There appeared to be a sort of hierarchy amongst the women. They shuffled into a line and the first took her place at the mark. She lifted her bow.
Off-centre. Hamish averted his gaze before the urge to correct her got the better of him, but he already knew her stance was wrong. The arrow would land to the right side of the target if not miss it altogether.
“Disqualified!” The sound was nearly drowned out by the crowd’s mixed response.
Hamish lifted his gaze at the call. Sure enough, the arrow had just managed to graze the target’s edge.
Stomping her foot, the woman removed her veil to reveal a suntanned face reddened with frustration and embarrassment. As soon as she vacated the immediate area, another competitor took her place at the mark.
One by one, the other women took their turn. Some were little better than the first—one even missed the target completely and threw an almighty tantrum when she did—whilst two came fairly close to matching his shot. That could be a problem. They had to be from the clans in the north-eastern planes where the people hunted from horseback as easily as he did on the ground.
The last competitor of the eight women lowered her bow. She had failed to hit within the range of those closer to his arrow—the stewards nearer the target had already disqualified her—but she refused to give up the mark.
“My lady,” snapped the steward. She stood off to one side, clutching the ninth arrow. Her ire was directed at the woman who still refused to move. “Your attempt has already been proven unsatisfactory.” The steward strode towards the woman, squaring her shoulders in a clear anticipation of resistance. “I must insist you step aside and show your face or be subjected to force.” She reached out, likely prepared to snatch the scarf from the woman’s head.
The competitor whirled on the steward, the veil dropping as she shot the other woman a feral glare.
It cannae be. Hamish stared at the woman’s face. He knew her. But then, he would be hard-pressed to forget the very woman who had spent several hours trying to convince his mother to have them married, especially after she had attempted to molest him. But hadn’t she been removed from the contest? Aye. He quite clearly remembered her face being stained. How had she managed to scrub it off?
“What are you doing here?” the steward demanded. “You’re already disqualified. And where is our other competitor?” She craned her neck around the woman as if another would suddenly appear.
“She is,” the woman replied with a smirk, “nae fit to compete.”
“What have you done?” Hamish growled. He’d no interest in having anyone but Darshan win this bloody contest, but that didn’t mean any harm inflicted on the other competitors was acceptable.
Scoffing, the woman rolled her eyes. She planted her hand firmly upon one hip. “She’s fine. She’s even all snugly tucked up in her tent. She’s just nae able to compete.”
“Guards!” the steward bellowed. “Arrest this woman. Reckless endangerment of the competition.”
“And send someone to check on the other competitor,” Hamish added as two guards marched over to firmly secure the woman by her arms. “See that she hasnae come to any serious harm.” He glowered at the woman. “We wouldnae want to add murder to this one’s charges.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened and shut soundlessly like a stunned fish, but she was whisked away before she was capable of uttering a single word.
All around them, the mutter of the crowd increased with every breath. What would the guards find? Hopefully, the worst case would be the poor competitor trussed up like a felled deer.
Hamish glanced over his shoulder at the temporary stage where his mother now sat on a heavy wooden chair as if it were the stone slab of the throne. Would she insist on waiting for the actual competitor? Or, perhaps, a rematch? As things currently stood, all but two had been immediately disqualified.
There was just Darshan’s shot left. He would have to hit pretty damn close to centre. Not, perhaps, land alongside Hamish’s original shot, but doing worse than the next closest two would disqualify him and a draw with the others would only prolong the trial’s end. They couldn’t afford to have the stewards clear the target and demand everyone try again.
With a dramatic sweep of her arm, his mother waved them on.
“Final contestant,” the steward bellowed. “Step to the mark.”
Hamish shuffled a little to his left as his lover came forward. He breathed deep. This was it. The last step. All he had to do was focus and ensure this arrow landed in the precise spot without also looking as though anything other than the bow had sent the arrow across the field. If Mum catches even a whiff of magic—
He shook his head and returned his attention to the arrow Darshan now held at full draw. The sky between them and the target was clear, the breeze was slight and the distance no greater than when they’d practised. Nae different to the tree.
Except that this shot needed to best the others.
His lover’s hand trembled. Even with Hamish’s focus divided between the arrow and the target, the bow’s juddering movements were clear. The tap of the arrow shaft against the bow’s belly thundered through Hamish’s ears. His stomach flopped with every scattered attempt to envision his own fingers holding the fletching.
Still, that tightness deep in his core vibrated. That line he could almost see between arrowhead and target wavered, but he could manage. All he needed was for Darshan to let go.
His lover would never make it alone. Even with his glasses, he hadn’t the skill or strength for a full draw with such a bow. And if Darshan tried? Then one of the other two competitors would be the victor and then—
Darshan released the arrow, the snap shuddering through Hamish’s body.
The world seemed to
