The next event was one of Kebra's favourites. He had always enjoyed the Horse, for it was the closest the tourney could offer to combat shooting. Led by running soldiers four ponies bearing figures of straw tied to the saddle, would pass before the bowmen. Each archer was allowed three shafts. There was a larger element of luck in this event, as the horses would swerve, causing the straw figures to sway in the saddle. But the crowd loved it. And so did the Drenai champion.
Kebra stood waiting, one shaft notched to the string, two others stuck in the ground before him. He glanced at the four ostlers, watching them eke out the guide ropes. A trumpet sounded. The men ran forward, exhorting the ponies to follow them. Three obeyed immediately, the fourth hanging back. Kebra drew back on the string, sighting carefully, allowing for the speed of the first horse. He loosed the shaft. Without waiting to see it strike home he ducked down and notched a second arrow. Coming up smoothly he shot again at the second target. An angry roar went up from the crowd. Kebra ignored the impulse to see what had caused it and brought his bow to bear. The last pony, an arrow jutting from its flank had reared up and was fighting the rope. It broke loose and galloped towards the king's pavilion. Kebra loosed his last shaft, and watched as it arced towards the panic-stricken pony. The arrow punched home in the back of the straw man.
Angry jeers turned to a roar of applause at the strike. Several men ran out onto the meadow and gathered the wounded pony, which was led away. The man whose arrow caused the wound was disqualified.
Only then did Kebra have a chance to check his score. All three shafts had scored. Another thirty points.
The Ventrian archer, a small, chubby man, turned to him. 'It is an honour to see you shoot,' he said. He held out his hand. 'I am Dirais.' Kebra accepted the handshake. He glanced at the scoreboard, held aloft by a young cadet. The Ventrian was ten points behind him. The other archer, a slim, young Drenai, was a further twenty points adrift.
A dozen soldiers moved out onto the meadow, dragging a wheeled, triangular scaffold, 2.0 feet high, across the grass. As they were setting it into place Kebra saw the king and Malikada striding out from the pavilion, coming towards them.
Skanda gave a wide grin and clapped Kebra on the shoulder. 'Good to see you, old lad,' he said. 'That last shot reminded me of the day you saved my life. A fine strike.'
'Thank you, sire,' said Kebra, with a bow. Malikada stepped forward.
'Your legend is not exaggerated,' he said. 'Rarely have I seen better bowmanship.' Kebra bowed again. Skanda shook the young Ventrian's hand.
'You are competing with the finest,' he told Dirais. 'And you are acquitting yourself well. Good luck to you.' Dirais gave a deep bow.
Malikada leaned in close to the Ventrian. 'Win,' he said. 'Make me proud.'
The king and his general moved back and the last three archers faced the Hanging Man.
A figure of straw was hung from the scaffold. A soldier dragged the figure back, then released it to swing like a pendulum between the supports. The young Drenai stepped up first. His first shaft struck the straw man dead centre, but his second hit a support pole and glanced away. His third missed the Hanging Man by a whisker.
Next came Dirais, and the Hanging Man was swung back once more. It seemed to Kebra that it was given an extra push by the Drenai soldiers, and was moving at greater speed. And the Drenai soldiers in the crowd began again to jeer and shout in an effort to unsettle the Ventrian. Even so the chubby archer hammered his first two shafts into the dummy. His third also struck a support pole.
Kebra stepped up. The figure was swung again, this time more sedately. For the first time anger flared in the bowman. He did not need this advantage. Even so he did not complain, and, calming himself, sent three arrows into the target. The applause was thunderous. He glanced towards Dirais, and saw the fury in the man's dark eyes. It was bad enough for him to be facing the Drenai champion without such partisan efforts from the officials.
The young Drenai archer was eliminated, and now came the final test. Two targets were set up thirty paces distant. They were the traditional round targets, with a series of concentric circles, each of a different colour, surrounding a gold circle at the centre. The outer rim was white, and worth two points. Within this was blue, worth five, then silver worth seven, and lastly gold for ten.
Kebra shot first, and struck gold. Dirais equalled him. The targets were moved back ten paces. This time Kebra only managed blue. Dirais, despite the increased jeering struck gold once more.
With only two shafts left Kebra was leading by 175 points to 160. Keep calm, he told himself. The targets were lifted and carried back another ten paces. The colours were a distant blur to Kebra now. He squinted hard and drew back on the string. The crowd was silent. He loosed, the shaft arcing gracefully through the air to thud home into the white. There were no cheers from the crowd now. Dirais took aim and struck gold once more — 177 points to 170, with only one shaft left.
The targets were moved back again. Kebra could only dimly make out the outline. He rubbed his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath he took aim at the target he could barely see — and let fly! He did not know where the shaft landed, but heard one of the judges shout: 'White!' He
was relieved to have hit the target at all — 179 points to 170.
Dirais would need gold to win. Kebra stepped back. The crowd were shouting now at the top of their voices.
Please miss, thought Kebra, wanting the championship more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. His chest felt tight and heavy, and his breathing was shallow. He glanced at the crowd, and saw Nogusta. Kebra tried to force a smile, but it was more like a death's head grin.
Dirais stood up to the mark, and drew back on the string. He stood, rock steady. Kebra's heart was pounding now. What were the odds on a man striking three golds in a row? A minor fluctuation in the breeze, a slight imperfection in the shaft or the flights. The gold was no bigger than a man's fist, and the distance was great: sixty paces. During his best days Kebra would have hit only four in five at this distance. And this Ventrian was not as skilled as I once was, he thought. What, three in five? Two in five? Sweet Heaven, just miss!
Just as Dirais was about to loose his final shaft a white dove flew up out of the crowd in a frantic flurry. His concentration momentarily lost he shot too quickly, his arrow punching home into silver. Kebra had won.
Strangely there was no joy. The crowd was cheering wildly but Kebra looked at Nogusta. The black man was standing very still. Dirais turned away, offering no congratulation. Kebra took him by the arm. 'Wait!' he commanded him.
'For what?' asked the Ventrian.
'I want you to shoot again.' Dirais looked puzzled, but Kebra drew him to the line.
'What is happening here?' asked one of the judges.
'Someone released that dove deliberately,' said Kebra. 'I have asked Dirais to shoot again.'
'You cannot ask this,' said the judge. 'The last shaft has been fired.' The king moved through the crowd, and the judge explained what had happened. Skanda approached Kebra.
'Are you sure this is what you want?' he asked, his good humour vanished, his face hard and cold. 'It makes no sense.'
'I have been champion for fifteen years, sire. I have beaten every man who stood beside me at the line. I beat them with skill. The jeering was unpleasant, but a true champion rises above that. The dove, however, is a different matter. Such a sharp and flurried movement would have unsettled anyone. It was a deliberate act to sabotage the man's chances. And it succeeded. I ask you, sire, to let him shoot again.'
Suddenly Skanda grinned, and for a moment he looked like the boy-king again. 'Then let it be so,' he said.