“Is there a place to practice?” Kestrel asked, concerned that he hadn’t used or even checked his equipment in several days.
“No time for that, rookie,” his partner told him. “We did that this morning before breakfast. You’ve got to do your homework in advance.”
“You go that way, I’m over here,” Vinetia gave Kestrel a gentle shove. “After the match, let them know you’re my partner, and meet me over there,” she pointed to a solitary linden tree. “That’s where our squad usually meets; if there’s a fight, which has been known to happen, stick with our side — the judge has a son in our squad,” she winked at him, then sent him on his way. “There’s the red flag flying over at the far field — that’s you! Get over there and hit your targets!”
Kestrel hustled across the competition spaces to get to the target range where the red flag was flying, and arrived barely in time, as some competitors were already shooting their first arrows.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” a proctor told him as he raced down to a vacant spot at the end of the line. “If you don’t get you first shot off before one of the others fires his second shot, you’ll be disqualified.”
Kestrel hurriedly pulled an arrow from his quiver as he ran to his spot, and dumped his equipment on the ground. He saw a competitor already sighting his second shot, and he realized he would have to get a shot off without any hope of scoring the target. He raised his bow, placed his arrow on the string, took cursory aim at his target, and released his shot. A split second later he saw the second arrow fly from the competitor’s bow.
“You got it off; you’re in the competition,” the proctor told him, standing behind him. “For now. You’ve only got eight shots in this competition, and you’ve just wasted one of them,” he nodded across the green space that separated the competitors from their targets. Kestrel turned and saw that his arrow was stuck in the ground just in front of the target.
Kestrel realized that his circumstances were dire; losing one out of eight shots in a competition was a difficult handicap to overcome against good marksmen. He examined his bow, tightening the string slightly and adjusting the mark he used to sight his target, then carefully looked through his arrows, selecting one that he knew was his straightest, truest shaft. He carefully took his time aiming his second shot, and when he released it, he watched with satisfaction as the bolt flew straight and true towards the center of the target, where it landed with a resounding thud. He was holding his breath he realized, and he exhaled in relief at the success of the shot that gave him a chance to get back into the competition.
He picked out another reliable shaft, tinkered with his sight bead slightly, then released his third shot, one that landed just a finger’s-breadth away from his first. He looked down the long line of the targets that the other archers were shooting at, and saw several that already had three shafts in the center. Despite his two successful shots, he still had no margin for error.
His next two arrows were also in the center of his target, but also depleted his limited supply of high quality shafts. His last three shots would be made with his supply of cheap, second-quality arrows that each had flaws of some sort. He picked a green arrow with faulty fletchings, which we worked to try to bolster, then let his shot go. The sound of the flight as the bolt left his bow indicated that the arrow would not fly true, but it only deviated slightly to the left, and landed just outside the center ring.
Most of the other competitors were finished. He looked at their targets and calculated the scores of the best of them. If he could put his last two shots in the center, he would become the fifth qualifier from this group. With the arrows he had left, that would be a tough task. The faulty arrows were more than adequate to hit a large target, such as a turkey or deer in the forest, but for the fine control needed in this competition they put him at a disadvantage.
He pulled another arrow out at random, inspected it, bent the yellow shaft slightly to try to correct its flaw, then tweaked the fletching as well. He guessed that it would drop more than it should, so he raised his aim slightly, then let it fly, and held his breath as he listened to it and watched it wobble though the air before landing just inside the center circle.
There was a small audience gathered behind him, watching him finish as the last competitor, and he heard snippets of their conversations despite his effort to stay focused on his game. “That was a great shot,” one voice said. “Too bad he’s as ugly as those arrows he’s using,” someone responded. “He hardly looks like an elf.”
Kestrel selected the arrow for his last shot. The shaft was warped; the fletchings had a gap on one side, and the head was wobbly loose. He’d never gone into a competition with such awful arrows before, and once he finished his shot he’d go in search of better arrows for his next round of competition. Always be prepared, one of his instructors back at Elmheng had told him, and he regretted that he hadn’t followed that advice for this competition.
He tinkered with the arrow, then placed it on the string, and drew the string back. He tried to guess how the shaft would deviate from a true flight, and then adjusted his aim. With one last moment of delay, he pulled his fingers off the string and released the arrow.
The shot tried to stay on course. He could see that the arrow wanted to fly towards the center of the target. It seemed to jump and swoop through the air as it pulled itself back into the path it needed to fly. Then just before it found the target it lurched downward and struck the target just below the center. The group behind him let out a collective groan, and then Kestrel released his own breath noisily. He was out of the competition. Just like that. He thought about all the things that could have changed his fate — if he had shot his first arrow competitively, if he had brought better arrows, if he had practiced before the competition, but mostly if he had brought better arrows.
Someone slapped him on the back. “Shoot like that in the consolation round and you’ll have a chance,” a voice said, and then the group wandered away.
Kestrel walked up to the target and collected his arrows, then returned to pick up his bow and quiver. “When will the consolation round begin?” he asked a proctor.
“In about a half hour, over where the green striped flag is flying,” the proctor answered.
Kestrel began running towards where the green flag was waving in the breeze, scanning the field in search of vendors with arrows for sale. He spotted a table with a collection of arrows strewn across it, and veered in that direction. He jostled through the crowd in front of the table and examined the assortment of shafts closely. He picked up two arrows that seemed of the highest quality, looked along their lines, ran his fingers long the feather fletchings, and tugged at the bindings.
“How much for these two arrows?” he asked the woman who stood behind the table.
“They’re not for sale to you,” she said bluntly. “We don’t sell to the likes of you. Now move along and let the paying customers handle the merchandise,” she ordered.
Kestrel felt himself turn white as the blood drained from his face. It was a situation he had faced before, and he knew he had no recourse. He put the arrows back down on the table with a mixture of anger and remorse, then turned away from the table and began to stalk towards the green and white flag. He’d only gotten fifty yards away from the arrow vendor when there was a sudden eruption of screams from the table.