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The arrow sunk just a bit to the right of center. It was a good shot and he grinned with satisfaction.
“How the bloody hell do ye do it?” Brock asked shaking his head. Brock’s arrow had missed the center altogether.
“Study the wind flow,” Caelan said preparing to shoot a second time. “Every archer knows that.”
Brock walked closer to him and glowered. “I know that. Just made a comment that’s all.”
Unable to keep from it, Caelan laughed. “Ye need to breathe, then.”
His friend shrugged, his wide shoulders moving up and down as he went back to his spot. Caelan admired the man’s ability to remain in good spirits. If it wasn’t that Brock very obviously preferred women, Caelan would have liked to pursue more than just a friendship. He was however very glad to have Brock as a close friend.
Sensing something, he turned to where Lachland and Struan had been. Struan had gone to speak to an archer, whilst Lachland remained rooted to the spot. He met Caelan’s gaze for an instant. The man looked to Brock and then his right eyebrow lifted in question.
Caelan pretended not to notice. He wasn’t going to give the idiot the satisfaction of a reply. If he wished to know something, he could ask. Not that it was any of Lachland’s business what he did.
When he’d shot his last arrow, Lachland walked over and after ensuring everyone else was done, motioned to Caelan to walk to the target with him.
It was annoying that his stomach tightened when he went closer, and they moved to the target. Lachland met his gaze. “Ye are a bit off.”
Caelan looked over to the other archers. “I shot the best. I am the best archer of the four.”
“Ye were very good from what I remember,” The double meaning of the comment brought memories of Lachland’s breath on the back of his neck, of the warmth of his lips on his nape.
He blew out a breath and met Lachland’s gaze. “Why are ye judging and not throwing?”
“What do ye think?” Brock walked up and motioned to his target. “I may just beat ye, Caelan.”
Lachland ignored Brock for a long moment, his gaze flitting between them. Finally, he turned to Brock’s target.
The one arrow had missed the center altogether, but the other two were right next to each other just to the right of the center.
“If ye study the wind before shooting, then aye, ye have a good chance,” Lachland replied.
As Lachland walked past to go speak to another archer, he bumped Caelan’s shoulder hard. “Prepare to shoot again.”
Brock’s eyebrows rose. “Ye best hope it’s not up to him who wins if things get close. He’s not forgotten the time ye and he fought.”
“He’s a ripe bastard,” Caelan replied yanking the arrows from the target. “Aye, he will nae be fair to me.”
After shooting another three, this time Struan was the one who walked up to the target and discussed their aims. Caelan admired the man, more than most of the guard. Struan was a strong and fair leader whom he’d served with for many years. Now Struan lived with his wife near Taernsby, still serving as head archer for the laird.
“The laird will arrive in the morn,” Struan informed the archers who gathered. Lachland was noticeably missing. “Once the competition starts, do yer best. This is an opportunity to make yerself known, to allow the laird to gauge yer capabilities for who will be chosen for head archers in the future.”
The men murmured in agreeance. Then they were dismissed to rest and watch the others compete.
The ax throwers were also done, giving room for those who wished to practice with the stone throw, battle ax and wrestling.
Those competing in the caber toss did not practice, choosing to save their energy for the next day instead. It was a wise idea.
Caelan went to the guard house, ate and then found his mount. He rode the horse to the seashore and dismounted. The salty air combined with the soothing sounds of the waves lapping on the shore was, in his opinion, the perfect way to rest. He’d grown up on the southwestern shore of Uist, running up and down the shore as a child, hunting for imaginary treasures that had been dumped from pirate ships that he and his brother made up.
Once, when a ship had actually wrecked somewhere north of their home, they’d been delighted to find plenty of things that washed up. Their parents had joined them in the hunt, ultimately returning home exhausted but with armloads of blankets, clothes, wooden jewelry boxes and other items.
It had been one of the most enjoyable moments of his life. Now, following the trek of a small dingy as it made its way across toward where fishermen’s other boats bobbed in the water, he took in the familiar view.
Gulls flew in circles where men cleaned fish, some swooping down hoping for a morsel.
“I will judge ye fairly,” Lachland’s voice shook him. He swung around shocked to find the man so close behind.
