The Game

A dozen men crowded in the clearing, a dozen stupid conversations sounded out across the forest. From her hiding place fifty paces off through the trees, Taliette listened to the noisy babble of it. She had a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder; her bow was strung and ready to shoot. Her leather soles were soft, and she could feel the lumps and humps of tree roots beneath her feet.

There was a mousehole here in the soil at the base of the tree and she took care not to step in it by accident. A yellow marker ribbon tied to a low branch fluttered in a slight breeze. She snapped it off. No sense in giving them clues.

She recognised some of these men from the barracks and the practice grounds. She took time to notice each of them. "Know your enemy," Mother had said. "Know what they want so you can take it away from them."

In the middle of the group was Brock, an older Mercian with a massive chest and a grey-flecked beard that did little to hide the many scars that crisscrossed his face. He was Hal's second in command. He was slow and heavy, and he had no interest in games. She could take him easily, she was sure of it.

Leaning casually up against a tree was Flavien, a Belonosian swordsman with swarthy features and a thin moustache which he liked to twirl between his fingers. He wore a thin sword at his hip in the Belonosian style. He was very light on his feet, but he followed the code and would not hurt her if he could help it. The code would make him hesitate. She could use that.

Standing close to him were the farm boys Twig and Leaf. They were young men, barely more than children. Their parents had died somehow, so now they worked for Gintas. They were each other's weakness. Hurt one of them, and the other would go to the rescue.

In the shadow of the trees loomed Hewitt. He was a massive ugly man with a sloping brow, deep shadowed eyes and hairy fists. His scarred face bore a permanent look of resentment. He stood a full head taller even than Hal. He hung back at the edge of the clearing, refusing to join in the sport, still as a boulder. He was a massive target, and he was slow. She could shoot him without difficulty. But still, there was something completely horrifying about the way he stood, so still, staring at nothing in particular. It gave her a little thrill.

There were a half dozen others. Frantz with the beaky nose. Pig, a big, jolly man, not fat, just huge and fond of eating. There was Staves with his iron-shod staff, and Spare, the quiet boy with the polished knives who looked no-one in the eyes.

Stent was there in the middle of them. He had a greasy moustache, and when she walked past the barracks in the morning, she always felt his eyes crawling all over her like a maggot. Greasy, bristly little Stent with his greasy fingers and wet little mouth.

Jessamy was not there, Taliette had not seen her since that day in the clearing two weeks ago.

She was annoyed by these men. Annoyed that they were having fun. Annoyed that they were not even taking her seriously enough to post sentries.

"How many are there?" whispered her heart from somewhere far away. "Count them. Be precise."

She took a moment to make a total. Eleven, including Hal, who stood in the middle of the group, a big beaming smile plastered over his silly, floppy-haired face. From her hiding place she scowled at him. His laughter echoed out through the trees.

Big mistake. She was going to shoot him first.

The training arrows were heavier than a bodkin. She had practiced with them earlier in the day and she understood how they flew. The lumpy leather bag that replaced the head dragged the nose down and spoiled the aim slightly, but she was confident she could hit a target. The quiver Hal had given her had a handful of red powder in the bottom of it which dusted the leather so that anything the arrow struck would be marked.

She took a breath and drew her bow. The world slowed around her. Her heart sounded in her ears, slow and steady like beating wings. Then she exhaled and let the world rush back in. The arrow zipped between the leaves, straight towards Hal. He turned and saw it coming at the last minute, ducked, calling out a warning. The arrow passed over his head and struck Frantzen in the temple. He fell to the ground without a sound, clutching his beak-nosed face.

The other men in the clearing sprang to life, spreading out through the trees. Hal directed them to the right and the left.

"Shoot the leaders first," whispered her heart. "Stay hidden. They don't know where you are yet."

She drew again, but Hal was now out of sight. She felt a brief stab of annoyance. Twig and Leaf still stood in the open looking lost. She drew quickly and sent another arrow sailing. Leaf fell, red dust coated his side. Twig knelt next to him. She drew again and sent another arrow thudding into his back. Each other's weakness.

"Keep a count," whispered her heart.

"Eight left," she replied, scanning the trees for movement.

"There!" came a cry, and suddenly, men were running towards her from all directions. Time to move. She lowered her bow, stuffed the yellow marker ribbon in her pocket, then crawled head first into the hole that hummed at the base of the tree.

Silence engulfed her.

It was like pushing her head underwater at night, black as velvet, the only sound was a distant clattering hum like a weaving loom. She crawled onwards until she was sure her feet were entirely hidden, holding her bow out in front of her. The mousehole widened until she could not touch both sides. The ceiling above her head was so low she had to turn her head sideways. It was like sliding through a crack in a rock. Then the whole tunnel twisted sideways and in the dark it was as though the whole world twisted until the space she was in was tall and narrow. She could not feel the top of it, it might go on forever. As she worked her way forward through the narrow space, her body turned around too until she was upright. The mousehole pushed her onwards. She had no choice where to go. There was only one direction, one line to follow in the whole universe. She could not feel the edges of it any more, only pressure but no sensation. She was made of fabric. The whole world were a basket of fabric, and she was nothing more than a shred of silk, a scrap of pale nothing hanging nowhere forever.

Then she was out, gasping like a swimmer, eyes wide with exultation. She pulled her legs free, then crouched, checking her bow. She knocked an arrow and held it low. The woods were silent. She had crawled this way this morning, and she knew where she was. She was close to the edge of the forest, near the lake where the trees grew dark and tall.

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The next mousehole was fifty paces away.

She listened again but heard nothing, so she began stepping forward, placing each foot carefully just as Hal had shown her.

A twig cracked. She gasped and spun around. Brock was there, ten paces off, brown leather armour dappled by the light from the sun between the leaves. He stood quite still, watching her. Blue eyes bright in his scarred, beaten-up old face. She stared back at him.

Shoot him, whispered her heart.

"He's too close. He'll be on me before I raise my bow."

Shoot him!

"Who are you talking to?" asked Brock casually.

She didn't reply. She stayed absolutely frozen. If he laid his hands on her, he would take her bow, and she would have to walk back to the house disarmed. Nothing could be worse.

"Frantz is alright by the way," he said. "Thought you'd want to know."

She nodded, remembering the beaky man she had shot first after she had missed Hal.

Shoot him! screamed her heart. Shoot him now! She ignored it, watching for the opportunity.

"Fine day, ain't it, missy?" Brock said conversationally. "Fine day for a game of cards and a nice draft of ale down in the town."

She watched him, waiting to see what he would do.

"It just occurs to me," he continued, "that this game could go on a while, and if a person were, for whatever reason, no longer playing, that person might hypothetically slip off to the pub for a bit."

She stared at him, one arrow halfway out of the quiver.

He sighed. "You don’t take a hint, do you? Guess you better shoot me in the chest then, missy. I ain't in the mood for a tussle. Ye'll be doin’ me a favour."

She almost couldn’t believe her luck. She aimed low and shot him in the centre of his padded jerkin. He grunted and took a small step back.

"Much obliged to you, missy," he said, touching two fingers to his temple and grimacing slightly.

"Seven," she said.

"Oh, counting are we?" said Brock. "Word to the wise, I think you might want to check your numbers."

He nodded a thank you, then stomped off through the trees back towards the barracks brushing red dust off his padded leather jerkin and twirling her arrow between his finger and thumb.

"Did it hurt?" she called after him.

"Oh, I've had worse," he said, disappearing between the trees. "Stop shooting the lads in the head, though; you'll put an eye out."

She stood perfectly still, bow half drawn, listening to the sounds of his footfalls growing more and more distant.

Find them. Get Range. Take the numbers down, whispered her heart. Don't let them surprise you.

She needed somewhere where the trees were less thick. There was a large clearing to the west of here. She stalked through a glade, keeping the sun to her left until the trees thinned out.

Wait, screamed her heart.

She froze, perfectly still, right leg slightly raised, bow ready and half drawn. The wind blew across the clearing rustling the brown bracken. There were a few lumps and hillocks here. At the base of one of them was another mousehole. She had found it earlier. It was a long one and it came out down by the river.

Wait.

The clearing was perfectly still. A rabbit jumped out of a burrow and lopped across an open space where the grass was short. It put its head down and began to nibble.

Wait...

Then she saw him. Hewitt's enormous bulk, still as a boulder in the shadow of a tree at the far side of the clearing. His face was shadowed.

She lowered her foot, toe first into the leaves. The smallest crunching sound. Hewitt’s head snapped up. His eyes locked on to her and he began to walk, relaxed and easy as a big cat.

She drew her bow and, in one smooth motion, loosed an arrow at him. He pivoted casually to one side, and the arrow passed him by. Cursing, she pulled another from her quiver. He was closing the distance frighteningly quickly. She shot again. This time, she hit him square in the centre of the chest. The powder billowed up and painted his face red, but he didn't stop. He broke into a jog, dark eyes fixed on her, full of rage and a sort of mute hunger, like a big predator chasing down an animal.

She knocked another arrow and shot him again. The red powder billowed out and covered him. He snarled and broke into a run. She stepped back, unsure of herself. The nearest mousehole was in the middle of the clearing, there was no way to reach it. He was snorting like a bull. Thick corded arms. Hairy hands reaching out for her shoulder, her waist.

She wrapped her arms around her head, anticipating the impact, but it never came. With a yell of rage, Hal flew out of the trees and up into the big man's side, slamming him sideways. The two fell together in the bracken, fists rising and falling, grunting and grappling, pounding one another.

They broke apart and circled, crouched, arms spread, hard hands open. Hal glanced up at her, eyes white and wild. There was blood trickling from a cut on his forehead.

"Go," he mouthed, without making a sound.

Then she was sprinting across the clearing towards the mound where the mousehole was. She turned and saw Hal and Hewitt grappling in a ring of flattened undergrowth. Then she dived headfirst into it, feeling it closing around her body like a woollen blanket. Her bow got caught, but she pulled it free, raking the handle across her chest until she could hold it out in front of her. She wiggled forward until she was sure she was completely hidden. Then she lay there, shaking.

"Always have a real arrow," she scolded herself, over and over, and her arms trembled.

She stayed down there for a long time, snug in the weave, like a child under a feather duvet. There was no warmth in this hole, and no cold either, just silence and emptiness. She could not even feel herself breathing.

After a while she began to crawl. The hole ran almost dead straight, wide as a corridor, with a slight uphill slope. As she crawled, tendrils brushed against her face and ran along the length of her body. Soft and ticklish like a woman's long hair. The hole turned again, straight down, and she slid face first, down and down, bracing herself against the sides, until she fell headfirst out into the real world, and down into a bush.

She lay very still among the leaves. She had made an almighty crash falling back out into the world, anyone nearby would surely come running. There were no footfalls, no shouts. After a minute, she raised her head and pushed a few leaves aside.

There were five men, grouped together around a tree stump, perhaps fifty paces away. Amazingly, none of them seemed to have noticed her. Five. Could she take five? That would leave only Hal. Was Hal even in the game still? She didn't know.

She reached into her quiver and felt five shafts. Five men, five arrows, fifty paces. It would be difficult. She stood slowly, oh so slowly, keeping her movements natural, mimicking the way a tree will move in the wind. She pulled the arrows from her quiver and leaned them up against the lower limbs of the bush.

She fitted one to the string, drew and shot. The arrow flew true and hit Pig in the midriff. He doubled over at the unexpected impact, and red dust covered him. The other men stared at their friend in shock, and she had time to fire again. This time, she hit Stent. He turned at the last minute, and the arrow took him full in the face. She felt a brief thrill of satisfaction as he fell, engulfed in red powder.

"Three," she said.

Staves, Spare and Flavien had seen her now, and they started to run, right at her. She had to be quick. She drew and shot. Spare went down with red powder covering his right side. Again, and Staves fell. Flavien was close to her now. He was light on his feet. Light as a dancer. She had heard legends of Belonosians catching arrows between their hands, or step-steppping between a storm of them as a man might slip through a field of wheat.

He watched her with his bright eyes, and she watched her back. She had one arrow left, but it was irrelevant. She had no time to draw another anyway. She held the arrow in her fist like a dagger. He danced in front of her, moving this way and that. She tracked him with the arrow point. His hips seemed to move one way while his body went the other. She stepped out of the bush, out in front of him. He could take her. He could snatch her bow now, but he did not. Instead, he ceased his dance and swung into a perfect, courteous bow. The code forbade him from hitting her. Stupid Belonosian. She slapped the arrow across his arm. Red powder billowed up, dusting him from head to foot. He bowed to her again and withdrew, helping his friends to rise.

Then, there was a blade at her neck and a woman's voice in her ear, soft and sweet.

"Hello, fancy girl."

The knife was sharp, and it stung.