Chapter 4: Francis

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Chapter 4: Francis

681 P.F. 

Early summer

The Northern Forest

Bring down the pace. Walk, creep, listen. Distant sounds. Metal on metal. Stop. Hold up a fist. Everyone stops. Breathe slower, softer. Listen closer. Screams, arrows, spears, shields, swords.

Check the forest. Find the tallest tree. Pine. Throw on climbing spikes. Clamber up. Spot the battle. In a small meadow. Hemmed in by woods. Bathed in the low pink of sunrise. 

The Unis have position. High ground, backs to a cliff face. Left of a river, right of dense woods. Diggers have a shield wall, barely holding. Slicks are behind, lobbing arrows. No Toughs, no Fancies.

The Grays have numbers. Gray infantry press, trying to smash the Unis against the cliff. More Grays seek a flank, attempt to ford the river, send archers into the trees. Even more Grays stand idle, waiting. Deep reserves. 

Command tent, closer to us. Back from the battle. Purple canvas, red flag. Surrounded by guards, heavily armored. Nearby, a table. Covered in papers. Three men stand, pointing, talking. Lavish clothing, awash in color, hats, feathers.

Scan for a hide site. Big oak, covered in ivy, close to the tent. We can strike from there, burn the tent. Give the Unis a chance to run.

Climb down.

“The Unis are outnumbered four to one.”

The loud one, Glaucus. Scratches his forehead. “Think they’ll surrender?”

“They’re making a last stand. Looks like they want to go out fighting.”

“Good on ‘em.”

“They’ll die if we do nothing.”

The careful one, Thaumiston. Grips his bow. Pale skin now red. His body tight. “We can’t let that happen.”

The boy stands. Silent. Tears run down his face.

“We can’t just let them die, can we?” Thaumiston asks. Sweating. “What are we going to do?”

“Act on what is available.”

The loud one laughs. “What was it Antenor said about you, Francis? Pithy? Damned if that bloated sack ain’t right once in a while.”

Point at the careful one. “You and I will kill the commanders. There are three. Near a tent at the back.”

Then at the boy. “You, deliver a message. Tell them you spotted two enemy units coming toward the river. One division of archers. One division of heavy infantry. Two Fancies. Tell them it’s fresh units, reserves from Leontius. Tell them your escorts were killed by scouts and you escaped.”

The boy sobs. Mouth twitches. More tears. “My family? My mum. My baby brother. What about them?”

The loud one pats the boy on the back. Smiles. “I’ll find your family. I got a kid about your age. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. What’s your name, kid?”

The crying wanes. “Aki.” 

“Hey Black Tree, can you bring down the dance of Mother chaos? Distract our bastard friends?” The loud one asks.

“We’ll set the tent on fire.”

He laughs. “Sounds like a good time.”

The loud one whispers something to the child. Gives him a hug. 

The child purses his lips, clenches his jaw. Sprints away.

The loud one salutes. “Mother chaos makes soldiers out of children. Meet you back at the fake camp.” Runs off.

Prep two arrows. Soak fabric in oil, wrap it below the tip. Thaumiston watches. Hand him the arrows. Reach into my pack. Hand him flint and steel. A flask.

“Throw the flask at the tent. Light the arrow. Fire.”

“I thought I was helping shoot the commanders.”

“Plans change. Wait to throw until after I hit the first target.”

He puts the gear in a bag. “What’s in the flask?”

“Special mix from an uncle. Burns extra hot. Very hard to put out.”

Move out. Through the woods. Toward battle noise. Easy going. No lookouts. No scouts. No guards. SWe crawl on our bellies. Through grasses. Patient. Slow. The command tent comes into view.

The Grays see nothing. All their eyes are forward. On the battle.

“I think that’s the 77th and remnants of the 71st.”

Nod.

“The generals pushed them hard  to make a counter attack along with a couple other divisions, to try and cover the retreat.”

Wait.

“How close should I get”

“How far can you throw?”

He stutters.

“That’s how close you should get.”

Point him left. Move myself to the right. Slink. Crouch. Look for the hide site. The big oak, covered in ivy. Freeze. Footsteps, coming this way. Sink lower. Into pine needles. Incoming sounds. Pissing. A few yards away. Guard on break. The stream stops. Footsteps restart. Recede.

A beetle crawls across my hand. Black. Darker than my skin. Shiny. Stops on the lowest index finger knuckle. Antenna brush the skin. Hairy legs freeze in place. A tiny waist separates an oversized head from a non descript abdomen. The insect raises its head, half of which is a pair of pinchers. Turns, scuttles away.

Move again. Spot the hide site. One hundred breaths to reach the oak.

Excellent spot. Good cover, good concealment. Knee high bushes. Clear line of sight to the tent. 60 yards away. Three men, around a table. No armor. Two listening. One speaking. Speaker wears a red hat. Nine guards. Heavily armored. Shields. Legs partially armored.  All swords, no bows. The boy is there, talking to them.

Decent wind. To the south. Take cover, back to the tree. Inhale. Close my eyes. Exhale. Become the wind. 

Shouts ring out. Step out. They have spotted Thaumiston. He’s standing, throws the flask. Hits the tent. Breaks. Covers the canvas in oil.

Target a listening officer. Take aim. Solid shot. Through the upper back. Mortal wound. Fire again. Hit the second. Through the neck. Flops to the ground. Dead.

More shouts. Guards scramble. Make a wall. Red hat. Concealed amongst the guards.

Thaumiston. Draws. Lights the arrow. Four guards run at him. Thirty yards. 

By the tent, five guards. Make a circle. Shields up. Kneeling. Red hat inside the ring. No target available. The circle is tight, retreating. 

Fire arrow launches. Grass erupts near the tent. 5 yards short of the mark.

Sight the charging guards. No armor on the side of the leg. Shoot a knee. One down. Three remain. Twenty yards to Thaumiston. Shoot another leg. Two down.

Men pour out of the tent. Eight. Unarmoured. No weapons. Nice clothes. Colorful. Flowing cloaks. Scribes. Map makers. Attendants. No Fancies. 

The ring of guards halts. Lob a shot high. Reload. Shoot low, at a calf. They raise their shields. Arrow hits metal. Shatters. Low shot clips a leg. Knocks one down. Opens a gap. Target red hat. Fire. Through the cheek. Out the back of the head. Down. All three officers down.

The tent is in flames.

To the left, a scream. Two guards reach Thaumiston. 

Take another leg shot. Target sprawls sideways. Drops his sword. Disappears into the tall grass. 

One remains standing. Weapon drawn. Lunges. Pierces Thaumiston. Through the gut. Slumps down. 

The guard spins. Faces me. Find the hip gap, aim. Release. Hit. He falls. Four guards wounded.

A thunk, next to my ear. Arrow. Stuck in the big oak, two feet from my head. Another on the ground. Pivot back. Two scribes with bows. Unarmored. Draw. Fire. Upper chest. Knees buckle. Crumples to prone. Next target. Fire. Hit the throat. Falls. Dead.

Remaining targets scatter, flee toward the river. Guards, scribes, fire, smoke, wind. Increasing distance. No good shots. Take cover. Wait two breaths. Feel no eyes. Run to the careful one. Glance down. Not breathing. Sword wound to the lower abdomen. Massive pool of blood. Dead.

The four guards moan. One comes to kneeling, leans on a sword.

Open field. Bad position. Grays incoming, from the reserves. Thirty light infantry. A dozen archers. 200 yards. Time to go.

I am the new moon, invisible in the clear sky. They can’t see me, can’t catch me. Shots scatter, useless, ill-aimed. Run. Into the woods. I am a hint, a whisper, a shadow. They can’t find me. Lose them easily.

Set the dummies back up. Remove the Gray’s arrows. Bronze tips, weak shafts, inferior fletching. Ammo running low. Save them. Walk up the hill.

Good hunt. 5 kills. 5 wounded. Solid leg shots. The injured will take months to heal. 3 dead officers. 12 lost arrows. 10 shots. 2 for fire arrows. Command tent torched. Freed the pinned Unis. Lost the careful one. Unsure of the loud one or the kid.

Should have attacked sooner. Before the Grays spotted the careful one. Should have practiced. The cloth at the end unbalances the shot. Five practice shots, to get the feel. Could have spared the time, could have saved a shot. 

A snake. Slides over a tree root. Dark green, nearly black. Three yellow stripes: one on top, one on either side. Garter snake. Flicks out forked tongue. With every move, flick, red and black colored whip. Slithers under a rhododendron. Purple flowers catch the setting sun, petals wave in the breeze. Close my eyes, hold my breath. Listen for the snake. Moving uphill. Picture where it is, where it will emerge.

A crash. From below. Open my eyes. Herd of Unis, stomping, stampeding. Diggers, Slicks, Toughs. Forty total. Running. Wild. Some wounded, all spooked. Shedding gear as they run. Packs, swords, spears, bows, knives, armor. Careless.

They don’t see. Don’t notice the dummies. Miss the smoldering campfire. Too busy escaping. They are animals, only Surviving. Fly past the two slain archers. 

Wait. Watch. Pursuit will come. Count the arrows. 20 quality, goose fletching. 12 broad head. 8 armor piercing heads. All case hardened. Steel. Strong. Then, the salvage: 4 bronze arrowheads, broad head, too light, target practice arrows. 24 total.

The snake emerges. Slightly off from the expected location. Flicks its tongue. Flicks again. Wraps itself around a rock. The head and tail indistinguishable among the coils. Camouflaged within itself. Unwinds, slithers from view. 

The Unis pass. The yells fade. The gear sits, discarded on the forest floor. A crow hops out. Nudges a pack. Flies off. 

The Grays arrive. Twenty two. Screeching, chasing prey. 20 Light infantry. 2 archers. 

Grab the weak arrows. Take out the range threat. Aim for the torso. Fire. Left side of chest. Hit. Arrow splinters. Target screams. Drops. Shoot another. Again, left side of chest. Pierces clean through. Target collapses backwards. 

Meld into concealment.

The infantry stop. Crouch. Cover. Breathe. Pant. Search. Hands to weapons. Look for the threat. Look for me. Twenty targets. Hundreds more out there. I can take this group. I am the Grim Lady. I am death.

22 arrows. Slide back out. Find an open shot. Hit. Through the leather, enters below the floating rib, exits through the belly. Crumples forward. Screams. These arrows pull left. Breathe. Let the skill adapt. Aim for the center, don’t overcorrect. Shoot the last Gray arrow. Hit the sternum. Bounces, splinters. Doesn’t pierce. Knocks down the target. 

They see me now. Point. Yell. Posture. Charge. 

45 yards. Uphill. Plenty of time. Move. Move and fire. Neck shot. Side step. Shoot. Upper left chest. Move. Shoot. Solar plexus and out the back. Move. Their weapons raise. Shouting. Sweating. Wasting their energy. Reload. Fire. Through the gut. Knocks the target back. Somersaults blood down the hill, screams. Step, shoot. Through the armpit as he raises the limb. Breathe. They’re coming faster. Full of rage. Their bad strategy. 13 targets, 15 arrows, 35 yards. Closing. I am the wind. Fire faster. Stand still, hit two more. One hefts a throwing axe. Throw falls five feet short, in the dirt. Target him. He changes direction. Twists left, then right. I shoot. He moves. The arrow misses. He bellows. Charges straight. Put an arrow through his eye. Face goes slack, pale. Careens backwards. 10 still charging. 25 yards and closing. Axes flying. Toward me. Find the nearest problem. Hit the throat. Body spins. Airborne. Flops. Slams the ground.

Another axe. Incoming. Dodge left. Misses me. Hits a trunk, chest level. 9 threats remain, 10 arrows. More Grays arriving, at the campfire, far below. One hundred. Light infantry, archers. Pursuing the unis. See their comrades. See the fight. Look up the hill.

A blur. Axe. Move. Too late. Glances off the forehead. White flash of vision, cracking sound. Taste of iron, blood flows into the right eye.

Retreat. They are tired, running uphill, 15 yards away. Rip off a sleeve, press the fabric to the wound. Run. Staunch the blood. Keep moving. Leave no trail. Become the wilderness. They can’t touch me. Sun setting. Merge into the coming dark.

I am silence, moving noiselessly. From tree to tree. They shout. Yell their desperation. They see shadows, whisps, lies. They are lost, desperate. They howl. Try to lure me out. Taunts and insults. They can’t find me. I am nowhere.

Make distance. The gap between us grows. Their voices fade. Stop. Wrap a cloth scrap around the wound. Continue on, move east. Sky turns purple. The air fills with the red and yellow of sunset. 

Slow to a jog. Then a fast walk. Change the bandage. Bleed through it twice. Night falls. Sliver crescent moon, waxing. Press on for a hide site. Find a hill. Good spot. Set up snares. Built a shelter of sticks, leaves.

Wake early, pre-dawn. Sit still, listen. Birds, squirrels. Get up. Survey the camp. Snares untouched. Open the pack. Retrieve the mirror, needle, thread, water, soap. Examine the wound. Shallow. Glancing shot, struck by the handle, not the blade. Clean the cut. Start to sew. Halfway done. Movement, something in the woods. 

Two deer. Set the mirror down. Quietly. Deliberately. The animals freeze, stare curiously. The thread and needle hang in my vision, in front of one eye. Dangle.

Stand. Pull out the bow. Load an arrow. Sharp broadhead. The mother’s ears turn and twitch. The fawn, covered in white spots, looks up at the doe. Wait. Watch the bigger animal. Turns broadside. Perfect position. Higher ground. Clear line. Aim 3 inches behind the shoulder. Shot enters one side, exits the other. Takes one step, two. Slumps to the ground, dies. Doe scampers off.

Finish sewing. Clean the wound. Walk down. Retrieve the arrow, still intact. Clean the blood off. One shot kill, good hunt. 

Skin, clean, and butcher the animal. Take the hand shovel from the bag, dig a pit. Greys will be patrolling. Dig deeper, wider. Dig a second pit. Connect the two with a tunnel. Collect dry fuel. Start the fire. Walk 20 yards away. Can’t see the smoke or flame. Cook. Dry the meat. Find a creek. Collect greens, collect roots. Eat, rest, recover. Check the wound, fine. Set up more snares. Day passes.

Darkness claims the sky. Changes from blue to black. Moon rises. Stars take their places. There are the twins. Conjoined at the head. The Mother of All stands above them, protecting them, dancing. Forever spinning in the sky, seeding chaos.

A snare is tripped. Stand. Hear swearing, stumbling, more swearing. All in Fisiki. Leontian accent, unfamiliar voice.

“Francis.”

The fire is low. Casts almost no light. Throw on the pack. Bow in hand. Circle wide. Wait.

Footsteps come closer. Soft, controlled. A scout, decent training. Didn’t see the snare. “Glaucus sent us. Said you’d probably be by the campfire with the two dummies. You weren’t there. Nice dummies, by the way, and trust me, I know a lot of dummies. Lots of blood on the hillside. But no Francis, no black death, no tree that moves, no assassin of the woods, not that I could spot, anyway.”

One person. Wait, listen. 

“But clever persistent me, yep, played the odds and tracked you here.”

Circle behind him. 10 yards. Clear shot. Slightly below average height. Young. Leather armor, bow, two knives. Slick. He turns, hands in the air. “He said you’d most likely try and sneak up on me if I found you. Try and scare me or knock me over and then say something clever.”

“The loud one didn’t tell you I’d set tripwires?”

He grins. White teeth, one front tooth missing. “He must have forgot that bit.”

“You said he ‘sent us.’ You are alone.”

He rubs his chin. “Yep. The other two gave up when they saw the mess you left on the hillside. They figured you were captured or dead. So they headed back to camp.” Pauses. Grins. “But after the stories Glaucus told me how you killed five commanders and burned down a whole camp, I was giving you good odds you made it out clean, and an outside line maybe you took out the entire army of bastards.”

“It was 3 commanders and one tent.”

He smiles. “Still good work, yeah? Glaucus told me you had another with you? A Slick. Kind of a quiet guy.”

“He lit the tent on fire.”

“Lovely. Where’s he at now?”

“Didn’t make it.”

“I imagine traveling with you carries high risks.” He looks around. Sniffs the air. “Venison?”

Nod. Lead him to the fire.

“Oh wow. That is crafty. Like a stealth fire. Didn’t even see it when I came in. Can you show me how to do that?”

Hand him meat. “How many Grays did you see?”

He takes a bite. Shrugs. Smiles wide. Rubs his chin again. “Not sure. The woods are crawling with scouts. Two dozen? Some dogs, too. One of the other scouts who was with me swore she saw a Fancy but I think she was just making that up, yep.”

He eats. I watch.

”How many did you get fill full of holes on the hillside?”

“13. Four of them I hit with salvaged arrows. 3 killed. Hit 9 with my arrows. 7 kills.”

He chews. Looks at the head wound. “You hit 13 and that’s all they managed to give you? A scrape from a branch, or what?”

“Axe handle.”

He laughs. “By the Archer’s bowstring! How’d you get so lucky to get hit with the handle and not the blade?”

“I moved.”

He grins. “Always a solid strategy, moving.”

“A still target is a dead target.”

”Yep.” Resumes eating. “We could use a killer like you. We could use a dozen of you.” Chews. “My name is Eikos, by the way.” He sticks out his hand. I clasp it. ”Feel like I’ve been cheating because I know your name and you didn’t know mine. Francis. The assassin who lurks in the woods, yep?” 

“I’ve heard that title.”

“Yep. Now you might be wondering: why was I sent to find you?”

I let him continue.,

“Well, our little gang of crackshot Slicks got orders straight from Unification command to harass and delay the Grays. Give the main column time to regroup and recover, you know?”

I wait.

“I can’t give orders, right? I’m definitely no officer.” He gestures expansively, at his plain clothes. “Yep, but what I can do is ask nicely for you to join us. Given the trail of fire and bodies you’ve left behind I’d say it’s a good guess you’re decent at harassing and delaying, maybe you were even made for this kind of scene, yeah?”

“How many in your group?”

“35, including you and the other two scouts that were with me. I give them 80/20 odds for making it back to camp.”

“Then we bring the meat along.”

He grabs another hunk. “After we eat a little more first.”

Follow the grinning one. Take side paths. Bushwack. Look and listen. For scouts, dogs, fancies. We see traces. Footprints, dog scat. Stay clear.

Clouds arrive by midday. Late afternoon brings rain, small drops, cold. Find an abandoned camp. 

“This is was our spot when Glaucus found us.”

Follow the trail. South, then west. Easy to follow. Reach the river, Laomai.

“You know, if you believe the stories, the waters of the Laomai River are made of tears.”

“Tears of the Watching God.”

He grins. “How unlucky do you have to be to get your eyes knocked out and thrown into the sky?”

“Bad choices and bad friends. Not luck. His cousin snuck the she wolf up the holy mountain and into the sacred cave.”

“His cousin? I always heard it as his half sister.” He points. To the main road, where it meets the river. A footbridge, carved from a massive fallen oak, 40 yards long. “We’ll have to cross on the bridge. No other way over for a long ways.”

“It’s out in the open. Vulnerable.”

“Yep. You see any Grays out here?” 

“Good scouts don’t get seen.”

He lays down. Falls asleep. I scout. All the possible hide sites are empty.

“The bridge is clear.”

He stretches, stands. “Willing to bet your life on that?”

“Decisions must be made.”

He chuckles. “There’s that cleverness Glaucus warned me about. Decisions must be made. Yep. Chances must be taken.”

Cross the bridge.

On the other side. More forest. Off the main road. “Where did you come to hear that version of the story? With the cousin in it?”

“From my father.”

He persists. “Yeah, But where?”

“Leontius.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You grew up there?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. But where are you from originally?”

“Leontius.”

“Alright, But I mean where were you born?”

“Leontius.”

He purses his lips. “It’s just that you don’t look like you’re from there, you know?”

Silence.

Slow down. Let him lead. Rain lets up. Forest changes to oaks and maples, less pines.

Dusk. Three fires up ahead. Two sentries. Obvious posts. Poorly camouflaged. 50 yards out.

He pauses. Opens his mouth. Tweets. Like a sparrow. “That bird noise is supposed to let them know not to shoot us. Want to take a chance and see if it worked?”

Stand and wait. 

He shrugs. “Yep. Francis can’t be all things. Got it.”

Head into camp. 30 Slicks. Women. Men. Young. Old. Nod at me. Stop eating. Stand up. Clasp my hand. Say my name. Smile, joke. Look at my bow. My shirt. My pants. My skin. Tell me Glaucus left. Retreated south, joined the main column. Name their home cities. Leontius, Rhetra, Corb, Hyle, Iygia, Nous, Aporia.

“What division is this?”

“No numbers for us. Call ourselves the Crackshots of Koinon. Command put us together after the retreat. Yep, we’ve got Slicks from every city across Koinon you’ve heard of and every village you’ve never heard of.”

“Crackshots of Koinon?”

“Yep, don’t like the name?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You weren’t around.”

“I’m here now.”

“Yep, that’s true and if the stories Glaucus told us are true, you’re one of the best, right?”

“I’m not one of the best, I am the best”

He rubs his chin. “You’re sure of that?”

“Decisions must be made.”

He claps me on the back. Laughs. ”So the black death can make a joke. Care to test your boast tomorrow morning?”

“No need to wait.”

He rubs hands together. Whistles, shouts. “What are the odds one of you Slicks shoots better than the infamous black tree here?”

Murmurs. They rise. Laugh. Pull out their bows. Gather in a semi circle.

“How were you tested?” 

“Tested for what?”

“To be invited to the Crackshots of Koinon.”

“We had 3 chances to shoot a moving chunk of wood at 20 yards.”

“How big?”

“Fist-sized.”

“We start at 50 yards.”

They all laugh. I stand silent. The laughter fades. Stops.

One sighs. “He’s serious.” Sits down. 

Another grumbles. “I’m out.”

More protest. Sit.

Those standing grab branches, make targets. Find a clearing. Mark off 50 yards. 

It’s dark, waxing crescent moon. Light, thin clouds. Slight eastern wind.

Nineteen sit. Grumble, drink. Watch, jeer. Fifteen compete. Three shots each. Target goes up. Thrower yells. Eleven miss all shots. One hits once. Three get two hits. 

I go last. Hit all three. The audience cheers.

The distance moves to 60 yards. Four remain. Three step to the line, miss all 3 shots.

One left. Bald man, red beard. Crowd chants, “Tuphoo, Tuphoo, Tuphoo.” Misses two. Hits the last one. Audience howls, dances.

My turn. They chant “black tree, black tree, black tree.” Hit all three. They scream, sing.

The distance advances to 70 yards. Red beard misses all three. I hit twice. Miss the third. Off the the left.

Shrieking, dancing. People run up, surround me, clap me on the back. Shout. The grinning one walks through the mob. Teeth shine in the moonlight. “I think we’ve found ourselves a new name, right?”

Wait.

“The Black Tree.”

“I misjudged the last shot. Didn’t lead it enough.”

He laughs. Slaps his thigh, stamps the dirt. “Yep, yep. Ever the perfectionist.”

Red beard walks up. “You a Fancy, then?”

“No.”

“Something in your bow then? Blessings of the watching god been woven on the string? Grip made from a witch’s bone?” Tugs on his beard.

Hand him the weapon. “Wooden bow. I know the woman who made it. Friend of my father.”

He holds it. Probes the wood. Inspects the grip, neck, belly, back. “Impeccable craftsmanship. She a Fancy?”

“No.”

Pulls back on the string. Whistles. Rotates the bow over and over. “That’s an aggressive draw for a man of your size. An aggressive draw for anyone of any size.”

Remain silent.

Inspects the weapon. Again. “No maker’s mark. Where’s this bowyer from?”

“Outside Leontius. Village to the southwest.”

Hands the weapon back. Carefully. “Tell her to move to the city. Bows like this would change Koinon, make us invincible against the empire.”

“Bows don’t make the archer.”

“Is that so? I’d say some Slicks are made of nothing but their bow.” Looks out, searches the crowd. “Alathea, bring your bow here.”

A woman emerges. Huge. A foot taller than me. Didn’t compete. Black hair, pale skin. Arms and legs thick with muscle. Hands red beard a bow. He gives it to me.

Left handed bow. Heavy draw weight. “Start at 20 yards?”

The grinning one claps. “Of course the black tree can shoot left handed. Why not?”

The crowd roars. Any Grays within a mile know our location. And numbers.

Red beard whoops. Flings his arms upwards. “Why not 50 yards?”

The mob chants. “50 yards, 50 yards, 50 yards!”

Everyone stands. Watches. Red beard fires first. Uses his same bow.  Hit. Miss. Hit.

My turn. Inhale. Left handed. Exhale. Miss. Five feet to the left. Second shot. Miss. Two inches to the right.

The crowd taunts.

“Looks like it’s time for a name change already...”

“The never lefters!”

“The 50 yard braggart!”

“The blind tree!”

The giant woman snorts. Crosses her arms on her chest. “Y’all a bunch of righty dip shits.”

Laughter.

The grinning one hurls a finger at the moon. “What are the odds a man is as good firing with his left as his right?”

Third shot. Graze. The edge of the target. Spins it.

Red beard lowers his bow. “Does that pass as a hit?”

“Did it hit?”

He frowns. “Sloppy work passes for gold in the Unification ranks. I blame it on those garbage shooters from Rhetra, but what can one do but yield to the times?” Pauses. “60 yards then?”

Red beard up. First target. Draws. Doesn’t shoot. Puts his bow down. Picks up mine.

“Seems only fair that I switch bows too.” Knocks an arrow. “Even if it is a bow made by a mysterious recluse, fashioned from a witch’s thigh bone, and charmed by a Fancy.”

Next target. Miss. “Pulls to the right and down a bit,” he says. 

“Shoots straight for me.”

“You being a Fancy and all, maybe you’re making me miss?”

Say nothing.

He tugs at his beard. “That’s part of the deal, right? The Fancy who made it cursed it to only shoot straight only for the black tree?”

Stay silent.

Second shot. Graze. Target twirls. Hits the ground still spinning. “Did that hit? Trying to do it same as you.”

“It hit.”

Third shot. Hits. Center. Shatters the wood. Red Beard laughs. “Now I got the hang of it. The Cold Eye favors whoever holds this bow.” Raises the bow to the sky. Shakes it. “Thank you for bestowing this ensorceled bow upon me, great archer! I swear if you grant me victory, to roast the flesh of one hundred Grays in your honor.”

The crowd laughs.

The giant one snorts. “Shut up, bald braggart. Let the shooting do the talking.”

My turn. Breathe. Close my eyes. Relax my shoulders. Feel my feet. My boots. The ground. Bend the knees. Relax each finger. Slight breeze, coming from the river.

Red beard clears his throat. “You taking shots or taking a nap?”

Load an arrow.

First target. Miss. Slightly left. Relax, let the skill work.

Red beard steps closer. “Does that count?”

Second target. Fire. Dead center.

I step away. “Does that count?” 

He says nothing.

The mob hoots.

Third target. Miss. Slightly left.

“Guess we’re still tied, Fancy Francis. Next mark at seventy yards?”

“That’s the game.”

70 yards. 

Red beard’s turn. First shot, miss. Low.

“The Cold Eye must be withdrawing its favor, red beard.”

“Because the moon is so small tonight.”

Second shot, miss. Above target.

The giant one grunts. “Or maybe you miss cuz yer a arrogant shit who’s finally met his better.”

Red beard nods. “That’s a possibility, Alathea, a possibility.”

Third shot. Misses, low and right.

“By the Watching God’s tears.” Sets the bow down. Picks up his own.

“You mean by the Watching God’s turds.”

“Your jokes never stop being not funny, Alathea. Ever.”

“Jokes?” Shakes her head. “No, no. They’re dead straight shots to the bowels, unlike your damn archery.”

My turn. Miss all three.

Red beard chuckles. “Given I hit two in the previous round, and you only hit one, I win?”

“No.”

“So who won?”

“It’s a draw. We can shoot 70 again if winning matters to you.”

He lifts the bow. “And it doesn’t matter to you?”

Jeers from the crowd. They ready a target. I breathe. Feel the air. The breeze has died. I am precision. 

First throw. I hit the bottom of the target. It flips. Slaps the ground. Return the giant’s bow.

“You got two other shots, Fancy Francis.”

“No need.”

He slaps his thigh. Raises a fist at the sky. “Bright eyed Leontius, divine sibling of the storm eyed Rhetra, son of the Great Mother of us all, bless me with your favor one more time tonight and I promise to slaughter two hundred Grays for you.”

The giant one grunts. “The gods don’t give two shits about your kill totals, Tuphoo.”

He misses all three. Hands me the bow. Shrugs. “Looks like the Cold Eye favors you tonight.”

“Or I’m the better shot.”

He steps closer. “Better shot doesn’t mean better leader.” Walks away.

The giant one spits. “Yeah, stomp away you tiny red headed baby.” Smiles around crooked teeth. Slaps me on the back. Hard. “You. Making you an honorary lefty.”

“My mother was left handed.”

Lifts her head, to the sky. Bellows. “Of course she was.” Thumbs at the retreating redhead. “Don’t worry about Tuphoo, arrogant little shit needs a daily humbling.”

The crowd disperses. To campfires. Tents.

The grinning one approaches. Rubs his hands together. “What if we set up a match between right handed Francis and left handed Francis? Who would you put your coin on to win? I think right because that’s the bow he carries, but lefty Francis hit a flying wood chip at 70 yards.”

The giant one slaps him on the back. “No one gives a shit what you think, Eikos.”