Jarvi Little-Wolf was invigorated with a longbow in hand, and quiver packed with arrows, taking part in the Bessian Field Championships, hosted by Clementine Grove Archers – misnamed, due to the satsumas which grew around the club.
Nothing tested the mettle of an archer like field archery – other than battle, Jarvi thought, but that wasn’t for everyone.
Jarvi had been competitive a long time ago and done very well for himself. Now he decided to put more time into enjoying himself. Haggard but handsome, silver came through his beard, matching steel blue eyes. Despite this, his eyes were cheerful, his mouth perpetually grinning. There was a bit of weight on him but then he was pushing seventy and had done his bit for gods and country, worked hard, and raised a reasonably stable family; pastries and steak didn’t guilt him.
There had been the camaraderie at the day’s start when archers met; a crowd of a few hundred, many who had not seen each other for some time, exchanged bad jokes, war stories, and hunting adventures, eager to see who they would be shooting with.
Jarvi had been enjoying breakfast outside the club house, surrounded by pals, when Evander Penrose stepped by, an archer hoisted over his shoulder, screaming invectives back at someone unseen. As the Archery Guild’s arbitrator his job was to moderate any conflicts.
“Mornin’ Evey,” Jarvi greeted. Evey turned and smiled, with the archer still over his shoulder. “Is that Olivia, bane of dragons?” Jarvi enquired, as a pale face peeked through a mangle of fire-red hair.
Now on the final target, Jarvi and Eleri Bridgemaker were stooped down on either side of it, inspecting scores.
Eleri was twenty years younger, however her terse nature for rule following made her seem the elder. Despite this she was good natured – though Jarvi wasn’t getting away with puffing from his pipe.
The third member of the group, Marsala Hanzila was on her back, underneath the arrows, looking upwards. Marsala favoured static-shooting competitions, in heated halls, safe from weather. Thus, field archery had Marsala outside her comfort zone, lower scores showing it.
In the background, was the fourth member of the group, the Gantede Prince Noftred Kassew. Noftred had proposed to Princess Banovix of the Kingdom of Rezjan whose homeland revered the bow – whilst Noftred’s scorned it as a coward’s weapon. The Princess could see the merit in an alliance between the kingdoms, figuring Noftred would probably get an arrow through an eye slight, leaving her in a powerful position over Gantede – that was Jarvi’s reckoning. Banovix had set Noftred a challenge to test the sincerity of his proposal: take up the bow and preform the deeds of a champion. Adverse to being seen with a bow on the battlefield, Noftred decided that competitive archery would suffice, promising Banovix that he could keep at least one of his arrows in the gold on every target.
A feat the knight had managed, to the awe of his group. On the final target, however, Noftred’s first arrow had plummeted into the dirt, short. The second was the result of over-compensation, hitting high in the target. Yet Noftred made no show of apprehension. The final arrow had arced high and landed in the top of the 5 ring, balanced where the gold met the black of the preceding ring. Between the three of them, they could not figure out whether it was touching the gold.
The rules were generous in this respect; an arrow only had to be touching the higher scoring ring for the archer to get the higher score. Many records and podium placements would be different if this rule did not exist, everyone knew.
Jarvi never sweated line cutters. Marsala on the other hand relied on them more than most – even going as far to produce a magnified glass. It slowed things down, however, Jarvi and Eleri were glad she was here, with Noftred having stepped aside, to let the group to decide his fate.
“How serious is this marriage anyway?” Marsala asked.
Jarvi didn’t want to think about continental politics, but the embedded arrow had conscripted him. “Both nations are bordered along the Poet’s Sea, laying claims to wide stretches of it. Apart, they are inconsequential. Together they’d be a match for anyone up here.”
“And being in a position of advantage can easily make people recall grievances. On the other side of this unwanted coin, we might be stopping violent trade disputes between both nations,” Marsala added.
“This is beyond me. I’m an animal trainer, I negotiate fees based on how often I get bitten. Where’s Evey? Can’t we just pass this off?” Eleri said.
“No doubt Evey made sure not to be in our shooting group,” Jarvi answered.
“The squabbles of the two nations could be put to rest, but there would be, out of this marriage, a superpower.” Eleri glared warily at the where the shaft met the target. “As it stands, anyone can leverage one kingdom’s port against another to get a better deal, keeping both subdued. Unified, they can set their own tariffs and laws on what is and isn’t contraband”.
“With the division, I guess that things are booming for traders?” Marsala surmised, “Together, they’d end up getting squeezed out of every last coin.”
Jarvi added, “Traders would suffer alright.”
“With so much potential strain here, you would think someone would have dispatched a means to break up this proposal?” Eleri lowered her voice, as if Noftred, forty yards off, might hear.
“What nations surround the Poet’s Sea? You’ve Reywher, Oakthei, Xellcarr.” Marsala’s voice descended into a sharp, streaky whisper. “We don’t need Reywher starting anything!”
“That settles it,” Eleri declared. “It’s out, otherwise Reywher would take to the sea, plundering ships, annexing ports, screaming about sovereignty and liberty.”
“Reywher would love the excuse for a scrap,” Jarvi thought aloud. “But then, Rezjan and Gantede will just go back to skirmishing with each other…” Jarvi’s voice fell into a sigh of pitiful realisation as their solution crumbled. “How long do you think it would be before total war broke out? Thousands of dead, thousands displaced.”
Eleri dragged both hands down her face. “Could something maybe happen to Noftred?”
“Well, he’s got forty years on me. Besides, what would we say?”
Eleri’s stare fell into a dull frown. “I meant getting him on an equipment discrepancy.”
Jarvi composed himself. “No, the judges signed off on his gear.”
“Em…?” Marsala was glancing back towards the shooting pegs, face twisted in confoundment.
Both Eleri and Jarvi caught the glance and turned. If they were honest, they were relieved by what they saw: Noftred sprawled out, an arrow through his neck.
“I’m okay with that,” Jarvi replied curtly.
“Looks like someone was unhappy with the proposal.” Eleri stood and pulled Noftred’s arrow from the target. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. We’ll call it a 5.”
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