eat?”
“That’s simple,” I said pretending to know. I did not want Terric to think any less of me. Over the past weeks I had talked with him almost every night and looked up to him more and more by the day. Observing the leaves I thought carefully. The rough edges appeared less edible than the soft ones, so I grabbed the latter from his hand ready to put it in my mouth.
His hand shot out and stopped my arm. “Foolish naïve kids. That’s what all of you still are. It’s time to separate the men from the boys,” he looked at me and ripped the leave from my hand. “You my friend might have just died. In a matter of three minutes the poison would have paralyzed your nerves, leaving you immobile and permanently disabled.” Terric tossed the leaves back on the table, turning towards the other observers, “All of you can keep talking and dreaming about life in the city, or you can pay attention and actually make it back. The choice is yours. Just don’t let me be the one that has to pick up your dead bodies from the forest floor when you chose the wrong berries to eat.” He paused, “I am done here. I will see you all tomorrow.” Without another word Terric walked out of the common-hall, leaving me in front of the crowd ashamed.
The sun had reached its peak. It was the only time when the sun’s rays eliminated the sickening cold of winter. Inside the city it was cold too, but we hardly spent half as much time outside as in the Guard. Peter, Nigel, and I briskly made our way to the shooting range located in the training complex facing the outer wall. Around thirty bales of straw were lined up along the wall, which was covered with arrow marks. Each bale was decorated by a red circle with a black dot at its center. As we picked up our bows some thirty to forty yards from the targets, the recruits went quiet.
Master Yorick entered the range behind us with his powerful dark presence. He was a man as agile as a snake and yet as strong as a dragon. It was hard to tell his age as his white head was shaved bald with nothing but a scar above his right eye. The only indicator was a short dark beard at the chin that had begun to grey.
“Raise and aim!” he ordered without any introduction. With my left arm stretched, I held the bow out in front of me, aiming the arrow an inch above the target.
“Draw!” Yorick yelled, passing the ranks to check for proper form.
“Fire!” In almost perfect unison, the score of arrows flew off like the sound of a straw catching fire.
“That was awful, let’s try that again,” Yorick said glancing at the arrow spiked wall, “Raise!”
It was a tiring yet meditative routine. Both focus and strength had to be intertwined. There was no space for frustration because any negative emotion guaranteed one to miss the next arrow as well. In order to hit I had to visualize the arrow striking its target before it was even released. To complete the day’s training we had to pierce three consecutive arrows into the black center.
After hours of practice I came to understand that using a bow was both an art and a science. A lot of it was just talent and feeling. Whenever we all missed our targets, Yorick would pull out a bow and spike a target with three arrows, dead center, in less than five seconds. He didn’t aim, he didn’t measure, he didn’t wait. He just knew his bow and had an unparalleled control over it.
I on the other hand, who lacked any sort of talent at this point, had to compensate with science. After every shot I remembered the location of the arrow tip and noted how far I drew the bowstring. Once I had hit the target it was a mere labor of exact repetition. Certainly, if an enemy had been there I would not have stood a chance, but at the very least it helped me gain a feeling for the distance.
After around ten rotations of three shots, I finally nailed all three into the red center. Yorick glanced over to check for completions and lifted his thumb, “Well done,
“That’s simple,” I said pretending to know. I did not want Terric to think any less of me. Over the past weeks I had talked with him almost every night and looked up to him more and more by the day. Observing the leaves I thought carefully. The rough edges appeared less edible than the soft ones, so I grabbed the latter from his hand ready to put it in my mouth.
His hand shot out and stopped my arm. “Foolish naïve kids. That’s what all of you still are. It’s time to separate the men from the boys,” he looked at me and ripped the leave from my hand. “You my friend might have just died. In a matter of three minutes the poison would have paralyzed your nerves, leaving you immobile and permanently disabled.” Terric tossed the leaves back on the table, turning towards the other observers, “All of you can keep talking and dreaming about life in the city, or you can pay attention and actually make it back. The choice is yours. Just don’t let me be the one that has to pick up your dead bodies from the forest floor when you chose the wrong berries to eat.” He paused, “I am done here. I will see you all tomorrow.” Without another word Terric walked out of the common-hall, leaving me in front of the crowd ashamed.
The sun had reached its peak. It was the only time when the sun’s rays eliminated the sickening cold of winter. Inside the city it was cold too, but we hardly spent half as much time outside as in the Guard. Peter, Nigel, and I briskly made our way to the shooting range located in the training complex facing the outer wall. Around thirty bales of straw were lined up along the wall, which was covered with arrow marks. Each bale was decorated by a red circle with a black dot at its center. As we picked up our bows some thirty to forty yards from the targets, the recruits went quiet.
Master Yorick entered the range behind us with his powerful dark presence. He was a man as agile as a snake and yet as strong as a dragon. It was hard to tell his age as his white head was shaved bald with nothing but a scar above his right eye. The only indicator was a short dark beard at the chin that had begun to grey.
“Raise and aim!” he ordered without any introduction. With my left arm stretched, I held the bow out in front of me, aiming the arrow an inch above the target.
“Draw!” Yorick yelled, passing the ranks to check for proper form.
“Fire!” In almost perfect unison, the score of arrows flew off like the sound of a straw catching fire.
“That was awful, let’s try that again,” Yorick said glancing at the arrow spiked wall, “Raise!”
It was a tiring yet meditative routine. Both focus and strength had to be intertwined. There was no space for frustration because any negative emotion guaranteed one to miss the next arrow as well. In order to hit I had to visualize the arrow striking its target before it was even released. To complete the day’s training we had to pierce three consecutive arrows into the black center.
After hours of practice I came to understand that using a bow was both an art and a science. A lot of it was just talent and feeling. Whenever we all missed our targets, Yorick would pull out a bow and spike a target with three arrows, dead center, in less than five seconds. He didn’t aim, he didn’t measure, he didn’t wait. He just knew his bow and had an unparalleled control over it.
I on the other hand, who lacked any sort of talent at this point, had to compensate with science. After every shot I remembered the location of the arrow tip and noted how far I drew the bowstring. Once I had hit the target it was a mere labor of exact repetition. Certainly, if an enemy had been there I would not have stood a chance, but at the very least it helped me gain a feeling for the distance.
After around ten rotations of three shots, I finally nailed all three into the red center. Yorick glanced over to check for completions and lifted his thumb, “Well done,
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