Join the expeditionary force, make your fortune, discover lost civilisations – or a new fatal animal attack.
But what were the odds of surviving front-line combat? And front-line work was, frankly, work. Then there was the real incentive for volunteering to become an expeditioner for the insatiable Dytrentian Empire: loot. Of course, the expeditionary teams still had the most dangerous assignments; sent places the Empire knew nothing about, not wanting to risk embarrassment through losing a legion.
For the past week Commander Mavis Blach and his team had been navigating the dangerous of the unknown – and not well, either. Now the remaining three moved through musty catacombs; walls once carved with ornate scenes infested by dirt. “Dankness… Give me something with life.” Mavis took care in his appearance, which seemed odd; neatly woven hair and ensuring a clean-shaven appearance only for it all to be grime festooned later.
“If you hadn’t noticed, the life around us was a problem,” replied Tenille Kemp limping down the passageway. Her golden hair was in braids, with hydra-head pins, each strand melding into one.
“Tell it to the others,” Atlas Stoddard added, his artificial arm held close. It was different from the usual enchanted limbs given to amputees, manufactured from stolen Tenseer materials; bizarre materials no-one could identify, but an absolute smash with ladies of ‘poorer’ virtue.
“These webs are gorgeous,” Tenille muttered, reaching up instinctively toward the sapphire-blue webs, before recoiling.
“That’s how Milo went,” Atlas sighed.
“The spidery-fluttery-thing got him? Not the wader?”
“No, that was Adam.” Atlas shivered at the memory: walled in by reeds, vividly bright foliage breaking through. Then, from nowhere came the slab of navy-blue feathers supported by thin twine-like legs and a beak the size of a carriage. There was a shriek from Adam, as the bird snapped him up, speed defying comprehension.
“I recall Milo, now. What kind of venom does that? Boiled up his stomach acid. I mean, his organs melted out through his gut!”
These follies weren’t great surprises. Most expeditioner’s careers lead to making the kind of discovery which allowed others to stay alive for a bit longer.
“There had better not be any more of those vines!” Tenille continued, recalling the seemingly dead creepers adorning the statues throughout a valley they’d entered. “In Louis’ defence, I would have thought nothing of leaning in to check for inscriptions.” The memories came back; grey-brown tentacles, the appearance of decaying-vegetation, slithering to life, coiling around the expeditioner’s limbs, constricting until the bones very audibly snapped, another vine curling around Louis’ waist, constricting tighter, before finally, being split in two. The pieces were dropped, the vines receded, and that was that. “You’d be forgiven for thinking that Ar’Chlé doesn’t want you to find his bow,” Tenille concluded.
“He’s a devious rascal. He knew people would want this bow, and instead of destroying it, decided to torment us with its location.”
If any expeditioners had a lead that could catch the attention of their legion commander, it could be pursued – a great way to doss off when there was rumour of an oasis, or battle. Mavis’ team decided to go looking for Crosol where cows the size of elephants roamed, with horns of ebony, and hallucination inducing milk. It was likely nonsense, but the climate sounded nice. On their way Mavis discovered the legend of Ar’Chlé depicted in meticulously shaped vines across banks of stone. The tale to catch Mavis’ attention told of a bow which could reduce a person to salt – toxophilite, Mavis, had to have that bow.
They were warned Ar’Chlé was devious. Everybody knew the bow was out there, kept in a magical bubble. The trouble was, there were enough environmental hazards to chew through a legion, and the villagers eventually stopped counting the number of explorers who tried to claim it.
Gingerly the trio stepped into the chamber, the final point of the excursion, where Ar’Chlé honed his archery skills and crafted his bows and arrows. A hundred meters stretched before them with half that on either side. Grand pillars created lanes, corroded patterns of archers swirling over them. Any colour was lost, festering into greys. To the right was invasive, thorny foliage. To the left, decrepit statues, beyond recognition.
It was eerily quiet. The first to go were those who lacked the imagination to realise secrets and treasures were protected beyond what defences could be seen.
“Your man in the Archery Guild will take it?” Atlas whispered, as if speaking louder might awaken something.
“I doubt Aeker could afford it,” Mavis replied. “I had thought about the Count of Ursia. Then we’d leak it that the Kingdom of Ursia has it and hopefully the Empire gets pushed in that direction.”
“And get free reign on their magnificent castles,” Atlas finished, putting it together.
“But no. I’m keeping it. Too good for any self-respecting archer to sell. Besides, Ursia is rich, so invasion is frankly a cosmic certainty.”
Ahead was a copper shrine, shaped like a tree-stump. Suspended above it was the bow, the string humming in subdued maroon, warming towards the limb tips, the limbs and body pure emerald. Beyond the shrine was a wide area. A multitude of materials lay at the bases of rotten wooden stands. This had been an archery range.
“Now we’re talking,” Mavis cheered, slapping his hands together. The sudden, sharp burst of noise didn’t even echo, but rather, was swallowed by the void holding the bow.
“That’s actual emerald… How people can warp the material into a functional bow… It’s amazing,” Tenille whispered.
“Gods only know who or what used to hone their skills here,” Mavis murmured with awe. With pounding excitement compelling him to action, Mavis hesitated, avoiding the rookie mistake of jumping in – despite the energy surrounding the bow looking inert. Nothing inside it moved, dust frozen in time. A practitioner of caution, he picked up a rock and gently pushed it into the field surrounding the bow. The rock just froze in place. More importantly, nothing adverse happened. Mavis sighed, supressing as much thought as possible. He pierced his hand into the field, surprised by the lack of… Anything. No cold, warmth, or odd feelings. No resistance was given as he pulled the bow from the field. Mavis savoured the bejewelled beauty of the string and the exquisite way the emerald seemed to pour in on itself.
“Hopefully we’ll see another of those giant wader birds,” he hooted in delight, patting Atlas on the back, and slapping a solid high-five with Tenille.
Then, like a stone in a boot, something felt off with the bow. Mavis turned it about, inspecting it: contoured grip, narrow window… And everything was backwards? No…
“It’s left-handed.” Mavis froze. He rechecked it, a recheck lasting only the fraction of a second because he knew what a right-handed bow felt like, being right-handed and right-eye dominant. “Devious, buggering, rascal indeed.”
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