The Sterkarm Handshake (35 page)

Per chose his spot by a big birch that gave him shadow but had no low-hanging branches to block his view or his aim. He set his quiver on the ground and, leaning his back against the tree, hidden from the Elves, pointed at his hounds. Obediently, they lay flat at his feet. Swart put his nose on his paws, resigned to more boredom, but Cuddy's tail stirred, and she looked up at him with a loving expectancy that made him want to pet her. He knew that, if he did, she would jump up to return his affection, so instead, he set the end of his bow against his instep and strung it. Cuddy's tail wagged a little faster in the grass. A strung bow meant shooting. Shooting meant a deer to run down. Running down a deer meant a feed of deer's guts, and much praise and fuss from Per. She stirred her haunches.
“Hold!”

Leaning against the tree, Per turned and scanned the hillside below. The Elves could easily have seen him, if they'd known where to look, but with the speckled light and shade of the trees falling over the soft, dull colors of his clothes, he was invisible as long as he kept still.

Without moving his head, he moved his eyes, searching for his father's troop below in the valley. There was no sign of them, or of the Elf-Carts.

The Elf-Cart just below him took an eye's blink to find, so much did its patchy colors disguise it. But the three Elves on guard he saw easily, because they moved unguardedly, walking about, lifting their hands to their mouths, dropping them sharply to their sides again. He considered his aim, not so much calculating it as feeling with his muscles the position they would take as he tilted the bow and arrow to the right angle.

He rolled his shoulder against the tree, swinging back behind it, out of sight. There he took an arrow from his quiver, a broad-headed, barbed hunting arrow, and fitted it to his bowstring. Both hounds watched, tails twitching. Their interest made him smile. “No deer this day, Dearlings.”

Per turned from behind the tree and, in one movement, took up the shooting stance, his body turned sidelong to his target, his bow arm outstretched, the shoulder and elbow of his string arm raised high. Once in that position, if he had not been seen, he need only make the slightest of movements to shoot.

He had not been seen. The soldiers were still standing together, their hands going again and again to their mouths, occasionally glancing about, but ignorant of where to look or what to look for.

With one eye closed, Per lined up the point of his arrow with the chest of the soldier who was facing him. He moved the arrow's point higher, unthinkingly allowing for the fall of the ground, the distance and the breeze. His body, not his mind, told him he had the aim correct.

He drew up, pulling with his back, and pushing the bow stave forward with his other arm. He kept his head still, and drew and drew back until his fingers on the bowstring touched the corner of his mouth. His arms, his hands, his wrists, his fingers, his shoulders, were all braced against the power of the bow. He adjusted his aim again, allowing for the strain of drawing the bow having shifted it off. Then he straightened his string fingers, loosing the arrow.

The bowstring twanged, loud to his ear, but he knew the Elves wouldn't hear it. His hand, drawing back, stroked across his cheek. He didn't change his stance or lower his arms.

For an eye's blink he glimpsed the arrow against the gray sky as it sped away, but then it vanished. An eye's blink later, he knew he'd missed. He caught the merest flash of the arrow as it struck the sloping ground short of the Elves and skidded, flat, into the grass. One of the Elves glanced up and around, but then put his hand to his mouth again and looked at his friends.

A bow is no weight to carry. An archer doesn't stand and wait for his position to be found. Per took up his quiver and moved, slowly at first, but more quickly when he was deeper among the trees. The hounds loped after him.

Per's ear caught the soft sound of a bow released. One of his cousins had shot, but he heard no other sound, so whoever it had been had probably missed. Good. He was glad they'd been no more successful than him. With Cuddy and Swart on his heels, Per looked for another place to stand.

There was a sound near them, a soft
tok!
Millington looked around. He thought he'd seen something, a shadow crossing his vision. There was nothing to be seen but short grass when he looked at the spot.

“Hear anything?”

Bates looked at him and then around at the hills, shaking his head.

“Sort of a—I dunno—sort of a little thump.”

“A wild haggis running past,” Saunders said.

Tok!

Millington turned quickly toward the soft sound, but, again, there was nothing to be seen. “Sounds like—like somebody's throwing little stones at us. Hear it?”

Bates, scanning the surrounding countryside, suddenly fixed his stare on the little patch of woodland above them. He thought he'd seen something move. The rifle in his arms lifted as his grip on it tightened. Then he relaxed.

“There's animals, wild animals around here, ain't there? Foxes. That sort of thing.”

“You reckon foxes am throwing little stones at us?” Millington said.

Bates, not knowing whether Millington was being sarcastic or not, grinned vacantly.

“Where are they hiding?” Saunders asked, looking around. “We searched the wood.”

“Somebody could have got in among the trees since,” Millington said. It was almost a question.

Bates pointed the muzzle of his rifle at the trees and put his hand to his rifle's safety catch. “We could give 'em a burst. Just to make sure. Be a laugh, eh?”

“Shut your mouth, you stupid bugger! You heard the boss. We'm only to fire under orders.”

Bates thought of telling Millington to shut up himself, but then kept quiet and tried to look tough instead. “What's the matter?” he said. “If there's anybody in there, they'm only smellies.”

Per's second shot was from beside a thick, spreading hazel bush, which didn't give him such a clear view or aim. It was difficult, shooting from a new place each time. It gave him no chance to find the distance and correct his aim. But he drew up and loosed his second arrow.

And saw it—oh, beautiful!—fall into the chest of the middle soldier in a perfect shot. Slowly taking up his quiver, he faded back into the wood and then ran along a path. He came on Ingram, leaning on his tree, his quiver at his feet and his bow in his hand.

Grinning, Ingram put his free arm around Per, thumped his back and kissed his cheek in congratulation.

Together, they fitted new arrows to their strings.

The arrow struck Millington with a deeper, hollower note than the first two had struck the ground. He didn't see it coming. All the weight of the bow, plus all the speed of the arrow's flight, struck one small point on his chest and knocked him clean off his feet, toppling him backward down the slope, heels over head. The impact drove the arrow's broad, barbed iron head and its wooden shaft deep into his chest.

Saunders and Bates swung around and watched him fall and roll in astonishment. They'd heard the sound of something striking, they'd heard Millington's grunt as breath was knocked from him, and Saunders had glimpsed something blurred in the air—a stone? Or had Millington simply stumbled and fallen?

As Millington rolled, the arrow embedded in his chest struck against the ground, making him cry aloud—and then it snapped off. Saunders and Bates scrambled down to the fallen man, and Bates grabbed his arm, dragging at it, to help him up. They saw the blood staining the front of Millington's camouflage jacket, but the broken arrow shaft was lost in the grass.

“What you done?” Bates asked.

Saunders' head snatched around, and he looked up the slope toward the trees.

Tok!
Something else hit the ground near them. Alarmed now, Saunders and Bates eyed the grass around them, but saw nothing. “Arrows!” Saunders said, realizing. “Oh God!” He raised his rifle clumsily, fumbling at the safety catch and cutting his fingertips on its sharp edge. Bates stared at him, not having caught what he'd said.

An arrow hit Saunders in the upper arm, tearing through his flesh, spinning him around in a circle and throwing him down.

Bates, seeing both his friends down, bleeding, dead or dying, looked around wildly. He held a rifle in his hands but never gave it another thought. He saw the trees, and ran toward them, to hide. The weight in his arms slowed him down, so he threw the rifle away.

Wat, seeing the Elf running toward him, grinned and held an arrow on his string, letting the Elf come closer and closer until he couldn't miss. His barbed arrow went right through Bates, from belly to back, knocked him from his feet and tumbled him down the slope.

Saunders, his arm bleeding and burning with pain, raised himself up on his knees. He tried to lift the rifle, but it was a heavy weight on his torn arm—and the safety catch wouldn't come off, but sliced his fingers instead. There was no one to help him. His friends were dead. Stumbling to his feet, he tried to get away down the hill, slipping and reeling on the steep slope and thin, slick grass.

Cuddy and Swart, seeing the bows raised and hearing the strings hum, were shivering and whimpering with excitement. Ordered to lie at Per's feet, they quivered, half rose, lay down again, and shifted their haunches in the grass, looking up at Per and making little pouncing motions.

When the Elf ran, Per looked at Ingram, grinned and then crouched between his hounds. He pointed to the running Elf. “Bring him down!
Good
hounds!”

They pushed themselves from the ground, running as they rose. Per, still crouching, gasped to see their beauty. They leaned with their speed, as silent, almost as fast, as the arrows. Ingram raised his bow over his head. “Run, Elf, run!” He left the trees to join the chase, Per following. Both knew the Elf had no chance of outrunning the hounds.

Per and Ingram were always skittish when they were together. Wat let them go and attended to the real business of killing the fallen Elves.

Saunders, slipping on the steep slope and falling on hands and knees, looked behind and saw the racing hounds coming on him with a rippling motion, their heads stretched forward and black lips stretched back from long white teeth.

In a panic of blood beating in his head, of pounding heart, Saunders tried to scramble on. His legs had gone weak, his feet slipped. He was hit by a solid, heavy weight, screamed aloud and rolled on his back, his rifle sliding away down the slope. He threw his arms up in front of his face. A hard, bruising, pinching grip closed on his forearm.

Swart overshot the running Elf, leaped in the air and came bounding back up the slope. Cuddy had her teeth in the Elf's arm, and as he tried to wrench away, her teeth sank deeper. Her tail waved. She loosed her grip and bit again, bit deep for a better grip and, big hound that she was, braced her feet and tried to drag her catch back to Per.

Swart came, filling the sky above Saunders, dripping hot slaver on him, blowing his face full of hot, stinking breath. Biting at his shoulder, at his hands, his face, his leg, wherever there seemed to be a hold, biting and dragging. Saunders screamed like any caught hare. Between them, the big hounds pulled him about on the slippery grass, tearing at him.

Per, slithering down the slope, felt the screams in his own belly and yelled,
“Cuddy, foorlet!”
Leave it!
“Foorlet, Swart, foorlet!”

It had seemed a good joke to send the hounds after the Elf—Per hadn't even known if they would chase him. He'd never foreseen that they would worry the Elf like this. He'd run with them himself a hundred times. They'd knocked him down, but the worst they'd ever done was try to lick him into another shape.

Hearing Per's voice, Cuddy released her hold on the Elf and turned toward him. Swart, his teeth in the Elf's thigh, didn't let go but only growled. And Cuddy, having jumped up at Per, flecking him with blood and slaver, dropped back to the ground and bit at the Elf again. Seeing Ingram on the slope above her, she glared at him with white-edged eyes and growled through her mouthful of Elf. Ingram wasn't fool enough to go any closer and called out warningly when he saw Per reaching for Cuddy's collar. Per beat both dogs about the ribs with his bow. “Leave it, leave it! Down! Bad! Bad hounds!” Cuddy was the first to loose, and to cower in the grass, putting back her ears. Swart, even when made to loose, kept trying to go back to the Elf, and even growled at Per, who beat him with the bow and drove him off.

Saunders' face was obscured with blood. Whimpering and coughing, his many wounds burning, he tried to get to his hands and knees. His ripped and bloody hands slipped on the grass, and his shaking legs wouldn't support him.

His struggles excited Swart, who cast back and forth, longing to get at him, if only Per would let him. Cuddy, though lying in the grass, trembled and looked to Per for permission to spring on the Elf again. Per held his bow poised to threaten Cuddy, and gripped Swart by the collar, though he couldn't hold the hound if Swart made a real effort to break free. To Ingram, he said, “Kill him!”

But Ingram stood and watched the Elf flounder and choke. Per knew that it wasn't right. The Elf should be killed fast. That was something Sweet Milk had told him over and over and again: Kill fast. “Take Swart—take him!” If Per let Swart's collar go, he would be on the Elf.

Ingram pretended he hadn't heard. He didn't want to go near Swart until this was over and the big hound was calm.

Wat came down the hill. The knife in his hand was already bloodied from finishing the other Elves. He straddled the third, knelt on his back, pulled back his head and cut his throat. He rose, panting a little from the effort, and stepped back, his hands and sleeves bloody. He looked at Ingram and Per with an expression that asked why they had waited for him to do such a simple thing. And why did he have to do all the hard work?