The Rise of the Wyrm Lord (The Door Within Trilogy Book 2)

Is this right?” Antoinette asked. She had an arrow fitted to the string of Nock’s Blackwood bow.

“Almost,” Nock replied. He moved closer to Antoinette and made a few adjustments to her form. “You must keep your release hand, your right hand, flat and close to your cheek. Otherwise you will hook the bowstring and have a sluggish release. Also, raise your elbow so that it is level with the arrow’s shaft. Yes, that’s better! Think of your right arm and the arrow as one long shaft and line it up with the target. . . . Um, we need a target, don’t we?”

Nock went about twenty feet away from where Antoinette was standing, looked around, then lifted an old tree stump and positioned it against a tree so that the tree’s rings would face them.

“That should work as a target,” he said as he walked back to her. “When you feel the shot is lined up, use the muscles in your back to draw your arm a little farther back. The string should feel like it slips from your grasp rather than like you let it go. Try.”

Antoinette looked down her arm and down the length of the arrow at the center ring on the target beyond. The bowstring was already taut and the bow felt ready to spring. She eased back her arm and released the string. The arrow left the bow so fast it seemed it was never there in the first place.

“Owww!” Antoinette exclaimed, and she shook her left arm. “I felt the bowstring through the armor!”

“A vambrace will keep your forearm from being cut,” Nock said. “But the bowstring on a Blackwood bow impacts with such force that the, uh . . . inexperienced will still feel its bite.”

“But where did the arrow go?” Antoinette asked.

“Ah, well . . . nowhere near the target, I am afraid,” Nock replied. “But try it again. This time, remember, your task is to aim and pull. The string decides when to release.”

Nock gave Antoinette another shaft. She fitted it to the string as before. And this time, she focused on lining up the shot without a single thought about releasing the arrow. Suddenly, she heard a sharp twang and a shaft was stuck deep in the target. The Blackwood bow felt warm in her hands.

“Well done, Lady Antoinette!” Nock clapped. “Well done, indeed!”

“But I didn’t hit the bull’s-eye!” she said.

“Did you expect to?” Nock’s arched brows arched even more and he grinned. “That is good! Archers must always expect to hit the target. Always. But one flaw hindered your success. You were thinking too much about protecting your arm from the burn of the string. I saw the bend in your elbow. You must have proper form. And you must focus on the target!”

Focus on the objective—that’s what Kaliam says too, Antoinette thought.

“Here, now, try it again. Allow the string to slip from your fingers in its own good time. And this time . . . use this arrow.” Nock handed Antoinette a black-shafted arrow with white fletchings, the exact opposite of the first shaft she had fired.

“Why this one?” she asked.

“That is an arrow made from blackwood,” said Nock, grinning. “I think you will enjoy the result!”

Antoinette held the shaft gently as if handling something volatile that might explode. Then she lifted it to the string and began to take aim.

“I hope we are not intruding!” came a voice from behind. Antoinette spun around. It was Tal, followed by Mallik, Kaliam, Lady Merewen, Aelic, and several others. Tal had a bow in his hand.

“Forgive me for interrupting your lesson, m’lady!” Tal bowed. “I overheard Nock’s offer to train you, and knowing his impressive skill, I presume you have become a fair shot already.”

Tal glanced around Antoinette at the target. “Yes, I see you already possess some luck.”

“Skill, not luck, I would say,” Lady Merewen said, and she grinned slyly at Antoinette.

“Yes, hmmm,” Tal replied, scratching at his beard. “Skill.”

“Tal, what do you want?” Nock asked, frowning on his way to retrieve the arrows. “As if I did not know.”

“I just wished a little sport before we must return to the business of Yewland,” he replied. “To be honest, my pride still smarts from losing to Lady Antoinette in the jousting arena. I thought she might be up for another challenge.”

“Tal, why do you not challenge me?” asked Nock, returning with the arrows. “She has fired but two shafts thus far.”

“Nay, Master Archer, I am no match for thee,” Tal said. And he bowed again. “I simply thought tha—”

“I accept the challenge!” Antoinette said, surprising them both. “What’s the contest?”

“Excellent, m’lady,” Tal said. “A simple contest of accuracy I think will be best. Given your, uh, lack of experience, it would not be fair to add speed to the equation. We shall each fire one arrow. The shaft closest to the center of the bull’s-eye shall be declared the winner. And, uh, to keep the competition fair, we will both use my bow.”

Tal snatched the Blackwood bow—but not the arrow—from Antoinette and handed it to Nock. Then he took his firing position, drew back his bowstring, and was still for a moment. The bow sang, the arrow whistled to the target, and stuck directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.

“Ha-ha!” Tal bellowed. His thick dark locks bounced. He reminded Antoinette of the guys in the reggae band that had come to her school the previous year. “Let us see if Master Nock’s tutelage has served you well!”

Tal strutted over to Antoinette and handed her his bow. Antoinette looked at the target, which suddenly looked very far away. She frowned at Nock.

Strangely, Nock winked and nodded. What? Antoinette wondered. Why are—and then she looked down at the Blackwood Arrow in her hand. She smiled.

Antoinette fit the Blackwood Arrow to the bowstring, with three fingers stretched the string back to her cheek, and took aim. The arrow was sleek, from its narrow razor point to its close-cropped fletchings. It looked like it was built for speed. She flexed the muscles in her upper back, slowly drawing her right elbow back. Any moment now, she thought as she stared at the bull’s-eye. Any moment n—”

ZING! The arrow was gone. It struck the target about an inch below the bull’s-eye, but it struck with such force that the stump split. Tal’s arrow wobbled and then fell out of the target.

“Lady Antoinette wins!” Nock announced joyously.

Tal stood for a moment, eyes bulging and mouth hanging slack. Then he cried out, “She most certainly does not win! My arrow was in the bull’s-eye! It was by far the closest to center!”

“Was is the operative word, my competitive friend,” said Nock. “It would seem that your aim was not true, for the target spat out your arrow!”

“My arrow is the closest to center now!” Antoinette said sternly, all the while trying to hold back laughter. Aelic clapped.

“Those confounded Blackwood Arrows!” Tal ranted. “She had an unfair advantage—Nock, you have cheated me.”

“Advantage?” Lady Merewen objected. “You have been shooting your bow for most of your life, but Lady Antoinette had only fired three arrows! She won fair and square.”

Tal scowled. “Let us fire again,” he said. “But this ti—”

“Uh, pardon me!” Mallik interrupted. He stood next to the target. “I can see this competition has reached its due end. Allow me to settle this squabble!”

And then, Mallik hoisted his immense hammer high in the air and brought it crashing down on the target and the arrows. With a variety of sharp cracks, Mallik’s weapon crushed the stump to splinters.

“I daresay that settles all disputes,” Kaliam said, putting a hand on Antoinette’s shoulder. “I do not suppose we will be able to find either arrow. Pieces, perhaps, but nothing more.”

“Mallik, your hammer strike is fierce indeed,” Nock said. “I did not know that anything could shatter a Blackwood shaft! You realize, of course, you owe me a replacement—and they do not come cheaply.”

“My dear Nock,” said Mallik, “when we get to Yewland, I will buy you a whole quiver if you de—”

“Silence!” Kaliam suddenly hissed. “Be still! I heard something. Nock!”

“I heard it too,” he whispered. “It was dragon wings or I am a turnip.”

“A spy?” Kaliam mouthed.

Nock nodded. Then they all heard it. A faint swoosh to the west. Nock leaped up into the lowest bough of a great tree. In a moment he clambered up to the top limb and unleashed a shot. Something screeched and crashed in the distance.

“Good shot, Nock!” Mallik blurted. “Come, let us see what game you have bagged!”

“Yes, we will go and see,” said Kaliam. “But be cautious. There may be other spies in the area. And they certainly know we are here now. Tobias, Tal, return to the camp. See if you can find Farix, for we cannot leave our steeds or supplies unguarded.”

So nine of the knights of Alleble sped off to the west. Sir Rogan bounded ahead of them, his great axe at the ready. They came to a clearing near a broad tree. Sprawled awkwardly on the weedy cobblestone was a gray dragon. A dark arrow pierced its lower jaw and protruded from the top of its skull.

“That shot was one in a million!” Mallik bellowed. Sir Rogan looked at Nock and smiled grimly.

“Yes,” agreed Kaliam. “But where is its rider?”

“There,” Antoinette said, pointing. “Up in the tree.”

Strewn and twisted in the highest boughs was a dark figure. “Oswyn, if you please,” said Kaliam.

“I will not climb up a tree with an enemy perhaps still alive,” Os said. “Not unless I have to. On the other hand, if you want me to blow the tree up . . .”

“No, Os, that is quite all right,” Kaliam said.

“I will get it done,” Sir Rogan growled. He lifted his axe and strode to the base of the tree.

“No, Sir Rogan!” Kaliam cried. “Not with the axe.”

But Sir Rogan did not use the axe. He placed the axe carefully on the cobblestone and then turned toward the tree. He wrapped his enormous arms around the trunk and began to shake. The tree swayed slowly at first but gained momentum. The topmost boughs began to quiver violently, and suddenly, the dark figure shifted, cartwheeled through the branches, and fell with a dull thud to the ground.

“Well, he is most certainly dead now!” Mallik blurted out.

“That was some display of strength, Sir Rogan,” said Sir Gabriel. “But now he will not give us the answers to our questions.”

“Do not be so sure of that,” said Farix, appearing from the shadows.

“Master Farix,” Lady Merewen said, “you, uh, do have a way of showing up rather suddenly.” A corner of Farix’s mouth turned just slightly in a smile.

Gabriel argued, “You cannot possibly mean that he is alive.”

“Alive? Nay, ambassador. He was dead even before Sir Rogan shook him from the tree. But he may yet answer some of our questions.” Farix rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the body. “He is clearly in the service of Paragory. But he is not a spy. You see the pair of dragon wings etched into his breastplate?”

“Let me look,” Lady Merewen said, stepping forward. “Those markings show that this rider is a scout of the enemy.”

“Spy, scout—what is the difference?” Mallik asked.

“There is a telling difference, Sir Mallik,” Lady Merewen explained. “A spy is sent into a known situation to gather information. A scout, on the other hand, ventures into unknown places to locate potential dangers or to seek a better way.”

“That is strange,” said Nock. “The scout would have no business this far southeast. He should have been making his way up the main road.”

“Yes,” agreed Kaliam. “But now I see that I was careless to suggest that glad fire in Torin’s Keep. The dragons of the enemy have a keen sense of smell. It is my judgment that this rider was one of several, scattered forward in many directions. This one dragon picked up our scent and veered this way.”

Kaliam turned and stared off into the distance. The snowcapped peaks of faraway Pennath Ador were pink with the dawn sun. “This troubles me,” Kaliam said. “If my theory is true, and there were several scouts, then what size force would there be? Lady Merewen?”

“A legion,” she replied quietly. “Maybe more.”

Antoinette looked at Aelic. “A legion? What does that mean?”

“It means a large force of enemy soldiers . . . very large,” Aelic said.

“We leave at once,” Kaliam ordered.