Page 7 of Twenty-One Arrow Salute

I didn’t need to glance at the runes he brushed his thumb over to be able to answer. The same etching appeared on every Highlander’s weapon.

“Sh’iumi cara Etaký. Death from afar. But Sh’iumi also means ‘grace’. So ultimately, the meaning is open to interpretation. That of an archer and his target alike.” Another laugh bubbled up from me when I caught his eye roll.

“Damn Highlanders,” Hernan murmured, rubbing his temple. “Why not mean one thing at a time?”

“Ain’t that a hundred-silver question? Come on, have a go.” I took a glove out of my pocket and threw it to him. He fetched it one-handed. “Your liking the bow is all very well. Now let’s see if the fondness is mutual.”

I wouldn’t call it a complete disaster, but Hernan’s first attempts, as per my prediction, didn’t go well by any means.

We started easy. No targets, just shooting. The first hurdle, of course, was learning the unique gripping method demanded by the asymmetrical design of the weapon and its shorter lower limb. Lacking the ability to work his left hand correctly to counterbalance the outer placement of the arrow, Hernan’s arrows kept deflecting upwards and to the right. Holding two long arrows at a time rather than pulling them one by one from the quiver at his hip, proved another difficulty. And unaccustomed to a glove with a hardened thumb and rigid wrist, he also struggled with applying the right amount of pressure.

Within an hour, I’d talked myself raw.

“Fold the last three fingers around the right edge of the grip. Good. Flatten your hand. That’s it, keep your fingers in line. Keep them snug together! Well done.” My skin felt damp with perspiration. Dear gods, how I missed the cool crispness of the mountain air.

“Now, lower the base of your thumb. Press it downwards lightly. Lightly, I said—that’s too much. Yes, very good.” I nodded, pleased we were getting somewhere at last. “Watch the alignment of your arm and wrist. Keep your elbow straight. Really? You call that straight? Never—ever draw from the elbow. That’s better. The thumb of your right hand must be perpendicular to the string. Relax the tension. No, that’s still too much pressure on the grip. Squeeze it gently, but firmly. Like you would your cock. Or somebody else’s cock, for that matter. Huh. Oh, well. Pick up your bow.”

“Try it again.”

“Again.”

“And again.”

Soon, I became sick of the sound of my own voice and the word again in particular.

“Damn,” Hernan said, having let yet another arrow drop to the ground while trying to nock it on the string. His jaw muscles twitched a couple times.

“Lemme offer a little reminder,” I drawled. “During the salute, those arrows will be magically armed. In other words, they’ll be packed shit-full of explosives. Explosives that explode. You might want to, I don’t know, reflect on that?” I crossed my arms over my chest, whistling a merry jig.

While I spoke, Hernan’s glances alternated between the ground and my face, his body rod-still and eyes comically wide, as the understanding dawned on him.

“Yup. Boom. There went the centre of Asirhwÿn,” I said, bending down to pick up the arrow with forced calm. “I won’t lie to you. I’m comforted by the fact that I’ll be with the mounted archers on the opposite side of the square during the ceremony.”

He choked out a nervous laugh and clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle it, his skin rosy around his fingers.

And what was I doing, liking the hell out of that endearing sight? In an attempt to rid my skull of such ridiculous thoughts, I shook my head. “Five last tries before the noon meal?” I asked, pressing the arrow into his palm.

On the next go, Hernan dropped another arrow, but succeeded four subsequent times thereafter, slightly improving on each shot, which gave me cause for moderate optimism. Still, it would take time before his muscle memory kicked in.

Even though he didn’t complain, his hands had probably started cramping. He had more stiffness and soreness to look forward to the following day. And maybe a blister or two.

“Enough, eh? You’ve done well. If I were you, I’d massage the crap out of my fingers and wrists with some bear grease before bedtime. It bloody reeks but works wonders for tensed muscles and skin irritation. We’ll resume tomorrow, all right? Meet me here two hours before the morning drills begin.”

As we’d trained, the sun had climbed high into the sky, and I realised, listening to my stomach’s disgruntled protests, that I’d done a lot of running about on the single bowl of honeyed porridge and a slice of buttered spelt bread.

Hernan pierced me with a severe look. “Thank you, Verhan,” he said, offering a small bow of his head.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed by the formality of the gesture, I bobbed my head gracelessly in response, not sure what to say for once.

On our way across the meadow to the food hall, I chewed on my lip, thinking. Surprisingly, the lad had grown on me. I liked his collected acceptance of the tough situation and willingness to tackle it head-on. I liked that he chose to apply himself, without bitching and moaning, showing no fear or reservations. “I was wrong about you,” I blurted out.

In no time at all, caution shrouded Hernan’s face like a shadow. “Wrong how?” He screwed up his eyes at me.

“I thought you an arrogant arse,” I offered pleasantly, and shrugged in half-hearted apology. “But you ain’t. Not really. And gods help me, I don’t even mind your accent.”

His mouth quirked and his cheeks regained that lovely shade of blush. “Well, you’re a lot different than I expected, too.”

“Ha! Glad to hear you’ve spared me some thought ahead of time.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “And what did you think?”

“That you were an irritating gobshite?” He started with a smile in his voice. “And a bit of a whore? Oh, and—”

“Careful.” My hand rose in warning. “All this flattery is going straight to my groin.”

“—an awful gossip,” Hernan concluded.

“Well, can’t say you’ve got it entirely wrong. But I don’t do gossip. At all. Unless,” I licked my lips, leaning towards him and lowering my voice, “you’ve got something truly spicy to share, in which case I might be willing to humour you and lend an ear.”

He studied me for a bit. His shoulders started shaking and he burst into laughter, white teeth and a flash of his coral tongue on display.

I didn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but I got hard in seconds. Not that it took much to get me raring to go, but this time felt different. It wasn’t my cock’s persistent, untimely determination to manifest itself that shocked me. Gaping at Hernan, confusion whirling inside my head, I caught myself longing to put my arms around the Asirhwÿnian and hold him.

I couldn’t wait to make him laugh again.