Page 80 of Veiled Flames
On the platform at the top of the ladder, I study the series of bars ahead. They lead down toward the floor and the final bow and arrow challenge. The first bar seems too far away from where I am now to grab. I have no choice. There is no turning back.
Taking a running leap of faith I fly through the air.
My hands smack the bar, and I grab hold. My fingers threaten to slip, but I hang on and get a bit of a swing from the momentum.Arching my body, I swing two more times to build up my height. And then I release.
Flying again, I easily grab the next bar.
This isn’t that different than swinging from branches of owk trees in the forest. In fact, in some ways it’s easier, because the bars lack bark. But should I miss one, the fall is much farther and lacks the soft underbrush of the forest.
Trusting my instincts and timing, I continue down the series of bars, only becoming aware of the cheers, when I land in a crouch on the floor.
I’m almost done.
I sling a quiver of ten arrows onto my back and grab the bow. Pausing, I quickly test its spring and weight, learning the weapon, before selecting my first arrow.
Ahead of me targets appear, bobbing and swinging. I line up my first shot. A ball of fire flies toward me. Keeping my focus on the moving target, I duck under the fireball, releasing the arrow as I rise.
My arrow connects.
I don’t take time to consider whether or not I made a direct hit. Instead, I reload, dodge another ball of fire, and shoot again. Then again and again as the platform shifts and fire flies toward me. A bell sounds, and cheers rise from above.
I’m finished.
A senior candidate beckons to me from the side, and I get down from the platform and stagger toward him. As soon as I canfocus, I realize there are more senior candidates here too. They are the one shooting balls of fire.
After several minutes, Egon arrives at the target area, panting, his face red and sweaty and his clothing wet, confirming he survived a fall off that beam.
He picks up his bow, and just as he’s cocking his first arrow, one of the senior candidates lines up a large slingshot and aims a ball of fire toward him.
“Look out,” I shout.
Egon turns and jumps back. One second later and he would have been burned.
His eyes wide, Egon blinks, in what looks like an acknowledgement of my help, and then he aims his arrow and shoots.
He misses his target.
One of the candidates leans in toward me. “Don’t warn him. It’s not fair.” Taking me by the shoulders the senior turns me around so I can’t watch. Then he leads me toward the platform that lifted Tynan and Burchard from the floor to the viewing gallery.
“Well done,” the senior says as he positions me in the center of the platform. “I’ve never seen anyone do so well on their first gauntlet run.”
Pride rises in my chest, and then the platform starts to rise too. There is nothing to hold on to, and my ascent is at once terrifying and exciting. But, if I’m to become a dragon rider, this precarious trip will be nothing.
Thirty-One
Rosomon
Even after my belly is full of sup, my body continues to shake with fatigue. It aches in places and ways I did not know were possible—inside and out.
But at least I’m still alive. Our recruit group lost three and ten candidates to the gauntlet, more deserted before the start, and now the large group I arrived with numbers but eight and twenty.
My every muscle and bone plead for me to retreat to my room, where I can sink into a hot bath and then my warm bed, but even before the last plate of food is consumed, our group is ushered into yet another grand room where music is playing and ale is flowing. Flickering gas lights dance through hundreds of crystals, hanging from impossibly large chandeliers and it makes the bright limestone walls sparkle.
I’d guess there are close to a hundred people in the ballroom, including more women than I’ve seen since I arrived at camp. Some I recognize from amongst those who serve us food anddraw our baths, but others are wearing much finer clothes. Are these the courtesans? The raucous and celebratory atmosphere lifts my mood, distracting me from the pain of every step, of every breath.
I spot Samyull, and my heart soars. I race through the crowd toward my friend, grateful he’s not only alive, but still here. Wearing a leather apron over simple clothes, he sets a flagon of ale on a long wooden table and then stands stiffly behind it.
“Samyull!” As I approach, I note the symbol of Othrix embroidered on his apron.
