The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 44

The rules were simple. A marshal fetched the Genovesan's crossbow from the pavilion and returned it to him. He was allowed one quarrel from his quiver and positioned beside the southern pavilion.

Will took up a similar position at the northern end of the field, also with one arrow. The two opponents were just over one hundred metres apart. The area around each pavilion, where people had been visiting the vending stalls, emptied rapidly. They took up positions along the long sides of the arena, in front of the railing that had formerly kept spectators from straying onto the field of combat. A broad corridor was left down the middle, with the two antagonists at either end.

Sean Carrick was setting the rules of engagement.

`Neither party shall make an attempt to evade the other's shot. You will both stand fast and, on the sound of the trumpet, you may shoot in your own time. In the event that both miss, you will each be issued another arrow and we will repeat the sequence.'

He I ooked to his left and right, studying the two figures to see if there might be any sign of misunderstanding. But both Will and the Genovesan nodded their agreement.

Will was calm and collected. His breathing was easy and even. The crossbow was a fearsome weapon and it was relatively easy to achieve a degree of accuracy with it. Far easier than with the longbow. The shooter had sights, consisting of a notched V at the back and blade at the front of the crossbow. And there was no need to hold the weight of the drawstring while the bow was aimed. That was done mechanically, and the quarrel, or bolt, released by means of a trigger.

So the average person could quickly learn to become a good shot with a crossbow. That was why, years ago, the Genovesan hierarchy had selected the weapon for their forces. Because almost anybody could shoot one with reasonable success. There was no need to search for particularly talented recruits. The crossbow was an everyman's weapon.

And that was where Will believed his advantage lay. The crossbow did not require the hours and hours of practice that went into becoming a proficient shot with the longbow. You raised the bow, centred the sights on the target and pulled the trigger lever. So after some practice, it was easy for the shooter to settle for being a good shot – rather than an excellent one. And most people did settle for that.

On the other hand, the longbow was an Instinctive weapon and an archer had m practise over and over again to achieve any level of proficiency and consistency. For the Rangers, there was an almost mystic union with the bow.

A Ranger never stopped practising. 'Good' wasn't good enough. Excellence was the standard they sought. To shoot a longbow well, the archer had to be dedicated and determined. And once you shot it well, it was merely a matter of application before you became an excellent shot.

A good shot versus an expert shot. That was what it boiled down to. Had they been fighting over a range of fifty metres or less, he would have called the odds even. At a little over one hundred metres, with the resulting smaller margin for error, he felt he had the edge.

There was another factor. Genovesans were, by trade, assassins, not warriors. They were not used to a target that was shooting back at them. They were more accustomed to shooting at an unsuspecting victim from a well-hidden position. Will knew from experience that nothing could affect accuracy or the need to remain calm like the prospect of being shot oneself.

So he stood now, with a half smile on his face, confident in his own ability, staring down the field at the figure in purple facing him.

He saw the trumpeter raise his instrument and laid the single arrow on his bowstring. Then he focused totally on the dull purple shape a hundred metres away. The trumpet sound split the air and Will raised his bow, drawing back on the string as he did so.

There was no need to hurry. He saw the bow coming up in the foreground of his sighting picture, with the purple figure that was his target behind it. He didn't sight down the arrow or concentrate on any one aspect of the picture. He needed to see it all to estimate elevation, windage and release.

His rhythm was set, his breathing smooth and even. He took a breath, then, fractionally before he felt his right forefinger touch the corner of his mouth, he released half of it. It was an automatic co-ordination of the two separate actions and he wasn't aware that it had happened. But he saw the sight picture and it was good. Every element was in its correct correlation. Bow, arrow head and target all formed one complete entity.

And as he saw it and sensed that it was right he realised, without knowing how, that at the last moment, the Genovesan would try to avoid his arrow. It would only be a small movement – a half step or a sway of the body. But he would do it. Will swung his aim to a point half a metre to his right.

And released – smoothly and without jerking.

He made sure that he held the sighting picture steady after he released, not succumbing to the temptation to drop the bow, but following through with it still in position.

Something flashed by his head, a metre or so to his left. He heard a wicked hiss as it passed and he registered the fact that the Genovesan had shot before he did. And now, as he finally lowered the bow, he saw the fractional movement from the other man as he took a half-step to the left – directly into the path of Will's speeding arrow.

The purple figure jerked suddenly, stumbled a few paces and then fell face up on the grass.

The crowd erupted. Some of them had seen the slight movement the Genovesan had made. They wondered if the Araluan had allowed for it or if it was a lucky mistake. Whichever way it was, the result was a popular one. As Will walked slowly back down the field, the crowd cheered themselves hoarse, on both sides.

He glanced to his left and saw the thickset white-robed figure slumped back against his cushions, obviously in the depths of defeat.

So much for you, he thought. Then, at ground level on the opposite side, his attention focused on Halt and Horace and he grinned tiredly at them.

'What happened? What happened? Is he all right?' Horace, still unable to see clearly, was in a frenzy of worry. Halt patted his arm.

'He's fine. He's just fine.' He shook his head and sank down onto the bench. The tension of watching his two young friends risk their lives in one afternoon was almost too much.

'I am definitely getting too old for this,' he said softly. But at the same time, he felt a deep swelling of pride at the way Horace and Will had conducted themselves. He rose as Will reached them and, without a word, stepped forward to embrace his former apprentice. Horace was busy pumping Will's hand and slapping his back and they were soon surrounded by well-wishers trying to do the same. Finally, Halt released him and stepped back.

Just as well you got to the tent in time to save that glass of drugged water,' he said. Will grinned, a little shamefaced.

'Actually, I didn't. I only just made it before he did. I had no time to get to the jug. I sent the ice vendor to fill the tumbler with any water he could find. I figured our Genovesan friend wouldn't take the chance on drinking it.'

A delighted smile began to spread over Halt's face as he realised the bluff Will had pulled off. But it faded as they heard an urgent shout from the royal enclosure.

'The King! The King is dead!'

Leading Horace, they fought their way through the surging crowd as people tried to move closer to get a better view. Sean saw them coming and signalled for them to move to the front of the stand, where he leaned down and helped haul them up onto the raised platform.

'What happened?' asked Halt.

Wordlessly, Sean gestured for them to take a closer look. Ferris was in his throne, a surprised expression on his face, his eyes wide open. Finally, the royal steward found his voice.

'I don't know. Nobody saw it in all the excitement of the duel. When I looked back, there he was, dead. Perhaps it's a stroke or a heart attack.'

But Halt was shaking his head. Gently, he tried to move the King forward and felt resistance. Peering behind the throne, he saw the flights of the crossbow quarrel protruding from the thin wood. The missile had gone through the back of the chair and into Ferris's back, killing him instantly, pinning him to the chair.

'Tennyson!' he said and dashed to the front of the enclosure, where he could see the opposite stands.

There was a heavyset figure still in the main seat. But it wasn't Tennyson. It was one of his followers, who bore a passing resemblance to the fake priest of Alseiass.

Tennyson, along with the two remaining Genovesans and half a dozen of his closest followers, was nowhere to be seen.