Chapter 31
Istand off to the side as Coatl and a few guards set up targets on the sparring field east of the compound. A crowd has gathered, including guardsmen and kitchen staff. Even Rufus is here, which is strange. Dresden don’t usually mingle with the militia.
The Commander’s ridiculous chair has been dragged outside, along with seating for others.
Women in dresses fit for an old-world monarchy fawn over Atlas.
His mistresses, I assume. He wasn’t kidding about making this a show.
Even Silas, the magician, is working up the crowd by doing tricks with a tall black hat.
My gaze locks with Marian’s as she sits beside Agatha. She offers a tight, reassuring smile.
Agatha pokes her, and she flinches, looking at her sister, and I return to studying the first target fifty yards away. It’s a shot I’ve made hundreds, maybe thousands of times. I could make it in my sleep. But it’s not just about hitting the target; it’s whose arrow lands closest to the centre.
I’m surprised to spot Brother Thomas. He wanders over but doesn’t get too close. Doesn’t look at me either when he speaks. ‘I was instructed to come, in case there’s a wedding. He clears his throat. ‘But … I don’t know. Something feels off.’
Everything feels off when I’m dealing with the Commander. I scan the crowd – guards now line the field. Too bad Levi was sent back to the entry road; I could use another set of eyes. ‘Like what?’
‘I’m surprised he’d risk losing her.’
Marian. ‘Or he’s just confident he’s going to win.’
Brother Thomas ponders it. ‘You’re probably right,’ he says, as he backs away.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ Silas calls loudly from the centre of the field. He places his enormous black hat on his head and swings his arms wide. ‘May I introduce our two contestants? First, from a distant land, here, seeking coal for his people, is Ryland of Kingsland.’
My head snaps up. Who told him the name was Kingsland?
The Commander tips his drink at me, very much enjoying my shock.
I breathe out a curse.
A few people clap. Mostly Rufus. Rufus – he’s the source of the leak.
‘And his opponent,’ Silas continues. ‘Representing the Notting Militia, our most formidable archer, the finest marksman in our ranks, Lieutenant Soren Collins.’
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Soren’s cowardly frame separates from the crowd to stand not far from me.
Dark, intrusive thoughts flood my head. I imagine nocking an arrow and shooting Soren somewhere extremely painful – but not to kill him. No, not yet. I want him to live long enough for infection to set in. For it to spread and eat away at him until –
‘The contest will be three rounds,’ Silas calls. ‘There will be two targets for testing accuracy, a short and a long distance. And for the third round, both contestants will fire at the same time. The first to hit the target wins. Now, can the two competitors shake hands?’
Soren quirks an arrogant eyebrow, then lifts his wet fish of a hand.
When I don’t take it, he leans in. ‘Tell me, why do you even want her? She’s –’ His eyes go wide, as if struck by an idea. ‘Oh. It was you,’ he whispers, anger clouding his face. ‘You were the one who hit me. You’re her accomplice.’
I don’t care if he knows I helped Marian. Maybe I even want him to know. Forget Marian; you’re going to answer to me.
I take his hand, crushing it, then jerk him towards me. ‘When this is over, I’m coming for you.’ I shove him back, and the crowd oohs, not missing the tension.
Silas clears his throat. ‘Look at that, folks. We already have some healthy competition going on. Exxxxxciting! Now, the Commander will choose heads or tails for the coin toss.’
‘Heads,’ the Commander shouts.
The coin that Silas flips in the air lands in the patchy grass. ‘It’s heads,’ he calls. ‘Lieutenant Collins will go first.’
Soren’s face is tight and a little red after our conversation, which is rather satisfying. He takes his place at the starting line, a piece of rope stretched out on the ground.
Like me, he’s working with a long bow, which tells me he’s got some skills. Most of the militia guards are willing to sacrifice power and distance for something smaller and less technical – the short bow.
Soren pulls an arrow from his quiver, nocks it, and aims for nearly ten seconds before he shoots. It hits the target in the middle of the bullseye, or damn close.
A blade of worry digs into me.
The crowd is still celebrating Soren when we swap places. Except Soren remains a few paces away.
I nock an arrow in my bow and attempt to ignore him, then close my eyes and inhale.
It’s not until I feel my heart slow that I open one eye.
The wind is a slight breeze, blowing in from the west at maybe six or seven knots.
I adjust my mark to accommodate for it. Then shoot.
Thwunk. It hits the target right beside Soren’s arrow.
The crowd quiets. A guardsman runs to take a look then points at the Commander.
‘Winner of the first round – Lieutenant Collins,’ Silas shouts.
Dread dumps down my back like a bucket of cold water.
Soren bows for the crowd, eating up the attention. ‘One more shot, thief,’ he says to me. ‘Just one and you lose. Then, you lose her too.’
His words burrow under my skin as he intended. But he isn’t wrong. One more win for him and a hell of a lot goes wrong for Marian and me. For Kingsland. And for all the Dresden I thought I could help.
I exhale hard. Wipe my brow. Maybe this was a mistake.
My gaze again seeks out Marian’s. Her face remains vigilantly hopeful. Hands clutched to her chest. She mouths four little words.
I believe in you.
So did I … until a moment ago. The target is dragged back another fifty yards and Soren returns to the starting line. He takes his shot as precisely as the first, but this time his arrow lands a couple of inches to the right of dead centre.
He missed. A surge of energy floods me, as we trade places on the line. The breeze has shifted slightly. That’s probably where he went wrong. I close my eyes and feel the air. Grip my bow and pull back the string. Open only one eye.
‘You know …’ Soren mumbles from behind me. ‘She held in her screams.’
My fingers twitch but don’t release the arrow.
‘She told you what I did to her, right?’
Violent thoughts return to me like an axe in the forehead. I breathe through them, but there’s an unbearable need to send an arrow through his teeth.
‘I thought she would beg me to stop …’
The words are faint, but loud enough for me to hear them. A tremor starts in my bent arm, all anger.
‘But she didn’t –’
I spin and aim at Soren’s chest. The crowd gasps. ‘Back up,’ I snap.
He raises his hands as if he’s innocent. Reluctantly, he takes a step back, then another, but his mouth never stops running. ‘She tried but she couldn’t stop the tears.’ Blood surges in my veins, and my vision turns into a tunnel. There’s only Soren and his laughing, cruel eyes.
‘Ryland,’ the Commander admonishes.
‘He’s trying to intimidate me,’ Soren calls over his shoulder to the crowd. ‘He knows he’s going to lose.’
But then just for me he says, ‘Did you know she asked me to do it?’
I grit my teeth, warring with an untameable rage.
In my peripheral vision, the Commander stands. ‘If you kill him, Ryland, you’ll die on the same dirt. Nobody breaks a deal with me and walks away.’
And what if it’s worth it?
‘Guards,’ the Commander calls. ‘Take aim.’
Guardsmen raise their bows from the edge of the field, with me as their sole target.
My imagination is betraying me, because I can see the scene he’s painting with every horrific detail. Even the sound of the whip echoes in my head. I curse, my fingers twitching on my bow. What kind of man am I if I let this vulture go?
An alive one.
Through honour we prosper.
I exhale, breathing out my need for instant vengeance. ‘You’re not getting away with this,’ I promise Soren.
‘I think I already have.’
The last strands of my restraint snap. I shoot him.
The crowd screams as Soren stumbles back, doubling over. Breath ragged, he clutches his left ear. His fingers tremble as he pulls them away, hand slick with blood. ‘You shot me?’ His face twists with fury. Then he fumbles for his bow, but guardsmen surge forward, restraining us both.
‘I’m going to kill you!’ Soren bellows. He fights the other guards holding him back. A creek of blood winds down his neck from his ear.
‘Sorry, that had to be done,’ I call out to the Commander. ‘He was speaking vile things about your daughter.’
Soren’s nostrils flare, reminding me of a wild horse.
I shake off Fitzgerald, who’s pretending to have me by the arm, and return to the starting line. I pull another arrow from my quiver and raise my bow. There are zero distractions in my head as I aim. Shoot.
It lands dead centre. We’re tied going into round three.