Fourteen

 

With every limping step, Vasco reminded himself how much he hated archery. This hadn't always been the case, of course, for archery practice had been a required part of his training. He'd even been good at it once. Now, though...he hadn't been able to bring himself to fire an arrow at the enemy since he'd been wounded. Shooting someone from a distance was cowardly, especially if you couldn't give them a clean death. If they fell before you and you had a sword or an axe, it was a simple matter to deliver another blow if the first hadn't killed them. With arrows, though, it was much harder to hit someone who'd fallen. And no man, friend or foe, deserved to live with the constant pain he did. Wounds either healed or they killed you. They weren't supposed to torment you for the rest of your life.

Yet he nailed the slice of tree trunk to a tree on the edge of Kun's yard, and it became an archery target. Because while he might never shoot another man, he would undoubtedly need to hunt for his dinner one day. If he could not shoot something for the pot, then he would go hungry.

Besides, archery practice had always been his favourite part of army training. His thoughts grew clear and singular, focussed only on the target and the conditions that might affect his shot.

As if carried by a breeze from the distant past, he thought he heard the bark of some long-dead training officer shouting the drill: Stance. Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose. All followed by a bellowed, "AGAIN!"

Vasco marched to the other end of the yard in the pre-dawn light, and began to string his bow. He would shoot until he lost or broke all his arrows, or until Kun woke and he could start work on her cottage for the day.

Stance. He positioned one foot, then the other, ready to move and fire in any direction.

Nock. He'd seen men argue over the best way to do this, which side of the bow and whether to rest the arrow on one's knuckles or one's thumb. Vasco had never bothered to argue. His father had been a good archer, though he never shot an arrow in anger. And he had taught his son the only good way to do it. Vasco's arrows shot from the right side of the bow, over his thumb. He reached for the one of the arrows in the earth at his feet, and nocked it.

There was no wind in the clearing where Kun's cottage lay. Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was luck or if she was a witch. Neither would surprise him. If she was a witch, though, all the more reason not to wake her before she chose to rise.

Draw. Vasco sucked in a breath, held it, and drew the arrow back a little. The bowstring pulled as smoothly as a song.

He sighted along the arrow, aiming for the target, as he drew the arrow back further.

Breathe, he told himself. There was nothing else in the clearing but him, his bow and arrow, the target he intended to hit and the air separating him and his goal. Air he had to breathe.

One...two...three. Vasco loosed his arrow at the target.

It hit, but barely. He had aimed too low.

AGAIN.

Vasco reached for another arrow. It sped off into the trees, missing the target completely.

Vasco swore under his breath.

AGAIN.

By the time Kun called him for breakfast, he had run through his store of arrows three times, but on the third round, he'd managed to hit the target on every shot. Tomorrow, he would do better, he promised himself. If he did not, better to give Kun the bow for firewood than carry it around any longer.

His father's bow was the only thing he'd salvaged from his burned home. That and the goats, of course. His father had kept the weapon in the woodshed, the only building in the village that hadn't burned. Perhaps because it was full of green wood, not yet dry enough to burn, that Vasco and his father had cut the week before the attack.

To burn it would be to lose the last link to home. To his family. To Dokia. Though they all walked with the ancestors now, he would carry their memories with him every day. And his father's bow.

"If you don't come in now, I shall give it to the goats!" Kun threatened.

A very real threat, Vasco knew. He'd let the goats out of the barn to munch on the fresh spring grass for breakfast, but they wouldn't turn their noses up at human food.

He hurried to obey her summons. Tomorrow, he swore. Though to who, he wasn't sure.