Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

"Bow," he said.

"Mennich," she replied.

He began to unstring it. And grunted. It took far more effort than he anticipated. Once the tension was gone, the bow actually bent in the opposite direction. It was not simply wood, but a composite of wood and bone, bound together with sinew. He examined it for several minutes, noting the fundamentals of its construction. When he picked up Geim's bow, rather than unstringing it, he selected an arrow.

The northerners stiffened as he armed himself, but neither tried to interfere. Toren drew back the shaft and aimed at a rotting log twenty paces away.

The arrow impacted with a hard, lethal cough, drilling deeply into the wood.

The firing power was at least double that of a Vanihr bow. Yet, Toren was certain his shot was considerably weaker than what Geim had been able to effect earlier that day.

"Hold the string, not the arrow," Geim said. Toren did not understand what he meant, so Geim showed him. Instead of pinching the nock in order to pull back, he placed a finger on either side of it and pulled the string directly.

Toren tried the method. Thanks to the unaccustomed grip his shot flew slightly to the side, but it punctured the log so deeply that the pile came out the other side. He was unable to dig either arrow out of the log in one piece, though he salvaged the metal. He ceased experimenting before he used up any more of their precious supply.

He pictured Geim's shots penetrating completely through the hide shields of the Amane, and his steel sword severing a spear haft in one blow.

"Does everyone have bows like this on the northern continent?" he asked Geim.

"They're known everywhere outside Vanihr lands."

Toren pursed his lips. It was no longer so bizarre a thought to imagine a dragon and his army sweeping over the Wood. He pointed to the bow and the sword. "Will you teach me how to use these weapons as we go north?"

Geim seemed to read the sentence for all its implications. "Yes," he said firmly. "I'll teach you anything you ask, if it's within my ability."

"Good." An image came to Toren's mind: his son and father, greeting him with pride as he returned from far-off lands, bearing knowledge that would profit the tribe. For the first time, he did not feel like a total captive.

He unstrung the bow and set it aside. It was time to eat; he had not carried the hayeri jerky this far, on the run, to see it go to waste.

For once, Deena did not offer any language lessons. It was halfway through the meal before she spoke at all. Geim translated.

"You knew ahead of time that the Amane were going to attack. How?"

"I always know when danger is near. It's an ability I've had since I was a boy."

"Does anyone else in your tribe have this talent?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Didn't you wonder about it?"

"I asked my shaman about it once, when I was interested in becoming his apprentice. He said it was a minor gift, good for a scout."

"And you believed him?"

He stared Deena straight in the eyes. "Yes. Of course," he replied, but the question clung to his mind long after the meal was over. When he went to sleep, it was still there.

As usual, he dreamed of home.

Beside Toren were all the other modhiv candidates of the Fhali, twenty youths arranged in a long line, each one standing straight as a spear, trying not to reveal their intimidation. Olaxl, the high master, paced in front of them, his aging eyes alert and still able to stare down the bravest of his pupils. Who would he chose?

The old man stopped in front of the tallest of the group, a muscular boy with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Borei," the high master said.

The candidate stepped briskly into the sparring circle. Toren felt his pulse quicken. Borei was fast. His strikes left bruises.

"Toren."

The student next to him let out an audible sigh of sympathy. Toren's feet tingled as he crossed the packed earth. He kept his glance on Borei, his opponent, avoiding Olaxl's stare. He dared not show weakness to the high master. Olaxl had the sole power to determine who would be made a modhiv and who would be dropped as a candidate. To lose his respect was to suddenly join the ranks of the hunters. Toren was close to his coming of age; it was past the time to begin an apprenticeship in one of the other specialized castes, such as the healers or artisans, and far too late to study to be a shaman, as he had once fantasized. Caste choice had to be made before he received his totem. It had to be based on his own abilities, without help from the memories of ancestors. If he failed now to become a warrior, a hunter was all that would be left, a role of no distinction. His father and brothers were hunters.

This match might be like any other. Or it might be the one that Olaxl used to make his decision. A candidate would never know until after the fact.

"Begin," the high master commanded.

Toren knew he had to move first. He circled, kicking to Borei's ribs. Borei blocked, kicked back, and Toren fended off the leg by pressing his foot into the other's knee. Borei used the spin to swivel around and kick with the other leg. The technique caught Toren neatly on the navel, a perfect impact, landing solidly but not penetrating, letting Toren know he'd been hit, yet not leaving damage-ideal control.

Toren blinked. He felt but did not see a strike to his ribs. Another whisked by his cheek. He backed up. Borei closed the distance immediately. He felt the wind of a blow in his ear lobe, the firmness of a foot landing in his gut, an open hand pressing on his shoulder.

Then Borei was on the ground, gasping for breath, and Toren's wrist was smarting from the pain of an ill-prepared strike to Borei's midsection.

"Stop!" the high master called.

Olaxl did not glance at Toren, who remained at stiff attention in his starting place. Instead, the elderly modhiv bent down and gripped Borei underneath the arms and pulled him to his knees, stretching out his chest to counteract the cramping of his diaphragm. Within a few moments Borei was able to inhale. Olaxl allowed him to regain his composure, then gently ordered him back to his place in the line. All eyes turned to Toren.

Goose pimples crawled up the young candidate's spine. If he had made a small error, the high master would have chastised him privately, but this was to be in front of all the others.

Olaxl said calmly, "You thought Borei was going too fast, that he would lose control and injure you. So, in your fear, you injured him." The high master glanced down the line of candidates, letting them know the message was for them, too. "We must never forget that, though we train in killing arts, the partners we work with are members of our own tribe. Do not be so mistrusting, Toren. The ability to know one's allies is just as important as to recognize one's enemies."

And it was over, as if the incident had not occurred. The others would remember it as just another lecture. Not so for Toren. It was the only one of Olaxl's lessons he ever ignored. He had known, without question, that Borei's next blow would have hurt him.

"Wake up."

Toren was alert instantaneously. Geim squatted nearby. The constellations above said that it was midnight.

"Your watch," Geim said.

Toren had scarcely climbed out of his bedroll before the other Vanihr settled down to sleep, leaving him alone with the night. Toren thought it ironic how quickly roles had reversed. The previous night, he had been under guard. Now he was the guard.

Deena snored lightly a few paces away. She looked like a child curled up in her blanket. She was small compared to most Vanihr women. A lock of her impossibly brown hair had fallen in front of her nostrils. Toren lifted it away before it woke her.