The Witch (Dragon Eyes Book 1)

by Kristina Hlaváčková

  Sitting on their thrones side by side, John and Ashka overlooked the warriors standing in lines in the arena before them.

  All around them, the audience cheered. All archers stepped forth to take their place before their targets and turned to face the royal couple. They bowed. Everyone was waiting for Arkas to begin. King John rose, and the cheering crowd had immediately gone silent. John knew that boring a horde of excited, hot-blooded Berber with a long speech of any kind was never a very good idea. Besides, King John was never too big on speeches.

  “Welcome, brothers at arms! Welcome ladies! Fight well and fair! Gods be with you.” He made a significant pause, then continued: “And may gods also be with us, your audience.”

  The crowd roared with laughter. Everyone knew John would have been a lot happier to lay aside his crown for those two days, and participate in the joust instead of just watching it.

  “Froth aside, let Arkas begin!”

  All Berber roared in glee. Warriors not taking part in the first event moved quickly to empty the arena. Only archers remained.

  Dragon took his place among other marksmen. Watching him, Wolf grinned broadly, since Dragon was standing between two probably tallest warriors that could be found in whole Arkas, making him look even shorter than he really was. Judging by the look he gave his neighbors, Dragon was well aware of the situation, but didn’t appear to mind.

  Bowstrings twanged. In a way, the first few, eliminating rounds were easy and therefore boring. Every archer had five arrows to shoot in each round. Each bout ended the contest for ten arches with lowest scores. As the challenge proceeded, fewer archers stood to shoot while the distance between them and their targets grew. As usual, things got really interesting in the final round, with only ten archers to compete. Tension was building in the audience and most of all, among the archers.

  John sat on the edge of his seat, remembering vividly what it was like to stand amongst other warriors in the arena, as number of his opponents decreased; how exhilarating and nerve breaking was the pressure of attention given to him by the audience.

  Arkas was the event of the year, something people talked about. All the achievements and failures were discussed in detail pretty much the whole year. Missing your target here was in a way far worse than doing so in battle. Sure, missing your target in battle could get you killed, but if such an occurrence should arise, it was unlikely for anyone to notice. And quite definitely no one would remind you of your blunder repeatedly, or bash you over the head with it for a whole year. Or even longer. Everyone craved the honors of good performance and feared the shame of failure.

  Curious, John watched the line of archers. The short one with a mark of Dragon drew his attention. By the look of things probably still a youngster, he had the worst position of the so-called sudden death system, since he stood at the end of the line. Ten arrows, ten shots. Each archer fired once, then waited for all the others to take their turn. Now, every single mistake brought an end to the archers’ endeavor. Not only did archery skills give you the edge here, but above all, nerves were at work. Each shot took considerable time, as the participants tried to concentrate and aim. Needless to say, as the contest proceeded, accuracy differences between hits grew slighter. Only the best of the best were competing now.

  Motionless, with his head bowed, eyes to the ground, Dragon stood at the end of the line with an arrow strung, bow held loosely with arrow tip pointing down and sideways. He was breathing very slowly. Then it was his turn to shoot. In one smooth motion, he raised his head and bow alike, pulled the string and fired. Apparently without aiming at all. There was a general hum of the crowd as the arrow hit a direct bullseye.

  “Interesting tactics,” Ashka commented, sitting up straight on her seat.

  “Do we know who he is?” her husband asked, though he knew the answer was: no.

  At last, only three marksmen stood in the line: Hart, Jackrabbit, and Dragon. It was Jackrabbit’s turn to shoot. Raising his bow slowly, he pulled the string. The targets were now at such a distance, they were completely out of range for less proficient archers. String twanged, an arrow hissed through air and hit the almost precise center of the target. Hart’s arrow followed after a short pause. As usual, Dragon fired immediately afterwards. Suddenly, all referees huddled around the targets, surprisingly so, discussing the result for a suspiciously long time.

  “New shots!” the head referee announced. Reason being, the difference between hits was so slight, it was impossible to measure. For a nerve raking moment, there was a shocked silence before the audience started to cheer.

  Three archers looked at each other as the crowd around them roared and stands shook. For a Berber, there was nothing like a good performance. Everyone watched the referees move all targets half a meter further down the arena.

  Slowly, Jackrabbit aimed and fired. Meanwhile, Dragon concentrated doggedly on his own target, but peripheral vision is a bugger. Hesitating ever so slightly, Jackrabbit changed his grip. It was a tiny mistake, but a mistake nevertheless. The arrow tip buried itself in the edge of the center circle. Aiming with care, Hart fired next, scoring a hit considerably closer to the center. Jackrabbit lowered his head, disappointed.

  For a few seconds, Dragon contemplated the target, his bow still at his side, as cheering slowly subsided. Suddenly, Dragon moved so fast some onlookers were unsure whether he had already fired or not just yet. In one smooth motion, bow shot up, string was pulled and released, arrow struck an almost perfect bullseye. When the result was announced, Jackrabbit shrugged. Dragon nodded to him, supporting his nod with a slight hand motion of respect. Jackrabbit returned the gesture, bowed to the cheering crowd and vacated his place.

  For the sake of easier comparison, the two last contestants were to share a target, which was now moved another half a meter further down the arena. Wiping sweat off his palm on his trousers, Hart deliberately placed an arrow onto his string. As far as Dragon was concerned, he took far too much time aiming. Standing there, Dragon eyed the almost invisible target, and waited. But, as was mentioned earlier, peripheral vision is a rotter. Hart’s grip on the bow was … strange. His fingering was very unusual. But Dragon had seen it before. Only one person could hold a bow exactly like this … and actually hit something. Suddenly, the string twang was unwelcome.

  Lowering his head, Dragon stared at dust at his feet, thinking. And then, unusually slowly, in comparison with the previous occasions, he raised his bow and just as slowly aimed and fired. Only a truly attentive observer would have noticed that when the bow settled in firing position, it moved to the left ever so slightly. Hissing angrily through air, the arrow dug into the target directly next to Hart’s arrow, on its outside, further away from the center.

  “What the heck was that?” Wolf asked rather sharply.

  “What exactly?”

  “Ya’ don’t make mistakes like that.”

  “Don’t know, what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh sure ya’ do. Last arrow.” It was an edgy response.

  “Wasn’t it you who said I should minimize situations that might land us in some deep shit?” Dragon replied calmly.

  “I didn’t say ya’re to mess up the contest on purpose like that.”

  “How many people you know use three fingers to aim an arrow?” Dragon showed the fingering to his companion.

  Wolf opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again. “Aha,” he managed when his brain caught up with him.

  “Exactly.”

  “But I still think …”

  “At least it will be less of a humbug at the unveiling,” Dragon mumbled.

  “Unless someone noticed.”

  “Who, prey, could have noticed such a thing!?” the skinnier of the two barked back.

  “I seriously don’t get ya’ sometimes.”

  Dragon shrugged. “There’s nothing to get. He is the future King. What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”

  “Yeah, sure, male ego is a rotter,” commented
Wolf, bringing a smile to Dragon’s lips. Though hidden under his ses, it was obvious in Dragon’s eyes.

  “Not that I want to spoil ya’ illusions, but it’s going to be a huge scrape anyway once everyone finds out, who ya’ are,” warned Wolf.

  “It won’t do them any harm,” came a careless reply.

  “Might do ya’ harm, though.”

  “Ah, come on, can’t you shut up and just enjoy yourself?” Dragon was getting impatient with his friend.

  “At least one of us has to show some sense.”

  “And that’s supposed to be you, you mean?” Dragon was getting feisty, and that was a tone Wolf didn’t like. He took a deep breath to retort, but thought better of it. Besides, Dragon wasn’t even looking at him, but contemplating the commotion around them.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it now, anyway,” Dragon continued drily.

  “And that’s exactly what freaks me out!”

  “Oh, come on big guy, stop twaddling and go prepare for trak combat,” Dragon urged and Wolf made a face.

  “Do me a favor and don’t do anything stupid, OK?!” Wolf waged a warning finger at Dragon.

  “Just don’t let them kick your backside,” Dragon replied with a huge grin and marched off to find himself a place to watch the contest. On his heels, walked an unmasked black giant of a shadow as a guard. Wolf nodded at him.

  Trak duels had taken the place of sword fighting. A long, long time ago someone had shown some sense and decided that sharp blades had no place in these games. Most likely, a set of very serious injuries, a few cut off limbs and maybe one or two deadly accidents preceded this decision. It would be a mistake to say that a trak is something safe in the hands of a Berber warrior, but it was nevertheless a lot safer than a sharp blade. The Berber were fighters by nature and extremely competitive, but at least they had enough self-control not to use deadly strokes in practice or games.

  Which was something the warrior marked Polecat had failed to understand. Apparently, no one had explained that part about self-control to him loud enough. He worked his way to the finals while fighting on verge of rules. Though he did make the finals, it was already clear that he was fighting for second place at the best, and he was furious. Wolf facing him parried some rather treacherous blows, and took a few, but didn’t seem to mind. He waited with his trak at the ready, judging his opponent’s every move. Polecat attacked, using his fighting staff as a spear, stabbing towards Wolf’s heart. Should such a strike be successful, it would definitely result in a broken ribcage, most likely stopping Wolf’s heart by applied pressure. The audience hummed in disapproval. Wolf moved. In one, smooth motion he sidestepped the blow, spun his trak with a flick of his wrist to block the opponent’s weapon, and punched Polecat in the face with his fist.

  That one attempt on killing him was enough for Wolf. His trak began to spin and slash with incredible speed. Most amazing, though, was the fact that compared to his weapon, Wolf had hardly moved. He slammed Polecat in the shoulder from one side, then from the other across the ribs, then came a double-handed blow flat into the chest. Wolf turned partially, inflicting a smack over Polecat’s knuckles, then into his wrist. The staff flew out of Polecat’s hand. Fast as lightning, Wolf continued the motion to almost gently jab Polecat in the stomach. Followed a kick tripping Polecat over. Wolf’s trak dug into the hollow under Polecat’s Adam’s apple, literally pinning Polecat to the ground. Suddenly, there was an absolute silence.

  “Try to get up and I’ll pierce your neck,” Wolf growled. “If you try anything when I turn my back to ya’ I’ll knock ya’ head off! Are we clear?”

  It took some time for Polecat to acknowledge.

  Lifting his trak, Wolf took a few quick steps to get out of Polecat’s easy reach, and only then he bowed to the royal couple. The crowd roared, gladly overlooking the fact that Wolf didn’t help his defeated opponent to his feet as customary. Trying to kill someone in Arkas wasn’t looked upon lightly. One had to await consequence. With his trak behind his back, Wolf pushed through a swarm of people, who were patting his shoulders. Dragon was waiting for him at the designated spot, standing with his arms akimbo.

  “What the heck was that?” he barked at his friend.

  “What exactly? I didn’t let him win.” Wolf sounded smug.

  “Sure, had you let him win, he would have killed you. That’s not what I’m talking about,” Dragon insisted.

  “Wha’?”

  “You chew me out for showing off and then you go and pound your opponent to pieces without hardly even moving!?”

  “I don’t believe in those elegant dances of ya’rs. Do ya’ know who it was?”

  “Do you have any idea what it looked like? You can’t just swish your trak around like that without moving, without granting it speed with the motion of your body. It looked … weird. And you’re sidestepping the topic.”

  “Have a good teacher in that,” Wolf grinned. “Do ya’ know who it was?”

  “Well …” Dragon hesitated.

  “Same moves, same treacherous strikes, lack of good manners, a madcap. Don’t it remind you of anyone?”

  “Oh, all right, he deserved it,” admitted Dragon.

  “Deserved it? I had my hands full not to break him in two,” Wolf sneered.

  Despite his words, Dragon’s tone suggested, he wasn’t really serious. Until now. Dragon shrugged. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Sure you don’t. But while we’re discussing it, Hart did good.”

  “Now that I definitely don’t want to know!” protested Dragon and Wolf laughed, nudging his friend in the shoulder: “C’mon he won fair and square, no worries.”

  Dragon rolled his eyes skyward.

  Wrestling came next. To simplify matters, sudden death was used here also, making the first duels a bit of a lottery. Only four of the best met in the finals, each one of them gradually fighting the remaining three. In dire contrast general expectations, the finals degenerated into more of a pub fight than regulated wrestling with rules. Reason being, Polecat was involved.

  “Well, with that guy, the markings really fits,” commented a dark clad figure standing behind Dragon.

  “Would have fitted even better if it were a skunk,” coincided another. Which was a rather brave statement, considering he was surrounded by a bunch of enshrouded people and couldn’t be sure who he was standing next to. Admittedly, the Berber are trained to recognize one another when wearing ses to battle, but during Arkas, their disguises were even deeper, for obvious reasons.

  “I’d really like to know who he is,” someone else joined the conversation.

  “You’ll find out soon enough at the unveiling.”

  “Yeah, I bet he’ll have dishonored himself even more by then.”

  “Do we know, what’s his third discipline?”

  “The chase.”

  “Hell, I don’t envy those going against him there, they’ll be dropping like flies.” This comment caused a volley of laughter.

  Dragon listened, but had his eyes on the wrestlers. Once again, it was Wolf against Polecat. And Wolf was obviously enjoying himself, since wrestling was, of course, not only about muscles, but tactics as well and most of all, brains. Unlike Polecat, Wolf had enough of all three. He was rather short, but stocky, muscles showed under his black shirt. Thanks to everyday practice, he was a master in body to body tactics. Beside that, he was smart and extremely level headed. Polecat, on the other hand, was letting anger run away with him, again, and Wolf couldn’t resist rubbing Polecat’s nose in every single mistake he made. Dragon, however, didn’t find it as amusing, because some of wolf’s moves and grips were definitely outside the range of Berber fighting style. Far out, to be exact. And that could mean a serious amount of trouble to come. Especially if they weren’t mistaken as to who Polecat was. On the other hand, if they weren’t mistaken, negative attention might sort of shift elsewhere at the unveiling. Maybe. Or maybe not, because Polecat always got away with everything.

>   ◆◆◆

  According to the draw, Hart was supposed to be the last to go through the course. Of course, this meant the race track would be cut up and muddy. Knowing how well or badly all the others rode was giving him only a slight advantage in return. Awaiting his turn, he glumly watched the rider presently on track. He had the markings of a Dragon. The moment his black steed appeared on the starting line, Hart had an uncomfortable notion he’d seen the horse before, but didn’t give it much of a thought. Compared to other horses, this stallion was rather bulky. And calm. Dead calm, to be exact. He simply stood, chewing on something, while his rider stoically checked his bow, arrows and sword. Both simply waited for their turn. Had it not been for Dragon’s feat in archery, Hart would’ve probably assessed both horse and rider as clumsy. Now he was seriously contemplating them.

  For a short moment, it seemed as if they had both overslept the start, but then, they shot forward. The race course had a shape of two figure eights lying side by side. It contained sixteen hurdles, which the horse had to go over, flawlessly if possible. In between hurdles riders had to shoot down two targets with an arrow, cut through, knock down or wire several objects using their sword. Three factors mattered: time, jumping technique and precision in archery and swordsmanship.

  The first hurdle was hardly a problem for anyone, but it seemed Dragon’s horse took it rather slowly. Then came the first target and with it a speedy bullseye. Hart frowned. With icy calm, Dragon went high over a hurdle he had to pass with his bow in hand and, again, hit bullseye on next target. This was a moment, when all preceding riders had hurled their bows away to free their hands to grab for a sword. Dragon, on the contrary, simply tucked it into a saddle scabbard before reaching for his sword.

  “He’s damn good, isn’t he?” commented someone standing behind Hart, who only nodded. Aiming for the best possible last moment preparation, he tried to concentrate on the course surface, judging distance between hurdles, memorizing target positions. But the ease with which Dragon and his steed went through the course seemed to draw all his attention. Double coupling was next and the huge horse went over without hesitation, without a mistake, not even touching the top beams. Only two riders had managed that so far. With utter ease, Dragon then undercut all the poles at the lowest possible point, and continued to just as precisely cut down all objects hanging on ropes. Then came the triple jump and Dragon slowed his steed before its first hurdle, which was unusual. And his stallion went through the triple jump effortlessly, without the slightest mistake. Hart swore under his breath. Despite considering Warrior’s Path his showpiece, Hart knew this performance was going to be hard to best.