed a small envelope nailed to Durwin’s chest. He opened the bloodied letter and removed the note from inside: “You should have accepted my offer to fight against the Elves. Gregor’s army now rides at my side. Not to worry though, he too refused my offer. Gregor’s loyalty lasted till the end. You’ll find the stubborn fool in one of the saddlebags.”

  Richard crushed the letter with such force, his nails broke through the skin of his palm. He rose to his feet and looked inside the blood-stained saddlebag. Gregor’s severed head stared back at him.

  Richard lifted Durwin over his shoulder and proceeded to carry him up the Hill of Eagles. He knew what was to come next. It was time to prepare for war, and the weight of his dead friend fueled his lust for redemption.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Vision and the Arrow

  Avolin sprung awake with a wide-eyed look of concern. Alas, she had finally had a vision—her first in nearly ten years. She had started thinking her gift had faded, that she would only be capable of mere feelings of intuition. Yet what she saw now was real and vivid. It was no dream. Nor was it pleasant in its showing. Her body was covered in a cold sweat and the beating drum of her heart was pounding between her ears.

  “I must tell Thinduill,” Avolin whispered to herself.

  She rose to her feet and rushed out of her room, with her long white robes flowing behind her.

  ***

  Thinduill sat in the Birch Garden carving a new pipe. He found the silent beauty of this task both relaxing and refreshing. A perfect way for one to start their day, he thought.

  The garden was built around a wrapping rectangle of Iron Birch trees th
at worked as support beams for the garden’s layout. This design resulted in sunrays splitting up through the tops of the trees, which created a scattered admittance of warmth on the flowers below.

  The design on the pipe Thinduill was carving was an exact replica of the willow tulips he sat in front of. These had been his wife’s favourite flowers. She passed many years ago, and Thinduill found comfort in carving such beautiful reminders of her. He had planted a bed of them atop her grave. She had followed the path of the Mind’s Eye, meaning her body would act as a seed and grow into one of the God Oaks blessing the forest. Thinduill missed his wife dearly, yet he knew even after death she remained in the Viridian Vale—just in a different form.

  “My visions have returned!” Avolin announced as she burst into the Birch Garden. She hurried over to Thinduill and took the seat across from him.

  “A useful commodity in the times of war ... what is it that you saw?” Thinduill asked.

  Avolin broke eye contact with Thinduill and peered down at the flowers in front of them. “It’s Talfryn. I … I believe their Kingdom is in danger. They too are being watched.”

  Thinduill placed his pipe and chisel on the table next to him. “Another spy, but this one watches over a human Kingdom … interesting. What is it you saw exactly?”

  Avolin looked back up at Lord Thinduill and began describing her vision in detail. “At first I was standing in the rolling hills that surround Talfryn. I could hear the eagles speaking peacefully with one another as they flew overhead … but then their harmonious calls quickly turned into distressed cries of sorrow. That’s when I saw King Richard. He was on his knees at the base of the High Hill of Eagles, cradling a dead eagle in his arms. The eagle’s wings were mangled and bloody, and I could feel the pain in Richards’s heart. He has lost someone close to him, though I’m not yet certain who that someone is. What I saw next troubled me most. I felt a dark presence watching from a distance, spying on Richard and all in Talfryn. Hiding in the tall grass was a snake with eyes of a man. The eyes were lifeless and pale. This lurking serpent is of pure evil—I could feel it. A strong darkness resides deep within him.”