Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

They had already chosen spears, shields, and knives, familiar weapons they could use like extensions of their arms. Now they were inspecting the bows curiously.

Ranged weapons were not considered dishonorable in Krasia, exactly, but shooting an alagai from a distance was a lesser glory by far than facing one at spear’s length, and before the fighting wards were returned bows could not harm the demons in any event. They had fallen from use, only the bare rudiments part of a warrior’s training. A single tribe, the Mehnding, had kept the practice, manning the slings and scorpions on the walls of the Desert Spear, and now specializing in killing from afar with their short bows, often from horseback.

But Shanjat and Shanvah were Kaji, not Mehnding, and the long Northern bows had little in common with their southern cousins. They held the weapons uncomfortably. So much that even the Par’chin noticed. He took a quiver of arrows, tossing it to Shanjat.

“Shoot me,” he commanded, moving to stand at the far side of the room.

Shanjat nocked an arrow, but glanced at Jardir.

“Do as he says,” Jardir said, whisking a hand. It was doubtful an arrow could do the Par’chin any lasting damage even if it struck, and looking at Shanjat’s tense grip on the weapon, a hit seemed unlikely.

Shanjat loosed, and the arrow missed the Par’chin by more than a foot.

“I’m standing still, warrior,” the Par’chin called. “The alagai will not be so thoughtful.”

Shanjat held his hand out, and his daughter slapped another arrow into it.

“Stop standing there and ripping shoot me!” The Par’chin slapped the large ward at the center of his chest. Again Shanjat loosed, this time missing by inches.

“Come on!” the Par’chin cried. “A pig-eating son of a khaffit can shoot better than that!”

Shanjat growled, pulling another arrow to his cheek. He had the weapon’s measure now, and his next shot would have taken the Par’chin in the shoulder, had he not caught the arrow in midair the way a quick man might snatch a horsefly.

“Pathetic,” the Par’chin growled, holding up the arrow. He turned to look at Shanvah. “Your turn.”

No sooner had he spoken than Shanvah had her bow raised, firing. Jardir had not even known she was holding it.

The shot was true, and the Par’chin gasped, dematerializing just in time to evade the missile. It struck behind him, embedding in the wall.

Jardir was impressed. Even he was a novice with the bow, but Shanvah and her spear sisters were trained by Enkido, whose name was legend in the Maze before he was even born.

“Better,” the Par’chin admitted as he solidified. “But you shoot straight, like you’ve got a short bow. Fine in close, but you’ll have more power and range if you arc your shots.”

“I’ll teach her,” the Par’chin’s jiwah said. Jardir expected Shanvah to protest, but she only nodded.

“As for you …” the Par’chin said, turning back to Shanjat.

Shanjat threw the bow to the ground. “I do not need this coward’s weapon. My spear will suffice.”

“Reckon it’ll come down to spears and fists before the end,” the Par’chin agreed, “but there’s more at stake here than your personal glory, Shanjat. You need to be able to shoot if you’re to protect your master.”

“Am I to master this weapon in a day?” Shanjat asked. “I have my pride, Par’chin, but not so much as that.”

“Don’t need to.” The Par’chin lifted one of the cross-shaped crank bows the Northern women favored. It had a wooden stock, shod with steel like the bow and firing mechanism. The “string” was a weave of thin wire.

Shanjat, too, recognized the device. “A woman’s weapon? Shall I dance in veils for the alagai next?”

The Par’chin ignored him, taking a heavy shield, warded steel riveted onto a thick wood frame, and set it against the wall. He moved across the room to stand by Shanjat. With two fingers he tugged the thick bowstring back until it clicked in place, fitting a bolt.

“Like this,” he said, bracing the weapon against his shoulder and bringing it level with the floor, sighting down its length. He handed the bow to Shanjat, who held it as he had been shown.

“Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” the Par’chin said. “Put your target between the lines at the end, keep steady, and squeeze.”

KA-CHUNG! The bow recoiled, surprising Shanjat enough that he took a step back.

“Missed,” he said. There was shame in his aura, but his face was grim as he moved to hand the weapon back.

“Did you?” the Par’chin asked.

Shanvah was across the room in an instant, lifting the shield to inspect it. All could see the finger she poked clear through from back to front. “A clean hole.” She looked behind her, then stepped away so the others could see the bolt, embedded in the rock wall.

“Everam’s beard,” Shanjat said, looking at the weapon with new respect. He tried to draw the string back as the Par’chin had, but strong as he was, it was beyond him.

“Crank it.” The Par’chin pointed to the mechanism.

Shanjat turned the crank, growing frustration on his face. At last it clicked into place and he looked up. “I could have thrown three spears in that time, Par’chin.”

The Par’chin nodded. “And then you would be out of spears. Don’t worry over the draw. With night strength you won’t need the crank.”

Shanjat nodded, but he selected three light throwing spears in addition to the bow and quarrels.

“Sleep while you can,” Jardir bade. “We’ll be in Anoch Sun before dawn, with only two days to prepare.” Immediately, Shanjat and Shanvah found a space by the wall to curl up. Jardir closed his eyes.

As the sun rose, Arlen looked out over the lost city of Anoch Sun with a heavy heart. The Krasians had been reckless in their looting. When Arlen was living in the ruins seeking the secrets of demon fighting, he had been careful to preserve the place, digging carefully, leaving everything intact. The only relics he removed were weapons and armor, that he might study their wards. He had returned most of the items once he learned their secrets.

The Krasians had given no such consideration to preserving their antiquity. The city now looked like a crop field after a swarm of locusts and an army of voles. Massive piles of dirt and sand everywhere, shattered stone that had stood strong for thousands of years. The land was dotted with holes where roofs had been broken into for easier access to underground chambers, exposing them to the elements for the first time in millennia.

Only the great burial chambers were still intact. The Krasians had taken everything else of value, but even they balked at moving the sarcophagi and disturbing the rest of their sacred ancestors.

“And you were ready to kill me for taking one spear,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t yours to take, Par’chin,” Jardir replied. “It is a place of my people. Krasians, not greenlanders.”

Arlen spat over the side of his horse. “Wern’t so worried about cultural rights when you sacked Fort Rizon.”

“That was conquest, not grave looting,” Jardir said.

“So robbing living folk you have to beat and kill is more honorable than ones been dead thousands of years?” Arlen asked.

“The dead cannot defend themselves, Par’chin,” Jardir said.

“And yet you destroyed the resting place of your ancestors,” Arlen said. “Night, your logic just whirls around like a dust devil, doesn’t it?”