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The masked archer named Oliver was striding away from his stall, bow slung across his back. He didn’t look in my direction.
Bristling, I moved on as the rest of the archers finished their stage. Half of them were disqualified for missing the time or target, and they walked off grumbling.
Fewer than forty participants remained.
The rest of the day went by in a whirlwind. The next hour, I was tasked with clout shooting, which involved shooting at a thin, flagged stick planted in the ground.
The archers who shot closest to the clout won the event. It wasn’t that the stick was hard to hit—obviously it was—or even that far away. It was that your shooting had to be precise to land near it.
Luckily, mine was close, thudding into the damp ground mere inches from the mark.
Three others were closer, however, as noted by the fletching on the arrows.
One of them belonged to Oliver of Mickley.
At that point, I grew frustrated. Sir Guy of Gisborne, I thought. This masked man was tall and thin like Guy. The hood hid his long black hair. The Merry Men had warned me the Sheriff would likely pull an underhanded maneuver to try and win the tournament of his own making. Thus entering his expert marksman lackey and hiding his face so he didn’t get complaints.
It seemed unfair.
Then I thought, Is it unfair, though? Guy has just as much of a right as I do to be here. More, even, because I’m not even a man.
If he’s truly the best archer, then I have to beat him. There’s no point getting bent about it. I have to beat the competition to win the coins, whether it’s Sir Guy or someone else.
When I started thinking of Guy as a rival rather than an enemy, it brought my pulse down. My blood stopped pumping so furiously in my veins. My shots flowed easier out of my grip.
The third section of the competition, after morning, was moving targets. The sun had finally pushed through the clouds, though it was still a cool afternoon.
I had practiced this one for hours and knew what to do. Alan-a-Dale had been lifesaving while assisting me.
Here, I didn’t have Alan to toss the birds into the sky, or roll the disks along the ground.
I took my own advice when I’d told Alan to “lead the target,” and whizzed arrows from my quiver one by one. I fired rapidly both up high and down low, angling my shots just right, and then popping up to strike the next target as it fluttered into the sky.
I only missed two targets out of fifteen—the furthest ones, which were difficult for my shortbow to reach.
When I smacked the final rolling disk across the grass, a roar of applause sounded behind me. It had been incredibly quiet up until then, with everyone holding their collective breath.
Now that the stage was over, the spectators let loose.
I even turned around and gave a small bow, proud with how I’d done. This third event halved the competition again, leaving fewer than ten finalists left.
I was one of them.
Oliver of Mickley, of course, had missed only one target.
I didn’t let it rattle me.
I had one last chance to overtake him—the fourth and final stage. The most important bout of all.
I dashed through the woods, hopping over a gnarled root, my eyes darting in every direction. My breath came shallow, puffs of white lifting from my nostrils and mouth as I breathed.
“Time!” yelled the sprinting man behind me, which meant my time had just started—there was a target somewhere and—
There!
I aimed left, angled my bow flatways and fired off a shot into the trees.
The circular target, which was positioned oddly as it poked up from a branch, rattled and shook.
