"You did it, Daile!" the tall man standing next to her cried excitedly. "That target is three hundred feet away if it's a step." The man was a lean, rangy fellow, handsome despite a somewhat weathered appearance. The red-gold of his neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair was shot with gray, and long years of trekking in the outdoors had tanned his face like leather. But he was still obviously a hale man.
"I had a little help from the bow," Daile said, smoothing her thumb along the well-polished arc of wood.
Ren had made the bow for her over the summer. It was a long, diligent process. First he had searched the forest for the right sapling, one in which he could see the natural shape of a bow. Then he had stripped its bark, split it, and soaked the wood in water before shaping it into a long graceful arc and curing it over a slow fire. Ren had carved many bows in his life, but this time he added one different step.
For several nights he sat up late, smoothing the pale wood of the bow with two small dark stones. They were ioun stones, and magical in nature. Usually he kept them in the hilts of the daggers he wore in his boots. As he polished with the ioun stones, the bow took on a deep, vibrant luster. Finally, he could feel the weapon humming in his hands, and he knew it was ready.
He gave the bow to Daile for her birthday. Instantly she had realized there was something unique about the weapon. Once she began using it, she found she could aim more accurately and shoot farther than she had ever dreamed possible.
"A bow is only as good as the archer using it," Ren noted with a wolfish smile. "I imagine the next orcs who wander into the valley are going to be surprised when they find arrows sticking out of their throats with no archers in sight." He laughed loudly at that, slapping his leather leggings.
"That is, if you leave any orcs for me, Father," Daile replied. She knew her father all too well. Orcs that wandered within a dozen leagues of him seemed to have a difficult time keeping their heads attached to their bodies.
"Humor an old man, Daile. Killing orcs is my only real fun these days."
She sighed dramatically, as if making a terribly great sacrifice. "Oh, very well, Father. You can behead the orcs, if you absolutely must." She smiled mischievously. "But the kobolds are mine."
The man snorted. "Selfish child." He laughed deeply. "You're my daughter, all right."
"Whether you like it or not," Daile answered. She gathered their possessions into a leather pack, then slung the pack over a shoulder. She and Ren often went out on all-day sojourns through the woodland and heath of the Valley of the Falls. It gave her a chance to practice her forest skills. And though her father never said so, she knew these wanderings also gave him the opportunity to tramp and explore the land he loved.
"Let's head home," she said, plunging into a grove of ghost-pale aspens. "I'll make supper."
"What are you cooking tonight?" Ren asked.
"Orc stew."
He made a gagging sound. "You're joking."
Daile didn't answer.
"Please say you're joking, Daile." His voice was a trifle desperate this time.
Daile only a hummed a cheerful ditty, deftly picking her way along a faint forest trail that would have been invisible to an untrained eye. All Ren could do was shake his head and follow, grumbling under his breath something about where he must have gone wrong rearing his troublesome daughter.
Leading the way up the forested slope, Daile emerged from the autumn-colored forest, finding herself on the high, rocky crest of granite that Ren affectionately dubbed Dead Orc Ridge. The ridge bounded the west side of the Valley of the Falls, the valley that had been Daile's home for all eighteen years of her life. She paused, surveying the patchwork of forest and glade below. The valley was a deep, steep-sided bowl, carved long ago out of the rock by a glacier. Running through the valley's center was the narrow gorge where Daile liked to practice her archery skills. The stream had its source in a waterfall that tumbled down a sheer, thousand-foot cliff at the valley's north end.
Daile cocked her head. Even now she could hear the ceaseless roar of the waterfall, though soon its voice would be silenced by the freezing breath of winter. Not that Daile minded. Winter might give her and her father the chance to do some ice-climbing, making their way up the frozen falls with naught but two ice picks, some iron pitons, and a rope. If she could coax her father along on such an adventure, that is.
"I was beginning to think I'd lost you," she said cheerily, as Ren finally appeared out of the woods, scrambling up the scree to the ridgetop, his chest heaving. He was sweating despite the cold air sharp with the scent of snow.
"You know, you're really not as amusing as you think you are, Daile," Ren observed acidly. He sank to a boulder and accepted the leather waterskin his daughter handed him. "Just wait until old age creeps up on you. I imagine you won't find life quite so funny."
Daile frowned, chewing her lip. These last two years she had noticed a gradual, disturbing change in Ren. And it wasn't that his hair was a little grayer or that he was more cantankerous because his joints were stiff in the morning. After all, he had been gray and cantankerous for years. It was as if, one day, he had suddenly decided that he was old. Once he did, all of the aches and pains that had never bothered him before suddenly combined to slow him down. Unfortunately, Daile could guess at the reason for the shift in her father's outlook. The change had begun not long after the two of them had laid a beautiful, pale-haired druidess within a cairn of cold gray stone beside the waterfall.
"You're not all that old, Father," Daile said firmly.
"It's not polite to argue with your elders, young lady," Ren countered. But he laughed then, his old, devilish laugh, and Daile couldn't help but join in. He held out a hand, and she pulled him up off the rock with a grunt. Then the two began picking their way swiftly across the jagged top of Dead Orc Ridge. A league south of the waterfall they plunged back down into the forest, heading for the small clearing where their dwelling stood.
Ren took the lead now. They were nearly home when a faint sound brought Daile to a halt. She scanned the shadows among the towering spruces and lodgepole pines. Some instinct made her unsling her bow. Quietly but swiftly, she nocked an arrow.
Something stirred in the dimness between the trees. She caught two brief flashes of emerald. Eyes. Something was stalking them, drawing closer. Holding her breath, she raised the bow. "Seek the heart, bow," she whispered to the weapon. A faint quivering of the polished wood told her that the bow understood her words.
Suddenly, her stalker separated itself from the shadows of the forest. It was a great cat, its powerful muscles rippling under its tawny coat. Its maw was slightly open, revealing dagger-length canines, its eyes showing green fire.
Daile did not hesitate. She drew the arrow to her cheek and aimed. The animal snarled, tensing for a leap.
"No!" a voice shouted.
Just as Daile released her grip on the bowstring, a hand struck her bow, knocking the weapon aside. The arrow went wild, sinking into the trunk of a dead lodgepole with a thunk. The cat froze in reaction.
"Father, what are you doing?" she exclaimed.