Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [92]
One of the scholars looked startled. “That’s true—we didn’t.”
“Glamour,” Arianya said, slapping her thigh. “They cozened us with a glamour, not to ask. Those patterns—in Kolobia and the High Lord’s Hall and that cave Gird found—they must be elven.”
“Or dwarven?”
“No. The rockfolk need no patterns to move in stone. We do. Elves do.” Arianya shook her head. “I don’t understand. But I will. And we must still record everything Arvid Semminson can remember about his encounters with Paksenarrion … any detail might be important, not just as a record of her deeds.”
Vonja outbounds
The cohort had just moved to a camp south and east of their first area, where the ruins of another village and its overgrown fields gave them a defensible position along an old east-west market road, now barely more than a track. Arcolin planned to stay there a hand of days to map the trails found in this section of forest before heading back to Cortes Vonja; sixty days past Midsummer was the end of their contract. He had the camp fortified as if for a longer stay: a ditch, staked in the bottom, a dirt parapet topped with brambles pushed down over upright stakes. On the fourth day, he called for a contest.
“If we just counted hits from the first day of practice, the sergeant would win by a double-fist—but to be fair to the rest of you, the bet will be decided in one contest. Fifty shots, twenty at two distances, ten at the nearest. A point for the nearest, two for the middle, three for the farthest.” He looked at Stammel, who seemed not at all daunted. Well—Stammel never minded being bested by someone who was actually better. “Some of you didn’t take the original bet, but you’ve all had the practice, so I’m telling you—for a jug of ale in Valdaire, you’re all in it. If Stammel wins, I hope he can drink that much …” Laughter. No one complained that Stammel’s guides—the two who gave him the direction and distance by calling from near the target—gave him unfair advantage.
All of them placed all ten shots in the near target, as he’d expected. In the middle distance, Stammel and two others—Coben and Suli—placed all twenty; the rest missed one to three each. In the long, no one hit with all twenty shots; Stammel and Coben both got nineteen, Suli eighteen.
Before Arcolin could decide what to do about the tie, scouts called a warning. Out of the tree line on two sides, the enemy appeared—in daylight as they had not before—a troop of horse and another of infantry. Fifty—sixty—his cohort was already falling back behind their defenses. The soldiers who had, a moment before, been laughing and cheering on their favorites were now already armed and positioning themselves. Another ten horse appeared, on another side. Arcolin had no time to wonder why the warning came so late or where such a small army had come from—he was back inside their barricade, glancing to see where Burek was—where he should be, taking command of the south side of the camp—when he saw Stammel still standing outside, crossbow raised.
“Stammel!” he yelled. Stammel didn’t answer or move. Arcolin’s heart lurched. Who had left him there? Who would—well, he had, thinking Stammel would follow his usual guide. “Stammel,” he yelled again. “Back! This way!” Beside him now, Suli started to climb the parapet. He grabbed her arm. “No—not you, Eyes.”
“I have to—”
One of the enemy yelled, then others. Stammel turned a little and released the bolt; immediately he bent, spanned the bow, placed another bolt, and again stood poised, waiting. Arcolin stared as the first bolt struck; a man went down. Another yell; another shot; another man went down. The enemy advance slowed. In the golden afternoon light, the bandage on Stammel’s eyes showed clearly, its ends fluttering in the breeze.
One of the horsemen yelled, spurring his horse forward. Stammel turned and shot. This time the bolt pierced the horse’s chest; it stumbled, went down; the rider fell and lay still.