“Nothing wrong with showing off a little from time to time. It definitely helps take care of people who think too highly of themselves. An extravagant display to humble such people is often what it takes to get them to behave and introspect their own deficiencies.” - Mian Tsu-Lao, philosopher from the Huan Confederacy, circa 12 VA.
Alva was the first one who stepped up for the mercenaries.
Most of the veteran archers from Caroma didn’t pay him much attention, given his slight frame and rather effeminate looks. A few noticed the odd-looking composite bow that Alva brought with him though, with some nodding as if in understanding when they saw its complex construction. They might not be skilled at craftsmanship, but as veteran archers they were all too familiar with the mechanic of a bow and how the construction of Alva’s bow would likely have worked.
As the first representative from the Free Lances to take the stage, Alva felt some nervousness. The past decade and a half of his life had been a drastic change, days where he served as a toy to sate the lust of women – and certain men – for money long behind him. Instead, he had not only adapted well to his new life as a sellsword, but even excelled at it. That Salicia suggested him to lead the first archer platoon in her stead was an affirmation he never expected but was nonetheless all too happy to receive.
Technically, Salicia was still in command of all the archers as a whole, but as she generally spent her time assassinating important targets while they were engaged, actual command fell to Alva instead, and now Branka as well in the second archer platoon’s case. After a few years in such a position, even the older, veteran mercenary archers showed Alva respect. Respect that he had earned for himself.
And none of them were bothered even the slightest bit by his past either, which was nice.
After a quick estimation of the targets, Alva decided to not bite off more than he could chew. He believed that he could likely hit the targets at six or seven hundred paces with enough force to count thanks to his bow, but he doubted his accuracy at that distance. Instead, he eyed a target set at five hundred paces away, and as he exhaled, grabbed four arrows at once between the fingers of his right hand.
He calmly raised his bow into position – normally he would have used both arms to pull a bow that heavy, but his weapon’s construction allowed him to hold it in place while he mostly pulled with one arm instead – and in a practiced motion, nocked an arrow to the string, eyeing the target without drawing the bow silently for a moment.
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Then he exploded into motion.
A small commotion of murmurs and gasps of shock occurred as Alva rapidly drew his bow, loosed his arrow, nocked a new one and repeated the process in smooth, practiced motions, before his hand went to the quiver on his back for another set of four arrows moments later. To the surprise of the spectators, he emptied his quiver of twenty arrows in barely fifteen seconds.
Every single one of his arrows were embedded deeply at the target five hundred paces away, the chainmail pierced through all over by them.
Even while some of the veteran archers were still staring slack-jawed at the target Alva had turned into a pincushion, Branka took his place. The orcish woman wielded a longbow more similar to what most of the archers present used, a simple one made from a long piece of wood and a string. What made hers differ from theirs was how large her bow was.
Where most of the archers present used bows nearly as tall or slightly taller than themselves, Branka’s longbow was massive, easily more than half again as tall as she was. That size meant that its draw weight would increase correspondingly, and the human archers present doubted they would even be able to draw such a bow properly.
Branka wasn’t human, though, so she easily drew her bow to its full draw length and aimed at one of the targets before she loosed. Her arrow punched straight through one of the targets at five hundred paces, the entire body of the arrow piercing the target cleanly. It was a sight that brought murmurs of awe from the assembled archers once more.
Then she repeated the feat on targets six and seven hundred paces away with identical results.
Salicia just shook her head as she watched her subordinates show their skills off to the veteran archers from Caroma. Already many murmured excitedly – or in disbelief – at what they had seen. Branka’s feats of strength were more acceptable for them, as most people from the Empire had been told about the deadly orcish archers of the north due to their experiences in many crusades against them. Alva’s rapid-fire accuracy was something that made them excited though, as was the odd bow he used.
Since her people already made a deep impression, Salicia decided that it wouldn’t do for her to take it easy. She briefly called a staff member who was in charge of setting the venue and asked for them to set a few things up. A short while later, several people walked over to one of the targets set seven hundred paces away and set a suit of plate mail armor over the chainmail already laid over it.
The targets were shaped like a human upper torso, complete with head and part of the upper arms, so from a distance, it served as a passable analogue. Salicia quietly peered at the target for a moment, then grasped no less than six arrows between her fingers. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then suddenly exploded into motion as she raised her bow with one hand and drew the string with the other at the same time, her fingers already skillfully nocking an arrow on the string.
Her arms seemed to blur as the six arrows were loosed within a couple of seconds, faster than most present could even perceive. It was not until someone brought the distant, armored target over for inspection that they gasped in surprise, however.
Salicia had landed her six arrows with absurd accuracy, one arrow in each eye slit, one in each shoulder joint just past the chestplate’s protection, one through the center of the throat, and a final arrow a handspan below the waist, past the area protected by the plates. A certain spot that was considered vital, particularly for males.