Page 69 of Veiled Flames
I finish my pull up, hear the count and lower myself with as much control as my arms allow.
“Ulrich, Ham,” Saxon says. “You’re out.”
The two men to the right of me drop from the bar and collapse on the platform.
I decide to wait another few seconds before trying again. We’re allowed as much time as we want between each, but if we attempt a pull up and fail, we’re disqualified.
The man to my left pulls himself up, and the servant below him calls out two and forty.
Pride and hope spread inside me. My only remaining opponent hasn’t dropped out, but I’m well ahead in the count.
Arms shaking, I make another attempt, and the vibrations increase as my chin nears the bar. My arms are going to fail. I’m not going to make it. Just one more finger width…
“This trial is complete,” Saxon calls out. “Everyone, immediately report to the archery field.”
I drop from the bar and my legs crumple. My lower body didn’t do any work, but it seems every part of me felt the impact of the effort.
Proud to have won the contest, I struggle to my feet and shake my arms, trying to revive them, but they’re as limp as overcooked asparagus.
Saxon offers his hand to help the second-place competitor stand. “Congratulations.” He claps him on the back and doesn’t even look my way.
Indignation fumes, but I don’t need congratulations and certainly don’t want that man to touch me.
“That was amazing.” Samyull falls in beside me as we walk toward the archery field.
“Thanks.”
“Are you good with a bow and arrow?” His expression is worried.
“I’ve shot some arrows in the past.” In truth, I’ve spent many hours practicing archery, shooting at the courtyard targets as well as at rabbits, squirrels, and pheasants in the woods and the fields.
Cook refused to use my target practice victims in the castle kitchens, but I always found servants willing to take the small game off my hands.
Saxon has us form lines at stations, positioned across from a row of targets set a very good distance away—more than a half-furlong, by my eye.
“Most bows are reserved for the armory,” Saxon says, “so, until your numbers dwindle, you will take turns shooting.”
Samyull and I have chosen the same line. Henri, one of the other small men, takes the station next to us, and I cringe when Egon and Amis push him away claiming the station as theirs.
“Arms a bit tired, runt?” Egon sneers. “Good luck with your aim.”
“Probably can’t even pull back the string,” Amis says, and Egon snickers.
I resist the urge to rub my sore muscles. My arms are vibrating as if someone is physically shaking them, but I remind myself that archery is something at which I excel. At least when my arms are functional.
“When these flags are raised, no arrows shall be fired.” Saxon points to servants holding black flags aloft at the far ends of the target area. They’re both wearing chest plates and helmets to protect them from stray arrows.
“For the first round,” Saxon continues, “the man at the front will be given one minute to fire thirty arrows. At least twenty of those arrows must strike the target for you to advance to round two.”
“I wonder what round two is?” Samyull whispers.
“Those not advancing will be exiled from camp and will head directly to the waiting wagons.”
My chest squeezes, and I massage my arms, no longer caring what Egon or Amis might think. Now that my eyes are focusing, I’m certain the targets are at least a half furlong away. A very long distance to shoot an arrow with accuracy. My arms are shaking, but I can’t fail this test.
On selection day, Saxon made it sound as if we’d get instruction on using weapons at camp, but given so many of us are being cuton day one, there’s clearly a baseline skill level required to even get training.
Samyull steps ahead of me and picks up the bow. “I’ll go first. Your arms and back need time to recover.”
