Shot

Shot

A shadow walked in front of the stone wall. It was a patrol.

I drew my bow. Executed in the same manner that it was practiced. Stretch the string to the ear. No wind. Not that it mattered anyway. The wind couldn’t save him. His name had been forged with my arrow head, and here I was delivering it.

Death comes with relaxation. He didn’t know, but I pulled his soul by the neck. It was by my chin, where I could nearly taste it, chew it up, and spit it out.

They trained me with the bow like it was another part of me. But they forgot to tell me the second part. The part after you let go, after you relax your fingers, their final act—played for me.

It was too far to hear, so my mind filled it in for me.

The thunk.

Then the whites of his eyes pierced through the night. If I could capture the white, I would. The quiet desperation followed, and his shallow breaths, and his whimpers, and his attempts to pull out his chosen arrow. Right until his last breath. The one he could’ve used to shout for help. But if he did, I’d have to waste another arrow. It’d be selfish of him if he stole it.

I waited. 

I waited like a merchant waited for their next customer. Patrols come in two. 

And I came stocked with their two.

I readied another. My captains called me prepared. Like the way they trained me, they were half right. A merchant waits every day, and readies their stock, because they’re excited.

The patrol rushed around the corner, calling for his assigned arrowhead. If I smiled, it’d ruin our promise. I needed to wait until my end of the bargain was sealed.

Drawing the arrow back, I tracked ahead of him. A gust picked up, and my aim pulled against it. Release.

The wind didn’t bother me. It didn’t ruin my shot. I knew what it wanted. It wanted to see me. It wanted to be a part of it. 

I smiled, and allowed the wind to carry the groans of my satisfied customer. 

Whispers grew behind me in the darkest depths of the forest where we hid. Our forces ran into the fortress in droves. A few other archers—like me—waited in the border between moonlight and woodline, perched up in the last row of trees, spectating the onslaught.

The others had their bows ready, for any survivors desperate enough to abandon their post. But I had faith in my comrades. I had faith in their experience and their excitement. 

Shouts. Cries for help. Curses.

They all rang out.

None of them were recognizable.

I’ve wondered if others would pity them—the killed, the slaughtered, and sometimes considered murdered. Once, I think, a man said I was brave—Paragwuid, after I paid him for a night. But the three other whores I paid said I was evil. They whispered it, after I dared to ask them for their professional opinion. Paragwuid, when I asked, smiled with his answer. He tucked in his chin and held my image, like I was a prize upon his bed. Never have I paid so hastily afterwards for more.

Paragwuid would be warmed tonight, I’m sure. He knew the trade like I knew mine. But still, his thoughts were worth the money I’d spent. If I were evil, would I hate the person he was with now? I didn’t know his bedmate. But I knew that arrowheads were forged in seconds. 

I could go back after this. He’d be in Niobeth—half a day’s ride from here. In his crumbling tower, stuck between a tavern and a stable. I’ve saved enough to buy a horse. To buy the stable even. But more importantly, to pay for his advice until my ears deafened with age. Evil doesn’t dream like this. 

Nevertheless, I dreamed until morning. The others tied themselves to their branch in case slumber pulled on them too hard. Our men pulled bodies out of the fortress. 

In morning, the sun exposed the cracks that sprawled across the wall, limp bodies that rested at the top, and the rotting wood scaffolding. 

I was the first archer to drop from the trees and walk to the men I killed. I wasn’t a fool. I killed them. I wasn’t going to dress it up like it was for Kington, for my brethren, or for duty. It was because I was told to. I wouldn’t have killed them otherwise. Those three whores would disbelieve me, but it was true.

The first had his eyes open, his face stuck in the same contorted breath, waiting for air that never came. And the other stared into the air in front of him. Relaxed and serene. I expected him to look back up at me, and nod. Because I would’ve done the same—if my arrow was forged and delivered.