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Surprisingly, it wasn’t Oliver. It was one of the other archers who had qualified for the final round.
“Hoy!” I shouted.
He turned his head to face me, a scared look in his eyes. He couldn’t focus on me, eyes darting.
“Disqualified!” the timer-man shrieked—
Just as an arrow plunged into the archer’s shoulder.
He spun away from me with a growl of rage, and staggered forward.
Another arrow took him in the chest, stopping him cold. He dropped with a choked sound, blood spraying the grass underfoot.
I backpedaled, real fear clawing at my stomach. The bow in my hands trembled.
There were no guards this far out in the woods. No one except me, the timer-man, and whoever had shot this fellow.
Once he dropped, a man appeared from a bush, rising from his knees. He scowled at me and the timer-man. I recognized his face from other parts of the competition, yet I’d never seen him before this day.
“Disqualified!” the timer-man yelled again, pointing a shaking finger at him.
“You think I give a shit?” The man grunted, nodding his chin toward the fallen competitor. “Should’a never stolen my lady, Heath. Bastard had it coming.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the trees.
Blinking, I muttered, “Should have never . . . what?”
And it hit me. These two men had known each other. This one had entered the tournament knowing the other would be here. These two men didn’t come here to win the money . . . they came here to finish a blood feud.
The fourth section of the tournament was the perfect grounds for an assassination attempt: secluded, quiet, and away from prying eyes.
Dread curled along my spine. The stakes had become much higher, because if Oliver of Mickley really was Guy of Gisborne . . . what was stopping him from doing the same thing to me once I pushed through those trees ahead?
The final glade was only a stone’s throw away. I could have turned around, handed my bow to the timer-man, and given up.
Yet I didn’t. I was too stubborn, too angry, and, honestly, too curious. And I wanted to fucking win.
The timer-man said, “Will you continue, lad?”
“Yes!” I yelled, gripping my bow tightly. “We’re the only witnesses to his murder, sir. We have to keep going.”
“Very well.” He poked his gaunt cheek with his tongue, narrowing his eyes on me. “. . . Your voice,” he began to say.
I turned and sprinted off toward the final staging area. In my belligerence, I hadn’t masked my voice with the gruff undertones I was used to while disguising myself as a man.
The timer-man was onto me.
I raced through the trees, dashed over a small stream, a bundle of thick roots, and into the clearing ahead.
The killer was there, looking around in frustration. “Where the fuck is it?!” he growled, searching for the final target, ignoring his disqualification.
He had come in at the wrong angle. Where I was, I could already see it—just overhead about thirty paces, atop a small hillock, jutting out from the side of a birch tree. It was angled at a difficult position.
I needed to get to it before the killer knew I knew where it was. Otherwise I feared the same fate for myself as Heath.
He paid me no mind, even as the timer-man yelled, “Time!” and went to speak to him, likely to admonish him.
The murderer shoved the timer-man out of the way, saying, “Later, old man. For now—”
