Page 33 of The Scouts

Frantic, Verhan pulled the smaller archer to his side and whispered into his ear for a bit. Grovelling, no doubt. In the end, Hernan appeared somewhat appeased, allowing Verhan to peck him on the temple.

Ervyn cracked an imaginary whip over his cousin’s head, imitating the sound. “He’s got you by your tender balls, hasn’t he, brother?” he drawled in the Mountain Dialect.

“Aye. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Verhan’s face melted into a dozy, smitten expression. “But you sure shouldn’t have the face to talk.” He sneered and jerked his chin towards me. “If I’m whipped, then you’re that three times over.”

Ervyn mumbled something I didn’t understand and peeked at me sideways from beneath his lashes.

I struggled to keep a straight face.

For a time, nobody said anything.

“A nightcap, anyone?” Hernan asked, lifting the jug and shaking it in invitation.

On cue, we all raised our cups in his direction.

* * *

Chapter 10

THE PAINTING

Asirhwÿn

ERVYN

Before leading some fifty riders for a mounted practice outside the garrison, Verhan suggested I should join the shooting drill conducted by Achiah. Since practising with the Highland Regiment wasn’t something to be sniffed at, I jumped at the chance.

As expected, I found the Guards’ precision to be deadly and their synchronisation faultless. Watching them shoot As One—just like their motto proclaimed—could only have been described as mesmerising. Boundless pride welled up in my chest at the sight of some familiar faces I’d known from infancy displaying such craft and poise. No one, however, impressed me more than Achiah—these days the leader of a chohorta. With a steady hand and sonorous voice, she controlled the entire show. Her stature might have remained petite, but the balls on her out-measured watchtower bells.

I hadn’t lied to Lochan about not once regretting my choice. However, I had missed group practices where the emphasis lay not only on accuracy but also ceremony. In combat settings, where hit or miss translated to life or death, form and the spiritual aspect of archery played second fiddle. Here, however, I could fully indulge in celebrating refined shooting etiquette, surrounded by my peers. Just the way we did it back in the mountains.

Some regarded archery as a means to reach targets, but nothing could be further from the truth. The Way of the Bow extended far beyond a battlefield technique. It was about training of the spirit as much as of the body—art designed to help a person develop their entire character, not just their martial abilities. It encouraged one to perfect themselves. To strive for inner harmony. It instilled patience. And most importantly, it taught control. But despite all those meditative qualities, archery worked best when performed with others. It was a feast for the eyes and soul, and as such, it demanded an audience.

Being a sharpshooter with the Scouts, I encountered my moment of fame that day. Shooting individually at a long distance and often moving target required a different skill set than going at it collectively while focusing on a stationary, mid-range aim. Therefore, numerous Elves sought me out to exchange views, ask for advice on technique or practical demonstration. I spent a fine few hours giving pointers and showing off. Passing time amongst the Highlanders, who wouldn’t stop teasing one another to shits, transported me home for one nostalgic afternoon. Setting tongues loose and cracking up at vulgar jokes, we all had an excellent time.

I returned to the Guest Pavilion in high spirits, finding the room I shared with Lochan empty. Whenever he had a chance to incorporate all elements of his training into his regimen, he could go at it for hours on end. Martial arts workout and sparring. Knife-fighting forms. And to finish, free climbing, weighted run and meditation. Even contemplating the effort drained me of energy.

Having unstrung my bow, I hung it on the standing frame. Remembering a small tear in my favourite glove I spotted earlier, I fetched my maintenance kit. Despite looking worn-out and shiny from use, the old leather had plenty of life in it yet. A good glove, easy to set correctly on the string, enabled stable nocking of the arrow and a clean release. So when an archer came by one, they tried to make it last. A little bit of needlework, patience and bear grease went a long way.

By the time I had it fixed, the daylight outside had turned dim, prompting me to light a lamp. Lochan loathed untidiness like a plague, so I neatened the table. I stretched my arms and rolled my head to clear the lines of tension from my neck and shoulders. My joints popped and realigned. Given the gnawing sensation in my stomach, I hoped to the gods that Lochan—ecstatic as he’d been to access well-equipped training grounds—wouldn’t get any ideas about extending his session. Getting some grub at a decent hour for once would be nice. I lost myself in fantasies about an apple and rosemary pork roulade with plum wine gravy, which Verhan had told me so much about.

A knock at the door put a stop to my salivating.

“Come in,” I called, too lazy to get off my arse.

Sabre barged in. The tall Northerner strode right towards me, brandishing a long cylindrical object and duelling an invisible opponent with it. After delivering the final jab to the air—clearly victorious—he brought ‘the sword’ in front of his face in a presenting arms gesture and lowered it in a sweeping motion in line with the seam of his right trouser leg.

I couldn’t fault the enactment.

“For you,” Sabre said and slid what I’d gathered was a scroll container across the tabletop.

“For me?’ I examined the high-end item. Covered with embossed silk in deep green and embellished with a long gold tassel, it sure didn’t look anything like the regular post I usually received. Yet my name was calligraphed in elegant runes on the decorative tag. “Ta. Who brought it?”

“No idea. I didn’t think to ask. Do I look like your orderly?” Sabre shrugged. “Someone left it at the main gate. Looks like post from a lover. You’d better not be having a bit on the side or nothing. Féyes would skin you alive.”

I waved away his nonsense. The colours gave me pause. Fucking green and gold—again. I grimaced. That combination had forever lost its appeal to me. While I couldn’t deny that Baroness Laeyés’ intrigues had worked out to my advantage in the end, I wished for nothing more than to never hear her name. And why would she send me anything?

Sabre, prying bastard that he was, continued gazing down at me with unspoken curiosity. “Well?” he prompted. “Aren’t you going to open it?”