He ducked, rolled, came up on his feet, crouched behind the trunk of an oak, the whisper of the arrow’s flight hissing through the ferns. The sound of a bowstring was an unmistakable warning for a boy like him. He calmed his pounding heart with effort and strained to listen for further signals.
Was it a hunter? Perhaps he had been mistaken for a deer. He discounted the thought instantly. He was no deer and any hunter could tell the difference. Someone had tried to kill him. He realised he had unhitched his bow and notched an arrow, all done instinctively. He rested his back against the trunk and waited, listening to the forest, letting it tell him who was coming for him. Nature has a voice, Hutril’s words. Learn to hear it and you’ll never be lost and no man will ever take you unawares.
He opened his ears to the voice of the forest, the sigh of the wind, the rustle of the leaves and the creak of the branches. No bird song. It meant a predator was close. It could be one man, could be more. He waited for the tell tale crack of branch underfoot or the scrape of bootleather on soil but nothing came. If his enemy was on the move he knew how to mask the sound. But he had other senses and the forest could tell him many things. He closed his eyes and inhaled softly through his nose. Don’t suck the air in like a pig at a trough, Hutril had cautioned him once. Give your nose time to sort the scent. Be patient.
He let his nose do the work, tasting the mingled perfume of bluebells in bloom, rotting vegetation, animal droppings… and sweat. Man’s sweat. The wind was coming from his left, carrying the scent. It was impossible to tell whether the bowman was waiting or moving.
It was the faintest sound, little more than a rustle of cloth, but to Vaelin it was a shout. He darted from behind the oak in a crouch, drawing and loosing the shaft in a single motion, before scooting back into cover, rewarded with a short grunt of pained surprise.
He lingered for the briefest second. Stay or flee? The compulsion to run was strong, the dark embrace of the forest suddenly a welcome refuge. But he knew he couldn’t. The Order doesn’t run, Sollis had said.
He peered out from behind his oak, taking a second before he saw it, the gull-fletched shaft of his arrow sticking upright from the carpet of ferns about fifteen yards away. He notched another arrow and approached in a low crouch, eyes scanning constantly for other enemies, ears alive with the voice of the forest, nose twitching.
The man was dressed in dirty green trews and tunic, he had an ash bow clutched in his hand with a crow feathered shaft notched in the string, a sword strapped across his back, a knife in his boot and Vaelin’s arrow in his throat. He was quite dead. Stepping closer Vaelin saw the growing patch of blood spreading out from the neck wound, a lot of blood. Caught the big vein, Vaelin realised. And I thought I was a poor archer.
He laughed, high and shrill, then convulsed and vomited, collapsing to all fours and retching uncontrollably.
It was a few moments before the shock and nausea receded enough for him to think clearly. This man, this dead man, had tried to kill him. Why? He had never seen him before. Was he an outlaw? Some homeless footpad thinking he had found an easy victim in a lone boy.
He forced himself to look at the dead man again, noting the quality of his boots and the stitching on his clothes. He hesitated then lifted the dead man’s right hand, lying slack on the bowstring. It was a bowman’s hand; rough palms with calluses on the tips of the first two fingers. This man had made his living with the bow. Vaelin doubted any outlaw would be so practised, or so well dressed.
A sudden, sickening thought popped into his head: Is it part of the test?
For a moment he was almost convinced. What better way to weed out the chaff? Seed the forest with assassins and see who survived. Think of all the gold coins they’d save. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. The Order was brutal but not murderous.
Then why?