Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (51 page)

“He did,” Shísha nodded. “He called them ‘Those Who Kill Another,’ but... it most often means ‘Murderers.’”

Watelomoksho trained his Hunters into soldiers.

It was all too familiar to Adria, for it mirrored what she had learned from watching Knights of Darkfire training in the inner bailey of the citadel, what she had watched Hafgrim and the young noble sons imitate in their own instruction, and what she had practiced herself, at first with Hafgrim, and later on her own, before she had taken up the bow with more general approval.

First, Preinon brought forth weapons and armor which he had gathered from fallen enemies, and he showed the Hunters the strengths and weaknesses. He wore the armor himself, and fought with them as a Knight would.

Slowly, they gained confidence, learned not to fear the warrior cased in metal, the tall bows and the long blades, the high plumes, and the standards of violet and black.

When the fire was lit within them, he taught them how to stand in group, how to march in columns and to fight in rows, and how to pivot without breaking ranks. He taught them to loose arrows in unison, to rotate lines of spearmen, to stand toe to toe with shielded infantry, and to hold the formation against charging horsemen. He taught them when to pursue a routed enemy, and when to hold when the rout might be proved false.

There were only two score at first, but Preinon invited them to go back to their tribes and to return with others who might join them. As the moon turned on, some returned and some did not. Some brought brothers and some did not.

It was slow, scattered work, for the Aesidhe were not arranged easily. They came together for meals and when their Mechushegiya called them to a ceremonial. They gathered for important councils and to break camp and move to better hunting grounds.

But when they hunted, they hunted as individuals, or in loose circles or half-circles about their prey. But by the full turn of the month and moon, Preinon had two lines of those Adria thought of as his Hunters in Rows.

Through these four faces of the moon, Adria was emboldened by Preinon’s energy and her own. She gained knowledge and skill swiftly, with the first real purpose she had known among the Aesidhe. She used every opportunity to learn their language, and, at Preinon’s advice, took up tasks that would strengthen her limbs, especially her arms.

“You will need strength to finish your bow, and to use it,” he explained, and so she bore the packs of others when the Hunters’ camp was moved to more open ground. She chopped and carried wood to camp, and hauled pots of water. She ran through the woods on the wilder side, where her still-clumsy passage would less likely reveal them to particularly errant or bold scouts of the enemy.

She pulled herself up and down on the limbs where Mateko sat and tutored her in the language when he returned from his frequent scouting missions.

They arm-wrestled, and he sometimes let her win, laughing, “Chóli khholu kóne-koali tagli gnu. Hoio kówo chóli-koali chóli unisteya wateko-koali homile gnikche su ohai gnu.”

You are too strong for a woman. Your husband will have to ask you to carry his kills home.
 When he translated the parts she did not yet understand, she hit him in the arm, and his exclamation only added to his wry compliment.

When Adria took up the largest of the knives for the first cut of her seasoned bow, it was lighter than she remembered, and the wood parted better for her efforts.

She used Mateko’s as a model, for she had his height, and, with Preinon’s help, she carved its rough shape, leaving the handle in the middle almost untouched, and the ends a little long.

“You will cut the ends down to suit you when you feel how it will draw,” he explained. “And the grip should stay thick, but feel comfortable in your hand. This will be difficult for your small hand, to find the right balance, but... it will get easier as you work, and with each new bow you make as your strength grows.”

They tied it down upon a stump fashioned for the purpose, almost like an anvil of wood. They carved a little at a time, with smaller and smaller knives, stringing and testing it with each few strokes for the right weight — flex, carve, flex, carve, flex — finally using a rough stone when the smallest knife proved inflexible enough for the task.

“How does it feel?” he said finally, as the evening meal was about to begin.

“I think it is good,” she said reluctantly. “But my arms are so tired, it is hard to tell.”

“It is close enough now to rest,” he nodded. “Now, we will leave it strung overnight, and see what it has to say in the morning, when your arms are fresh.”

Far from waking up to the voice of her bow suggesting, “let’s go hunting,” the next day proved as much work as the last, and proved her weeks of lifting herself limb-by-limb invaluable.

To test the bow, she drew it as many times as she could, and looked and felt for inflexibility along its length. She had thought them worked out the night before, but after a few full draws, Adria realized there were subtle places where the wood proved tenacious.

“Is it enough to matter?” she asked her uncle.

“Not so much now, perhaps,” he shrugged, and showed her how to use a wet stone and sand from the river to smooth out more of the surface of the wood. “But after a hundred or a thousand arrows, who knows? Where the bow does not bend, it will likely break.” He finished in Aesidhe, for the phrase held more music.

Again, the slow but steady stages... she counted twenty draws before she found weaknesses. And then perhaps thirty, and then more than forty, each time sanding a little more, here and there, and taking some rest, rubbing her upper arms, teeth clenched.

“After this, I think that drawing it to actually hunt will be a simple matter.”

Preinon laughed. “Then you’ve discovered the other purpose in this.”

Adria smiled, and continued until she could draw the bow a hundred times without finding any fault. And then again.

“Mateko,” Preinon called, after he and Adria had shared their noon meal. “Chóko uthhaku téli-koali leniwi michao óho.”

Adria blinked at the words, for though she understood it a little, he had relaxed the language in a way he rarely used with her. Aesidhe was a rather formal language. Regardless, the young man came over and joined them with a smile.

Preinon explained, “Mateko will take you out for some shooting practice, and show you how not to break or lose all your arrows. Once you have fired a hundred times, see what you think of your bow, and bring it back to be finished.”

Though it was easier than she expected, Adria nonetheless grew tired very quickly, and they took the shooting in bursts, trading off, aiming for the riper fruits of early-blooming trees, and gathering them when they fell, to add to dinner when they returned.

Her aim was good when she drew fully, but Mateko showed her how to shoot like a Hunter, pinching with her thumb and finger, to loose the arrow more quickly. Her aim was poor this way, at first, but soon normalized, and Mateko found a way to explain that this worked better overall, if the apples were tall as an elk, and ready to run.

Smiling as he held up two hands full of May apples — or whatever the Aesidhe called them, he asked, “Gna chóli wateko limiyati?”

“Yes,” Adria nodded. “I understand.”

It was almost like returning from a real hunt when they entered the camp, though their apples were not quite the prize an elk might have been.

“I won’t be able to move my arms tomorrow, I think,” she groaned to Preinon as she satisfied herself with one final smoothing of the bow.

He frowned. “Not even enough to hunt?”

She worried for a moment she might be breaking a tradition, but then he chuckled. “Tomorrow, you only need move enough to spread hot oil on the wood to finish it. I think a first proper hunt can wait.”

The next morning she carved a line on either side of the grip, then brushed oil over the length of the bow, staining it a beautiful honey shade. She used some of the sap to wrap a strip of leather around the grip, and tied it with twine until it dried and tightened. She strung it again and held it up to catch the light from between the branches of the newly-leafed canopy.

Preinon smiled at her satisfaction. “This will serve you a year, perhaps, depending on how quickly your arms and back grow in strength.”

Adria laughed. “I must make a new one every year?”

“Not likely...” He shook his head. “You will grow out of this bow faster than the next.”

“What will I do with this bow, then?”

“You will give it to a younger or smaller Hunter, if it is still good.”

“I hope that it is,” she said, a little proud. “But... not everyone makes their own bow, then?”

“No. Almost always the first, so that you learn,” he nodded “But we are not wasteful. If a bow is strong and will serve another, then it is passed on, as anything else.”

“What of the one I brought,” she wondered, uncertainly. “The black bow?”

He was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, without expression. “It will be some time before you have the strength for it. Keep it in your tent. We will speak of it another time.”

Adria only nodded in response, and her memories of Moresidhe and the aftermath of the attack resurfaced again. 
There is a secret here, as well...

Still, she did as she was instructed, and traded her still-unusable black Aeman bow for the Aesidhe bow of gold.

The Echo was a place of music, of rhythm, of routine and ritual. Wherever Adria walked or rested, looked and listened, the steps and words of sailors and of soldiers seemed driven by waves and wind.

The sails were never fully slack, the lines never loose, and the wood beneath them never gave a moment’s stillness. Crests and valleys. Gusts before an intake of breath.

Not all the Knights welcomed the rhythm at first. More than a few spent some time with head hung overboard, surrendering a recent meal to the great below.

At best, they found their balance when they drilled. Through this, at first met with haphazard footing by most, to a man in time they found the anticipation of an enemy attack a welcome impetus to find their sea legs.

Their Captain helped them well in this, adjusting orders to each list to stern or port. His name was Wolt and, though still young, Adria could see he had some knowledge of tactics — at least, those which the Knights typically employed.

“Step…” he urged to match the deck rising before them. “Left…” to counter a turn. “Shields!” to plant themselves. They’d land a little hard, but the noise of their boots, their shouts, or their swords clashed to their shields fit well with those of the sailors switching lines or tacking the aft sail.

Hafgrim soon learned to follow Wolt’s suit, and in his turn ordered them in similar form, his eyes upon the flag and sails to judge each motion.

Still, it seemed to Adria that the contingent was not only mostly rather young, but none too unified. Though they did as Wolt or the prince ordered, it was rarely without a hesitation, and often with exchanged sidelong glances. It was clear in the first day that neither Hafgrim nor Wolt knew all their soldiers’ names, and the Knights themselves too often sat alone in idle time, or in small groups.