Page 38 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Twenty-Six

Rosomon

M y body has never endured as much pain as it has this morn. Not even last night with Saxon. Although that pain cut much deeper.

By my count, ten candidates quit during the run at dawn, and seven died in the pit.

Many more, bruised and limping, piled into the offered wagon that left camp before we even broke our fasts.

The vacating wagon of deserters was uncovered and appeared to offer none of the luxuries we enjoyed on the way here—like bed rolls, cushions and piss buckets.

And our day has not let up since the pit. After that ordeal, we were given a quick meal to break our fasts, but since then our activities have been grueling, albeit less dangerous than rocks hurled at our heads.

Back on the training field, we spent hours alternating between various drills.

Most had us running and leaping, some tossing rocks at far away targets.

I was at the back of the pack for some of the most physical trials, but I refuse to quit.

More than a quarter of the men I arrived with have already disappeared.

My hands and arms are the parts of me screaming the loudest at this moment.

Against my arms’ protests, I pull my chin up to the bar I’m hanging from, fighting to keep agony from my expression as I complete my fifty-first consecutive pull up.

As soon as my chin crosses the bar, I hear the count and drop back down to hang.

There are but four of us left in this trial.

While it’s not clear that performing the most pull ups will earn any reward or advantage, Saxon is standing nearby, his strong arms tense and crossed over his broad chest as he watches us, watches me.

I’m certain the others still competing are hoping for praise from the master if they win, but I’m making a point.

I deserve a place at this camp. I deserve it as much as any man, and neither Saxon’s brutality last night, nor his coldness today can chase me away.

“It isn’t fair,” Egon says from the ground below me.

“Yeah,” Amis adds. “The runt has an advantage. Less weight to pull up.”

The other three men still performing chin ups aren’t “runts” by any stretch of the imagination, which makes it clear that Egon and Amis’s complaint is aimed at me.

“Egon, if you’ve got too much weight to pull up,” Saxon says, “perhaps skip your third serving of pudding tonight.”

A few of the other men laugh, and I hear a thud and a grunt, as I start my next chin up.

“Egon,” Saxon says, “I’ll ask you to save your punches for combat training.”

If I had the energy, I’d grin, but I need every bit that I have to pull myself up again. Straining my neck, I struggle to make sure my chin passes above the bar. With Egon and Amis’s attention focused on me, there is no chance I’ll get away with an incomplete pull up.

Then again, none of us can. Saxon, plus every other man who’s dropped out, is watching the four of us like hawks. And that’s on top of the servants keeping the official count.

I finish my pull up, hear the count and lower myself with as much control as my arms allow.

“Ulrich, Ham,” Saxon says. “You’re out.”

The two men to the right of me drop from the bar and collapse on the platform.

I decide to wait another few seconds before trying again. We’re allowed as much time as we want between each, but if we attempt a pull up and fail, we’re disqualified.

The man to my left pulls himself up, and the servant below him calls out two and forty.

Pride and hope spread inside me. My only remaining opponent hasn’t dropped out, but I’m well ahead in the count.

Arms shaking, I make another attempt, and the vibrations increase as my chin nears the bar. My arms are going to fail. I’m not going to make it. Just one more finger width…

“This trial is complete,” Saxon calls out. “Everyone, immediately report to the archery field.”

I drop from the bar and my legs crumple. My lower body didn’t do any work, but it seems every part of me felt the impact of the effort.

Proud to have won the contest, I struggle to my feet and shake my arms, trying to revive them, but they’re as limp as overcooked asparagus.

Saxon offers his hand to help the second-place competitor stand. “Congratulations.” He claps him on the back and doesn’t even look my way.

Indignation fumes, but I don’t need congratulations and certainly don’t want that man to touch me.

“That was amazing.” Samyull falls in beside me as we walk toward the archery field.

“Thanks.”

“Are you good with a bow and arrow?” His expression is worried.

“I’ve shot some arrows in the past.” In truth, I’ve spent many hours practicing archery, shooting at the courtyard targets as well as at rabbits, squirrels, and pheasants in the woods and the fields.

Cook refused to use my target practice victims in the castle kitchens, but I always found servants willing to take the small game off my hands.

Saxon has us form lines at stations, positioned across from a row of targets set a very good distance away—more than a half-furlong, by my eye.

“Most bows are reserved for the armory,” Saxon says, “so, until your numbers dwindle, you will take turns shooting.”

Samyull and I have chosen the same line. Henri, one of the other small men, takes the station next to us, and I cringe when Egon and Amis push him away claiming the station as theirs.

“Arms a bit tired, runt?” Egon sneers. “Good luck with your aim.”

“Probably can’t even pull back the string,” Amis says, and Egon snickers.

I resist the urge to rub my sore muscles. My arms are vibrating as if someone is physically shaking them, but I remind myself that archery is something at which I excel. At least when my arms are functional.

“When these flags are raised, no arrows shall be fired.” Saxon points to servants holding black flags aloft at the far ends of the target area. They’re both wearing chest plates and helmets to protect them from stray arrows.

“For the first round,” Saxon continues, “the man at the front will be given one minute to fire thirty arrows. At least twenty of those arrows must strike the target for you to advance to round two.”

“I wonder what round two is?” Samyull whispers.

“Those not advancing will be exiled from camp and will head directly to the waiting wagons.”

My chest squeezes, and I massage my arms, no longer caring what Egon or Amis might think. Now that my eyes are focusing, I’m certain the targets are at least a half furlong away. A very long distance to shoot an arrow with accuracy. My arms are shaking, but I can’t fail this test.

On selection day, Saxon made it sound as if we’d get instruction on using weapons at camp, but given so many of us are being cut on day one, there’s clearly a baseline skill level required to even get training.

Samyull steps ahead of me and picks up the bow. “I’ll go first. Your arms and back need time to recover.”

I smile. Part of me wants to object, but the stakes are too high. Samyull dropped out of the pull up test, after doing the bare minimum of ten. His decision to drop after completing the minimum, assuming it was a decision, seems smart to me now.

Samyull tests the bow string and then dons the quiver of thirty arrows ready for the trial to begin. A bell sounds and Samyull quickly shoots his arrows. He’s better than he led me to believe.

Once or twice his hand fails to find an arrow when he reaches back, and some of his arrows miss the target, but by the time his minute is over, I’m pleased to see that his target is crowded with what I hope is twenty arrows.

The black flags rise and Saxon surveys the targets, raising his arm for each successful candidate. Three men are dismissed.

“Candidates, you have one minute to retrieve your arrows before the next group begins.” Saxon’s voice booms across the open space, and I hate that I still find the depth of his tone appealing.

Samyull hands the bow to me and races forward. When he reaches the target he rapidly pulls out his arrows and stashes them in the quiver.

I pick up the remaining quiver, then test the tautness of the string and practice my reach back. Based on watching Samyull, I decide that strapping the quiver at a slight angle will help ensure that an arrow meets my hand each time I reach back. I don’t want to waste even seconds.

I hear the twang of a bow string, and an arrow flies toward the targets, narrowly missing Samyull as he’s bent to retrieve one of his out of the ground.

He spins back. “Who shot that?”

Egon turns away, laughing, and I look toward Saxon. Surely Egon will be disqualified. But our master walks in the other direction, shaking his head.

Another bell rings, and the last few men race back toward us.

“Second group, prepare!” Saxon commands.

The black flags drop, the bell sounds, and I start shooting my allocation of arrows.

My arms find some life, and I hear satisfying thunks as every single one of my arrows hits its mark.

Not every arrow lands in the target’s center, but if I aimed each one at exactly the same place, I would have split many arrows in half.

I finish before our time expires, and glance toward Egon’s target. It looks like he landed enough, but a few are sticking out from the grass, and at least three are in the wall of straw behind the targets.

Saxon surveys the results again. He pauses in front of my target, but then his gaze skims right over me as he turns. He said he wouldn’t give me special treatment, but he lied. He’s not ignoring everyone else’s accomplishments.

“Better luck next time,” I say to Egon as we run to retrieve our arrows.

He glares at me, and an angry vein pulses on his reddened forehead.

I’m not sure I’ve ever disliked someone so strongly—not someone I wasn’t supposed to marry, that is. As I’m pulling out the last of my arrows, one whizzes past my ear and lands in my target. I spin, and another arrow narrowly misses my shoulder. Amis lowers his bow, a clear smirk on his face.

Again, Saxon ignores this behavior, even though I’m certain he can’t have missed it.