John Flanagan - The siege of Macindaw

He had, however, encoded the last few lines of the letter, setting up a schedule for further signaling. It would definitely be a problem if that should fall into Keren's hands. If he knew Alyss had a method of signaling, Keren might be able to compel her, under the influence of his mesmerism, to send a signal that would set some kind of trap for Will.

The bushes on the small knoll were waist high, and he was able to rest for a few minutes, crouched among them, while he gathered his thoughts and prepared for the shot ahead of him.

He looked long and hard at the small lighted square that was the tower window, with the brighter point at the center bottom that marked the lamp itself. He studied it, judging distances and height and calculating how his arrow would travel in a long arc to reach the window. He would have to aim high above the point he wanted to hit, but he didn't think about that. When the time came, he would select his elevation instinctively. It would have to be a little higher than normal, he reminded himself, as he was using the take-down recurve bow that Crowley had supplied him with, and it was not quite as powerful as the longbow he had carried for the past two years. He set that thought in his mind and knew that his instincts would process it when the time came to shoot.

He closed his eyes and in his imagination saw the arcing path that would take the arrow high over the walls and into the window at the top of the tower. Halt had often reminded him of an old archery master's dictum: Before you shoot your arrow, see it fly a thousand times in your mind.

Well, he smiled wryly, he didn't have time for a thousand imaginary shots tonight. But the saying was an exaggeration in any event. It was simply a reminder to prepare for the shot by setting a successful outcome in his mind. Think of a positive outcome, and you will achieve it. Allow doubt to enter your mind, and the doubt will become self-fulfilling.

He took a few deep breaths, clearing his mind. The conscious preparation was over. Now he would allow his instincts, the result of hundreds of hours of practice and thousands of arrows fired, to take over and produce the shot that he wanted.

He rose slowly to his feet. Although at least a dozen pairs of eyes on the castle wall were turned in his direction, not a soul saw him. He drew the message arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the bowstring. The weight and balance were perfect, as a result of Malcolm's painstaking weighing and measuring back at the house in the forest. The healer was used to dealing in exact weights and measures, and Will knew this arrow would fly like any other arrow in his quiver.

He brought his left arm – the bow arm – up and, at the same time, began a smooth draw back on the string with his right, continuing to pull until the tip of his right index finger just touched the corner of his mouth. He felt for the right elevation, sensed that he was a little low and raised the bow in his sighting picture. If he had been asked at that moment why he made that final adjustment, he would not have been able to answer. It was a matter of empirical feeling, not a calculated action.

His vision was fixed on the window high above him, with the arrow now pointing well above the target. There was a slight wind from the left, and he compensated for it, knowing from experience that it would grow stronger the higher the arrow traveled.

There were two ways to destroy accuracy, he knew. One was to wait too long and concentrate too hard, so that the muscles of the arms began to tighten and tremble against the tension of the bow. The other was to shoot too quickly, so that the right-hand fingers snatched at the string during the release.

The ideal was to find a midpoint, where the action was smooth and continuous. Unhurried, but not overlong.

Then, when he felt the moment was right, when the elevation and windage and draw were all correct, he let the bowstring slip gently from his fingers, with a deep-throated twang, speeding the arrow on its way.

The moment he released, he knew the shot was perfect. He saw the arrow briefly as it streaked up into the night, then lost sight of it. Slowly, he lowered the bow, waiting. He saw a momentary flicker of movement against the lit square of the window but thought that it was more likely that his mind was playing tricks on him, causing him to see it because he wanted to see it.

He waited, standing like a statue, his cloak wrapped around him so that he merged into the background. Then he felt a vast surge of relief as the lamp began to move.

Up down, up down, up down, it went. Message received. Nodding in satisfaction, Will turned and began to make his way back to the tree line. There was nothing more to be done tonight.

Cullum Gelderris, innkeeper at the Cracked Flagon, wasn't altogether happy about his most recent, and, in fact, his only guest.

The young warrior had arrived late the previous afternoon, seeking a room for a few days. His bay battlehorse was bedded down in the inn's small stable. The young man had lugged his weapons and armor up the stairs, along with a saddle roll containing a change of clothes and washing items, and settled into the inn's largest room.

As he had entered, the landlord noted the blue fist symbol painted on his white shield. A free lance, he thought. There was only one place in the fief where a man like him might find employment, and that was at Castle Macindaw.

The new castle lord, Sir Keren, was recruiting fighting men, Cullum knew. His inn had already been visited several times by Keren's second in command, the ill-tempered John Buttle, who was scouring the surrounding countryside in search of men with some skill at arms. He seemed disbelieving when Cullum had told him that all his customers were simple farm folk. There were a few yeomen in the area who could put up a decent showing with a pike, but they, like the innkeeper, tended to view recent events at Macindaw with the deepest suspicion and stayed well clear of Buttle when he was on his recruiting trips. Cullum was glad to maintain their anonymity.

There were a lot of questions being asked by the folk who lived in and around Tumbledown Creek, the small village several kilometers from the Cracked Flagon.

First, there had been the mysterious business of Lord Syron's illness, then the rumors that the black sorcerer Malkallam had returned from the past to wreak vengeance on Syron's family. Next, word had spread that Orman, son of the castle lord and temporary commander of Macindaw, had escaped into Grimsdell Wood, where he was in league with Malkallam.

Escaped? Cullum asked himself. Why would a man escape from his own castle? And if he did, why would he join with the sorcerer who was sworn to destroy his family?

Then again, why was Keren looking for fighting men? The castle under Orman and Syron had maintained a perfectly adequate garrison of professional soldiers. But many of these had been weeded out and sent packing when Keren took control. And the villagers had seen the quality of men that Keren had replaced them with. Soldiering was no gentle trade, to be sure, but the men now serving Castle Macindaw seemed to be particularly rough, unruly types. Most of them, Cullum guessed, were former criminals or brigands.

Buttle himself was a good example. Surly and ill-tempered, he was also authoritarian and arrogant, demanding the best seat in the house and the finest food, wine and ale when he visited, then waving the bill away with an airy gesture, telling Cullum to present it at the castle, a good day's ride away.

Buttle also had assumed the title of Sir John – an obvious pretense. "If he's a knight," Cullum told his wife, "I'm the Dowager Duchess of Dungully." His wife agreed, but urged him to be cautious.

"We want nothing to do with those people," she said firmly. "We keep ourselves to ourselves, and we don't interfere."