Page 5 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

THE MOUNTAIN BOW

Avisit to the armoury swallowed up most of our time that morning.

We found Master Raikikho, the Regiment’s prickly Head Bowman, standing amongst a dozen mountain bows strewn around his workshop. Hands behind his back and bushy eyebrows knitted, he hovered over his three assistants, who knelt on the floor mats, each engrossed in a different stage of the bow making process: setting curves into the limbs, applying lacquer and tying leather wrappings around the grip. The potent grass-like smell of yaanöŭr, freshly cut into long strips, blended with the briny tang of the fish bladder paste used for glueing the layers together, saturating the bright space.

When Master Raikikho noticed us, the creases in his forehead deepened. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m working?” he snapped in the Mountain Dialect. “Any repairs, leave them by the door. Be off with you.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Hernan Seinnés here needs a ceremonial bow made,” I responded in the same language. I thought it best if the Asirhwÿnian didn’t understand the conversation, in case the grumpy bowman made him the target of one of his infamous tirades. I didn’t need my new trainee’s spirits to dwindle before we even had a chance to give practice a try. “He’s the new centre shooter. Commander Yennés’ orders.”

The four bowmen swapped nonplussed looks in surprised silence.

Raikikho examined Hernan as if he thought the redhead an odd specimen about to sprout tentacles from his shoulders.

To his credit, puzzled or not, Seinnés didn’t move a thumb.

“Hm, ain’t that novel? A green lowland lad a Guard of Honour? How progressive of Commander Yennés. Next thing we know, he’ll start enlisting humans.” Raikikho grimaced and shook his head. “Very well. It’ll take a fortnight or so.” His abrupt gesture stopped one of the assistant’s attempt to rise from his knees. “Back to work, the three of you. I’ll take the measurements myself.”

Hernan moved forward, beckoned by the bowman.

“You.” Raikikho aimed a long, knobbly finger at me, pointing to the large wooden rack behind me that took up an entire wall. “Find him a practice bow, if you can find one wee enough. What do they feed those boys outside the Highlands that they grow so little?”

Searching through the armoury bow selection, I hid a smile. Hernan might lack the brawniness of a typical Highlander, but even by our standards, he could hardly be called little.

The standing frame burst full with some two-hundred weapons, all of them unstrung and well-used. I disregarded the battle section that contained robust bows enforced with a hardwood centre, designed to take a higher degree of abuse. Further on, cheap and shabby training bows stood mixed with light, delicate and extensively decorated ceremonial ones. The latter provided the smoothest draw and release, and to those I paid my attention. After a quick browse, however, it became transparent that none would do due to their excessive length. It would be tough enough for Hernan to switch to a bow twice as tall as his regular one, never mind saddling the poor bastard with a weapon fit for a giant.

I remembered something then—the last gift from my late father. My old ceremonial bow, which I’d outgrown a few years back but kept out of sentiment. “I’ll be right back,” I shouted, and legged it all the way to my quarters and back.

Half an hour later, sweaty and out of breath, I returned to the sight of Hernan looking irresolute and holding a battered, oversized bow. Master Raikikho appeared to be waving him away.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ve found a better fit. Master Nabukko’s work,” I panted, presenting my red and black lacquered prize to the bowman. “Besides,” I added carelessly, “that one’s a bit tatty.”

Only when the startled assistants paused in their work to gawp at me did I realise my mistake: mentioning the name of Raikikho’s arch-enemy and competitor. My hand itched to slap myself across the face.

Raikikho’s sable eyes narrowed and his cheeks reddened. “What did you say? The bow I made? Tatty? Come here, you little shit, and I’ll kick your bony arse so hard you’ll think you’ve gained the ability to fly!”

“It’s been around a little, sir, is all. I meant no offence.” I backed slowly towards the door.

Hernan shot me a look of confused alarm, but made his way over to my side with no hesitation.

“The fucking cheek of you!” The bowman struggled to get to me, stepping over his kneeling assistants.

Thank the gods Hernan reached me first.

I indicated the stand with a tip of my head to him and hissed, “Put that bow away. Let’s go.”

“Wait. What did you say to him?” Hernan whispered, taking to his heels after me. “Why is he frothing? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine and dandy. Goes off on one like that all the time. Nothing to worry about,” I lied. Raikikho, considered one of the best bowmen in the Elven Country, was also a temperamental son of a bitch, touchy about his craft and unforgiving. The next time I knackered my kit, he’d likely stick it deep up my arse rather than repair it. “Until your bow is ready, you can practise using my old one.”

The Asirhwÿnian’s gaze followed the shake of my hand, his eyes lighting up as if I held an object of his desire. “All right, then. Thank you. Where are we going?”

“I don’t fancy practising on the training grounds. Too many nosey fuckers around.” I waved to the right. “See that meadow behind the officers’ barracks? It’ll do.”

As a matter of fact, I intended to spare Hernan the intimidation of training in plain view of others, who—I could bet my balls on it—would interpret it as an open invitation to gape, laugh their arses off and volunteer moronic comments. All under the pretence of helping. In such a scenario, chances were I might end up reported to Yennés—for the hundredth time—for busting someone up. But how was it my fault that people were idiots?

The Asirhwÿnian shot me a long, askew look and nodded in silence.

“Here’s perfect.” I came to a halt in the middle of a vast field of tall grass, abuzz with pollinators and dotted with purple wildflowers. “Why don’t you study this while I string the bow?” I grabbed the scroll, tucked under my belt since I’d hastily scribbled on it during my earlier visit to my room, and passed it to Hernan.