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His eyes turned to me, narrowing. I danced around, hopping, scanning the land-bridge that went over the small creek, and the oak tree past it. Pretending that the target was anywhere but where I knew it to be.
Fuck it, I thought, my skin crawling when the killer studied me. I steeled myself. He started to say something, and I made a mad dash past him.
He reached out to grab me—
I ducked, veering past him toward the hill.
He yelled, “Shit!” and gave chase, undoubtedly spotting the target at last.
I drew my bow. My body trembled with nerves. I knew I’d have to take the shot on the run if I wanted to have any chance of beating this taller, meaner man.
It was a difficult shot on the best of days. With a thin fog starting to roll through the trees, it was nearly impossible.
I aimed anyway. While running. Heart pumping.
The man had stopped chasing, opting to try a stationary shot from a further distance.
My first shot blew wide, and I cursed under my breath. The killer’s shot was far wider, and he yelled in frustration.
I fumbled with the quiver on my back, telling myself I had this. I had this.
Can’t let them down!
I slowed as I reached the base of the hill. The angle of the target was hanging from the branch, and I craned my neck, closed one eye, and took aim.
I loosed my arrow—
Holding my breath, gauging the trajectory, knowing it was going to hit—
And an arrow from the side slammed into the center of the target a heartbeat before mine landed.
I froze, mouth falling open. Wheeled around, but found the killer was still struggling with his shot, still nocking his arrow.
It wasn’t him.
I scanned left, to something out the corner of my eye—
And saw the masked bastard, Oliver of Mickley, perched on a tall rock, bow extended in a masterful stance. He lowered it, glancing my way for the first time.
He gave me a tiny nod.
“Score!” the timer-man screeched behind me. “Oliver of Mickley first, Robert of Loxley second. Victor of the roving marks: Oliver of Mickley!”
My upper lip peeled back in a snarl.
Oliver hopped off the rock and started to walk away. Behind me, the killer cursed and also wandered away, back into the trees, likely to never be seen again.
Nausea flooded through me. I had lost. Let the Merry Men down, when I promised I wouldn’t.
They had trusted me, and I’d failed.
I chased after Oliver, into the trees. “You!”
There was rustling behind me as the timer-man jogged to keep up—likely to make sure we didn’t come to blows or end up like poor Heath.
Oliver didn’t stop. If anything, his stride quickened.
“Just who in God’s name are you, Oliver?!” I shrieked. I wasn’t trying to use my comical manly voice any longer. There was no point hiding myself. I had lost.
