Chapter 32
‘He cheated!’ Soren sputters, shoving himself free of the guards. ‘He shot me. He should be disqualified!’
The Commander strides on to the field, and I brace for this to go south. Sure, I took the shot, but it wasn’t without a measure of calculated risk.
You wanted a show. You got it.
Suddenly, Soren’s hand darts back into his quiver.
I drop to a knee and take aim at him before he’s even nocked an arrow. ‘Keep going and let’s see what happens.’
‘Enough,’ the Commander shouts. ‘Guards! Take away their weapons.’
We’re both swarmed again. But I keep hold of my bow until Soren is stripped of his.
The Commander reaches us and sighs dramatically. ‘Now, as entertaining as all of that was, Lieutenant Collins is right. You’ve injured him. You have an advantage in the third round. We can’t have that.’
‘Then let me shoot him,’ Soren bleats like a dying goat.
‘I suppose that is an option,’ the Commander concedes.
My cheek twitches. ‘I’ll take a penalty. A distance penalty on the third shot.’
The Commander tilts his head. ‘How far?’
I glance at the target. In a competition of accuracy, every inch matters, especially over the hundred-yard range. ‘An additional two yards.’
He scoffs and turns to Soren. ‘Go ahead – shoot him.’
‘Okay, four yards!’ I shout. ‘But nothing more. He’s not missing a limb; he’s got an earache. And like I said, he deserved it.’
The Commander holds up a hand while he thinks. ‘Fine. I’ll accept that.’
Bloody hellfire. A four-yard disadvantage to hit a spot I can barely see could easily tip the balance in their favour. Maybe I should have opted for being shot.
Soren predictably protests. Although I’m sure he’ll find another opportunity to shoot me. Silas announces for everyone to make their way to the eastpoint lookout post.
I didn’t anticipate we’d be moving locations. I strain to see Marian as she converges with the crowd, but there are too many bodies in the way.
The dirt road takes us into the trees, and we soon reach a wooden tower.
It’s similar to the others along the perimeter of militia territory, except this one is less of a shelter.
More strictly for observing. A set of open stairs goes up multiple floors to a covered deck for watching the area below.
Just beyond, the land drops off in what looks like a cliff, giving a view of a mostly treeless plain.
Silas strides to the front of the crowd. ‘The final round of the contest will be to shoot a passing wagon. The first to strike one wins.’
‘We’re shooting at real people?’ I ask.
The Commander laughs. ‘They’re just vagabonds. And if it matters to you, then don’t hit the people. But the wagons won’t move on their own.’
I move closer to Silas to look over the edge.
It’s about fifty feet straight down to the ground, but to hit an approaching wagon, we’ll be firing at max range, two hundred yards – all while navigating the wind gusts up the cliff side and air drag over the land.
Hell, then there’s the speed of the wagon, which will change the moment the driver realises he’s the target.
It’s an impossible shot, especially since we’ll be shooting at the front of the wagon – directly at the horse and driver. I shake my head. ‘No. This is too dangerous.’
‘So you forfeit?’ asks the Commander, not hiding his delight.
‘No.’ I frown. ‘I’m saying we need to change the target to something that can’t be killed.’
‘But where’s the drama in that?’ The Commander turns, egging on the crowd’s reaction. It’s delayed, but they manage a collective laugh.
‘I see something,’ a woman calls, pointing northeast. ‘A single rider pulling a covered wagon.’
Right now, it’s only a speck in the distance. But it’s moving fast; a small mushroom cloud of dust billows out behind it.
‘Round three begins now!’ shouts the Commander. ‘Give them back their weapons.’
I accept my bow but don’t move except to meet Marian’s worried eyes from her place beside the Commander.
He’s not going to call it off. So do I risk the life of a horse and driver to protect Kingsland? Win the hand of Marian? Improve the lives of the Dresden?
That’s not all that’s at risk – if I don’t take the shot, I’m dead. Because there’s no way I’m handing over Kingsland’s secrets to the Commander.
Soren hurries to the edge and takes aim at the land below.
Idiot. It’s too early to hit anywhere near the wagon yet.
Raising my hand, I feel for the wind, estimating the direction and speed.
I mark where I think a controlled shot could land if the wagon continues on its current path.
There’s really only one area that’s optimal, and any wagon driver will hightail it out of here as soon as he notices he’s under fire.
Maybe that’s it. Shoot early. Scare him away. Then I insist on a new challenge.
Soren takes a shot.
I watch it and realise he’s testing the air drag and gusts of wind up the cliff. With only three arrows left, I can’t afford to do the same.
Especially with a four-yard penalty, which will push me so far back from the cliff, I won’t be able to angle my shot down.
‘Bloody hellfire,’ I mutter. The Commander knew that.
‘Get higher,’ Marian shouts to me.
I glance around at the trees, then to the lookout post on my right. I love how she can read my mind. Racing up the old stairs, the lookout creaks and quakes. The crowd grows noisy as they spot me. With a running leap, I jump, pulling myself on to the brittle roof.
The cedar shingles look like they’re a century old and could disintegrate under my weight.
Slowing down, I take a step and – crack.
The thin slab of wood splits and my boot slides.
I scramble for a different foothold but it’s more of the same.
Wood cracking. Boards splitting. All while the edge of the roof rushes closer.
I grit my teeth and jump, praying I guessed the location of a support beam correctly.
Incredibly, my feet hit something solid and I don’t crash through. Great. Now don’t move.
Just focus on the shot. Unfortunately, the breeze is different up here. Stronger updraught, which will make any shot the equivalent to pissing into the wind.
Soren takes aim again.
The wagon is maybe twenty seconds from being within range, but I need to scare it away before it gets too close. I nock an arrow – where to aim so the driver sees it? You’re running out of time. I pick a spot and shoot, but the updraught takes the arrow way off course.
Soren’s attempt isn’t any better. He overcorrected for the wind.
The wagon continues forward, and I draw my second-to-last arrow. Aim. My back starts to burn as I hold back the full 180 pounds of force of my bow, waiting for the breeze to drop.
Soren shoots again.
Come on, come on, I whisper, begging the wind for a break. Things are about to get real unsafe for that driver in about five seconds. Four. I release my shot, and the arrow strikes the road, directly in the wagon’s path. A miracle.
It does absolutely nothing. The driver doesn’t even slow.
With a shake of my head, I nock my last arrow. But time’s up. He’s in range of getting shot now.
Soren aims and shoots.
I hold my breath, waiting for a body to fall. Human or horse. But he misses – badly. It strikes the road up ahead, finally alerting the driver. With a shout and snap of the reins, the wagon picks up speed.
‘Arrow!’ Soren yells. ‘Get me more arrows.’
I lower my bow. He’s out of arrows?
He shoves by people. ‘No, I need long bow arrows!’ Too soon, he finds what he needs, stealing it from a guard’s quiver.
Even if a guard would let me do that, I can’t risk leaving this spot. I return to watching the wagon and the hard right turn it’s making. The driver mostly gets there by the time Soren nocks an arrow. All that’s visible now is the back of the wagon as it races to get away.
Horse and driver are in the clear. I can make a proper shot.
Soren and I both take aim.
We shoot.
Soren’s arrow strikes the road once more.
Mine lands true, striking the rear of the wagon.
I breathe out hard, relief crashing over me.
I won.
The cheering from the crowd is minimal, no one willing to risk the Commander’s wrath.
Except Marian. She claps and shouts her support as our gazes lock.
I jump from the roof to the landing and run, not stopping until I’m standing before the Commander, victory pumping through my veins. Maybe I should be a better sportsman, but I can’t wipe the smile from my face.
‘You are the winner,’ he concedes mildly.
The emotions I see on Marian’s face match everything I’m feeling. Euphoria mixed with relief. Surprise. Triumph. ‘You agreed that I could marry your daughter immediately,’ I remind him.
‘Yes, I did,’ he says. Then his face cracks into a smile that sends a chill down my spine. ‘Let the wedding to my daughter, Agatha, begin immediately.’