Darklands

“Victory.”

This set off another explosion of laughter. Rhudda picked up his longbow and hefted it. When he turned back to me, his face was serious, as hard and cold as marble.

“Victory, eh? Not for long—I promise you that. Not for long.”

AFTER I ACCEPTED HIS CHALLENGE, RHUDDA MORPHED INTO a considerate host. Well, if you could overlook the cloak of whispering beards that he never seemed to take off. Those beards served as a constant reminder of the giant’s hostile intent as he showed us our comfortable rooms and offered refreshment. I knew enough to turn down the offer of food. Dad wasn’t interested, either.

Rhudda’s castle was straight out of a fairy tale. Made of shimmering white stone, it boasted more turrets and towers than you could count. Thick walls and a moat enclosed an entire village of thatched-roof shops and houses. My room was high up in a tall, thin tower in the main building. The tiny window overlooked the village. There was a four-poster bed and an elaborately carved wooden chest. A tapestry depicting jousting knights hung on the wall.

“You are free to move about the castle and grounds. Of course, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that if you try to go beyond the outer ramparts, you may expect an arrow between your shoulder blades.”

Shoulder blades, whispered all the beards in unison. The eerie half-sound made me shiver.

“There will be a feast in your honor this evening.” He eyed my tunic and leggings. “You’ll find that chest full of more suitable attire. Is there anything else you require?”

“Yes. I need to see the archery range. And while I’m there I’ll need a longbow and a quiver of arrows.”

Rhudda inclined his head. “Certainly. I’ll have one of my men show you the way.” He shouted through the doorway, “Where are my servants? Why is no one attending me?”

Ratlike scurrying sounded in the stairwell, and two men hurried into the room. Both bowed low before Rhudda. “Lazy dolts!” he shouted, and brought down his fists on the backs of their heads. The men sprawled on the floor, facedown. One, then the other, slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Dad offered his hand to help the man nearest to him. The man looked up, and Dad gasped. I followed his gaze. A gasp escaped my lips, too.

The servant had only half a face. Everything below his nose was missing—no skin, no lips, nothing but the yellowed bone of his skull.

The other servant was the same.

“And so you see two of my vanquished foes!” Rhudda chortled. “Both were kings once, weren’t you, lads? Both donated their beards to my cloak. Let me see. Here is the beard of Nyniaw.” He flicked his finger against a coal-black patch near the cloak’s collar. Immediately that beard’s whispering rose above the others.

Many years ago in the land of Glywysing lived a king called Nyniaw. None could withstand him when he wielded his sword, or so the arrogant king believed…

“And this one”—Rhudda twisted around and brought forward a blondish patch from the back of the cloak—“once adorned the face of Peibiaw.”

He pinched the blond beard, and its whispers came forth.

Peibiaw, son of Erb, once ruled the kingdom of Ergyng. Although brave in battle, he was a greedy and foolish man…

The two stories twined around each other, tangling their words so that I couldn’t make out what either was saying.

The beards’ former owners stood silent, hands folded in front of them. A tear traced a line down Nyniaw’s upper cheek, then hung from the ridge where his skin ended.

Dad spread a hand protectively over his own beard. Above it, his wide eyes bulged from his ashen face.

Rhudda flung the blond patch back over his shoulder and shook out the cape. Other voices rose up around him in a sibilant cocoon.

“Listen well, Sir Evan,” he said to my father. “Soon your voice will join the others, relating step-by-step how your daughter failed you both. After I’ve won the archery contest, I will drain her blood. Then I will have your beard. And I will hear, over and over, all the delightful details.” Rhudda cocked his head and looked at Dad critically. “It is a scrawny beard, but it will do, I think, to patch a worn spot near the hem.”

He waved a hand, dismissing us, and turned to his servants. “You, Nyniaw, take our guests to the target range.” The first servant bowed low. “Peibiaw, fetch several bows so that Lady…Victory”—he rolled his eyes like a bratty teenager—“may choose one to her liking. And an ample supply of arrows as well. Deliver them to the range.”

The second servant also bowed. Then he turned and scurried down the spiral stairs.

“It would amuse me to watch you practice, but there are things I must attend to. I’ll see you both at supper.” He turned abruptly and went out the door. His cape whirled around him, whispers swelling. Then he was gone. My father stared after him, looking like someone who’d just seen the star he was wishing on burn out.

I WAS FURIOUS WITH MY FATHER AS WE FOLLOWED NYNIAW, the beardless former king, to the archery range. “Shortcut? You took us straight through Rhudda’s lands. You knew he’d challenge us.”

Dad sheepishly stroked his beard. “It is a shortcut. I knew you needed the arrow, and I figured we could get it on the way.”

“I’m here to stop Pryce. Everything else is secondary.”

“We would have had to rest somewhere for the night. If we get out of here tomorrow morning, we’ll make it to Tywyll in good time. Don’t worry about that.” Like I didn’t have a million other things to worry about now.

Dad fingered his chin as though making sure his beard was still there. “I expected Rhudda to challenge me. I’ve gotten pretty good with a longbow.”

“‘Pretty good with a longbow’ can’t beat a magic arrow, Dad.” Besides, I’d seen Rhudda’s skill when he’d shot at me in the forest. Even without the magic arrow, Rhudda was miles past “pretty good.”

“I’m sorry, Vic. But let’s not worry about that now. Let’s get practicing.”

Rhudda’s shooting range was in an amphitheater that stood inside the ramparts on the castle grounds’ western side. (At least, Dad said it was the western side. With no sun to orient me, I couldn’t tell one direction from another.) I stood on the grass, peering at a target a hundred yards away. One hundred yards. Three hundred feet. That would be the length of a football field. I could barely see the target, let alone aim at it.

Rhudda’s servant Peibiaw stood beside me, holding several longbows. The smallest was six feet high and must have weighed forty pounds. “That one,” I said. I hefted the bow, took its grip in my bow hand, and pulled back hard on the string. The bow bent slightly under the pressure. I let go of the string, listened to its snap and thwang. Well, I’d give it a try. I took an arrow from the quiver beside me and nocked it in the bow. I drew, feeling the strain in my arm and back as I held the heavy bow as steady as I could.

Aiming was hard. The air was still, so at least there was no wind to blow my arrows off course. Tomorrow, who knew? With my luck, a tornado would snatch up my arrow and drop it in Oz. Focus, Vicky. I returned my attention to the target. At this distance, I knew I needed to aim high to account for the arc of the arrow’s flight. But how high? I took a guess, and then moved my point of aim slightly to account for shooting right-handed. I drew, double-checked my aim, and loosed the arrow.

It sailed over the target and bounced off the stone wall behind it. Even from a hundred yards away, I could see my shot was a total miss.

Peibiaw stared toward the target with stony eyes. At least he wasn’t laughing. Or maybe he was—how would I know? But something told me Rhudda’s servants didn’t laugh much.

“Here, Vic,” said Dad. “Fix your stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, and balance your weight equally between them. You were leaning on the right. Don’t line up your body with the target; align with your point of aim.” His hands gripped my shoulders as he turned me slightly to the right. “Hold the bow so its balance point presses against the pad at the bottom of your thumb.” He adjusted the bow in my hand. “There. Try now. And this time don’t aim quite so high.”

I drew, then let the arrow go. This one flew over the target, too, although I thought the fletching might have brushed its edge. Maybe. It was hard to tell from this distance.

“Let me try,” Dad said. “Just to get a feel for it.”

I gave him my bow. He nocked an arrow and let it fly. Peibiaw handed me a spyglass so I could assess the hit. Dad’s arrow was in the black, three rings away from the gold at the target’s center. His next shot landed in the red, right at its border with the gold. Dad was better than pretty good.

“Okay,” he said. “Now I can coach you better. When you aim—”

“Why am I even doing this? You’re a way better archer than I’ll ever be. You have a chance to win this contest. I’ll screw everything up for both of us.”

“Rhudda would never accept me as a substitute. He wants to win, and he thinks you’re the weaker of the two of us.” Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. “He’s underestimating you, Vic. Let’s show him by how much.”

I nodded and nocked another arrow.

I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I PRACTICED, BUT BY THE TIME I quit, my bow arm was trembling and my shoulder and back ached. Grooves were worn deep into the fingers of my drawing hand. I was managing to hit the target consistently, but out of dozens and dozens of shots, only two arrows had hit the gold.

To have a chance, I needed to hit that gold circle each and every time.

I was in my chamber, getting dressed for Rhudda’s stupid banquet. I threw open the chest and pulled out an armful of dresses, then tossed them on the bed. Half the pile slithered to the floor. Long, medieval-style silk gowns in a garden of colors. I didn’t want to wear any of them. I didn’t want to be here.

There was no way I could win this contest. I might as well open a vein now, fill up Rhudda’s mug, and spare myself the humiliation.