Page 39 of The Archer’s Wish

If he was to fail, he would do it in one breath, not two.

His world narrowed to the painted red circle ahead. The murmurs faded. The ache in his leg dulled beneath focus. Slowly, steadily, he released.

Silence followed.

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Well I’ll be,” Hendry murmured. “Not bad, friend. Not bad at all.”

Liam dared to look. Both arrows kissed the edge of the center circle.

A sharp rush of sound broke loose, voices rising, laughter, claps on his back.

“Not bad for a man who’s nae touched a bow in months!”

“Well done!”

“A fine showing!”

Pride swelled hot and bright in his chest, startling in its intensity. He drew in a slow breath, forcing himself to keep his voice light. “Ye all best return to the competition and nae embarrass our laird overmuch.”

The contest continued with renewed energy. Several of his own archers claimed victories, and a pair from Munro Ross’s clan took prizes as well. Coin purses changed hands amid good-natured jeers and cheers.

Liam stood among them, soaking it in. The rhythm of it. The camaraderie. The pulse of the world he had once lived for. His blood stirred with it, sharp and yearning.

And then the thought crept in, cold as a shadow. When he returned to the keep, he would return to being a scribe.

The warmth inside his chest flickered.

Chapter Eleven

The sun was high in the cloudless sky, its warmth sinking into the blanket where Beitris and Ailith sat shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the field. The air rang with the snap of bowstrings and the distant thud of arrows biting into wood. Beitris found a peculiar joy in watching the men at these competitions. Grown warriors turning into eager boys once more. Boasting, laughing, shoving one another with bruising affection.

Liam stood among a knot of archers near the ale tents, animated and relaxed in a way she seldom saw. Laughter creased his face, his head tilted as he spoke, his broad body easily towering over most of the men around him. Even with the uneven line of his stance, his leg betraying him with that slight, stubborn limp, he was every inch a formidable man.

Her gaze lingered far longer than propriety allowed.

“Look,” Ailith murmured, nudging her gently. “They are about to begin anew.”

The archers returned to their positions, the field tightening with concentration. One by one, arrows flew, some true, some wide, each shot met with held breath and collective exhale. The tension in the air hummed with anticipation, the crowd swaying between silence and sudden bursts of cheers.

“We require yer help.”

Beitris turned to find a young lad standing breathless before her. “An archer is injured.”

At once, duty swept away distraction. Ailith gave her an understanding glance. “Go. I will keep yer place.”

The boy darted through the crowd, Beitris close behind as they wove between clusters of men and the press of onlookers. He led her to a makeshift bench where a man lay half-reclined, blood streaming from a vicious gash along the side of his head. The crimson ran freely, soaking the cloth pressed to his temple and dripping steadily to the packed earth below.

“What happened?” Beitris asked as she knelt.

“’Tis merely a cut,” the man muttered irritably, shifting despite the woman leaning over him. Carla. Beitris knew her well from the village. Carla’s hands trembled as she braced his chest. “My wife frets for naught,” the man finished.

“’Tis nae for naught!” Carla snapped, eyes bright with fear. “Ye are bleeding far too much.”

Beitris gently pushed the man’s hand away and lifted the blood-soaked cloth. Fresh blood welled immediately, thick and alarming. Carla paled, swaying on her feet.

“Head wounds bleed fiercely,” Beitris said explained calmly. “It appears worse than it is. Dinnae fret.”

She searched the crowd. Where was Camden? He never missed the competitions, always ready with his kit and steady hands.