He is positively aglow. This is the end to which he has dedicated his life.
Momentarily, I wonder what we will really do if by some chance we are the victors in this encounter. Will we beach the Vengeful D. and haul our treasures ashore as we have always said? But where? We must be known and wanted in every kingdom and city-state fronting the western ocean.
Four hundred yards. The phantom seems a little hazy, a little undefined. For a moment I suspect my eyes. But, no. It's true. There is an aura of the enchanted about her.
There would be, wouldn't there?
Three fifty. Three hundred yards. I could let fly now, but it does not feel right.
There is something strange about the reever, something I cannot put my finger on.
Two fifty. The crew are getting nervous. All eyes are on me now. Two hundred. I cannot wait any longer. He won't.
I loose.
As does he, at virtually the same instant.
His shaft moans past my ear, knicking it, drawing a drop of blood. I stoop for another, cursing. I missed too.
The butterflies have grown as big as falcons. I send a second arrow, and so does he. And we both miss, by a wider margin.
Does he have the shakes too? He is supposed to be above that, is supposed to be far better than he has shown. The Phantom has never met a foe she needed fear.
But she has never met us. Perhaps fear is why we have never been able to track her down. Perhaps she has heard how terrible her stalkers can be.
One fifty. I miss twice more. Now it has become a matter of pride. He can miss forever, so far as I'm concerned, but I've got a reputation to uphold and a nervous crew to reassure.
Another miss. And another. Damned! What is wrong with me?
Student's mocking grin comes haunting. I frown. Why now?
One hundred yards. Toe to toe. And I'm down to just one arrow. Might as well kiss it all good-by. We have lost. This feckless blue and white will miss by a mile.
But a dead calm comes over me. Disregarding my opponent, who, I suppose, has been toying with me, I ready the shot with tournament care.
It goes.
A thunderbolt strikes me in the chest. The bow slides from my fingers. The crew moan. I clutch the arrow...
A blue and white arrow.
I can hear Student laughing now. And, with blood dribbling from the corners of my mouth, I grin back. So that's his secret.
It's a good one. A cosmic joke. The sort that sets the gods laughing till their bellies ache and then, ever after, when they remember, is good for a snicker.
My opponent falls as I fall. I wind up seated with my back against the rail, watching as the grapnels fly, as the ships come together, as the faces of the men portray a Hell's gallery of reactions.
I suppose we'll drift at the heart of this circular mile forever, tied to ourselves, to our sins.
It's too late for redemption now.