Finally, what you've been waiting for! Forgive my popping around like corn kernels. I was attempting to keep the time of day in sync between the three parties. I know, I know, it's been over a year since I started posting this and only NOW are the Games actually starting. :| I honestly did not expect it to go this long. Heh heh. Anyway...enjoy, my lovelies!
~36~ A Shot of Legends
He did not sleep well that night. He was poised on the edge of what might be his destruction, his ultimate demise, and that wasn't exactly a consolatory thought to doze off to.
Will rolled from one side to the other, his arm flopping over the edge of the bed like a limp eel. His exposed back, drenched with sweat, was suddenly bumpy with gooseflesh as a cool breeze whispered in through the window. He shuddered and wrapped the blanket around himself, only to toss it aside a moment later as he felt the uncomfortable heat return. Sighing with impatience, Will sat up and rubbed his face with his hands, tussling his hair. He realized musingly that he needed to get it cut.
He pushed himself from the bed and made his way to the table in the dark, using the faint traces of moonlight as his guide. His hand brushed against the water pitcher and he grasped the handle, pouring its contents into a deep, short-necked goblet. It was tasteless on his tongue, even for water.
It was then that he realized that he was shaking. Not from cold.
He set the goblet down, his chest roiling like a knot of snakes.
He never thought he could be so desperate to hear Halt's voice again. He didn't know that it was possible to miss his friends—exhortative Gilan and loyal, dependable Horace—as much as he did now. He craved the presence of Tug, his horse, and his faithful dog Ebony. He longed for the rolling green hills and vast forestland of Araluen.
But more than anything, he desired the warm embrace of Alyss. Dear, sweet Alyss.
Will felt dampness on his face, and wiped his cheeks angrily.
I will see them again, he thought, slamming the goblet down and splashing water over his fingers. I will, if I have to tear this Arena apart brick by brick to get to them. I will get home.
Will fumbled with his belt. For some reason, the tongue refused to slip into the buckle. But when he managed to weave it through the metal frame at last, he noticed that the prong was missing.
He sighed as he realized that it was simply caught underneath the tongue – the entire belt was inside out.
Glad that there was no mentor around to laugh at him, he pulled the belt free and tried again, wondering how he had managed to do it the first place. Indeed, he wondered how he managed to slip his cloak on inside out earlier as well.
Next I'll be trying to pull a boot over my head and stuffing my toes into gloves, he scoffed in mournful derision, yanking the belt tight and slipping the prong into place, only to have to loosen it a few seconds later.
How will I handle myself in the Arena if I can't even get dressed?
He managed to pull on and tie his boots without hurting himself, and when he was done, he strapped on his quiver and his double-scabbard. He had honed both blades to perfection the previous night after the banquet, making sure they had been sharper than ever before. It made him feel safer, somehow, but at the same time, it scared him. It was as though he was actually prepared to kill in order to win. No, to survive.
You've killed before, Will scolded himself, hand tightening on the saxe hilt until his knuckles were white. How is this any different?
How, indeed.
But his concern need not lie with that. Not yet. Today was just the opening ceremonies, where the Champions would show off their skills in their respective arts. But tomorrow...
There was a light knock, and Will pulled up his hood before turning towards the open doors of his personal quarters. He only just managed to keep a straight face, not that it mattered.
"I just wanted to...wish you good luck," said Muriel Donovan, the Hibernian Champion who had tried to sneak up on Will a few days prior.
"I'm sure you did," Will said. Muriel scowled.
The Hibernian had never once taken her marauding gaze from Will the night before, when a large feast was held in the seven Champions' honour. In addition to them, there were Gladius warriors, most of large, brutish making, challengers of the Arena. The feast was treated differently by each guest – some ate like there would be no tomorrow while others, like Will and Muriel, couldn't even bring themselves to nibble a cracker.
She was peering into the depths of his hood now, but the shadows were his shield.
"Be it now or in the dying in the dirt, I will look you in the eye before I kill you," she declared now, standing tall. The Ranger shook his head morosely.
"I have no qualms with you, Muriel. No hatred. You kill me, and you're giving them exactly what they want. They can make us fight for our lives, but they cannot make us kill each other."
Muriel almost looked like she had tears in her thunder-grey eyes. Her deep red hair shimmered in the late morning light as she shook her head slowly.
"They can," she said. Will remembered her family, hidden somewhere in Hibernia.
"They won't go back all the way to your homeland to harm your family. It's too far—"
"That's all right for you to say," Muriel snapped. "You have no family."
Will felt his lip twitch, almost curling into a snarl. "You know nothing about me. Family is more than mere flesh and blood. Love is too strong to be hindered by such mortal restrictions."
Muriel snorted. "How poetic. It is just as well I was never into such graceful prose." She turned away, preparing to depart.
Will gave one last attempt. "Muriel..."
She paused, and spoke before he had a chance. "I'm sorry, Will Treaty. This is fate, and we are slaves to its will."
Will sighed heavily, nodding. "May it stay your blade...when the time is right," he said softly.
Muriel vanished without another word.
A small escort came for Will not ten minutes later. He had expected them, and so was prepared when they marched him from the room in straight ranks. They led him through several passages until they reached a chamber set by massive doors. Rodrigo Salvini, Sir Piere, and Razeen Jamike were already there, all refusing to look at each other except for Rodrigo, who studied Will as the Ranger was shepherded towards them.
"Morning," said Rodrigo. The single word echoed into silence without the faintest hope of a response.
Will could hear the enthusiastic cries of spectators, muffled by the thick wooden doors, and suddenly his insides felt like lead. He was acutely aware of his heart and, strangely, his feet. They wanted to turn and run, he realized. He cast a furtive glance at his escort. He could probably outrun them. Find somewhere to hide until—
"You will wait here," said one of the armoured guards in hesitant speech, leering as though he could read Will's thoughts, "until they call your name."
"Right," he replied in a voice that was not his own. He stared right at the doors as though terrified they might burst open to admit him to hell. Which, in a way, they were.
"...Buona fortuna," the guard toned before stepping back in line with his kindred, behind Will and the other three Champions.
The dull roar dimmed, and the Ranger could just hear a commentator bellow in an unnaturally loud voice.
"Signori e signore! Vi presento il signor Aetius Opus—" The crowd grew too loud for the solitary voice and it took some time before they calmed down again, having eagerly anticipated a viewing of the renowned Lord Aetius, host of the Munerian Games, at last.
There was more commentary and introductions in Toscan. Will managed to catch more names, such as Septimus and others he assumed to have funded exhibitions to kidnap the Champions. And then the roars rose in crescendo once more, and he had a feeling that the time had come.
"Vi presento...Sir Piere Guillory da Gallica!"
The uproar of approval intensified as the large doors opened and the massive knight entered the stadium. Will was suddenly reminded of his rather unimpressive height, and never felt smaller. What if they condemned him just because of his size?
The doors remained open behind Piere, and Will could see that at an angle, there was another massive opening into the ring, from whence the next Champion emerged from darkness.
"Amarr Ibn Mahmud da Mideast!"
More bellows, the Toscans being familiar with the potential of a Seryson swordsman.
The commentator continued, allowing twenty seconds between each name for the Champion to enter the Arena and the crowd to subside a little.
"Razeen Jamike da Arrida...Oslave the Bear da Skandia...Rodrigo Salvini da Genovesa..." There was a strange undertone at the mention of the exile's name, the mutterings of astonished spectators. Will was left alone in the chamber as Rodrigo strode into the ring.
"Muriel Donovan da Hibernia...e Will Treaty da Araluen!"
Will's legs were suddenly made of wood. An icy fist took refuge in his chest. Something dull was poking him in the back, and he realized that the guard who had wished him luck was now prodding him onward, towards light.
The blaze was more blinding than it should have been. His hood protected him from the worst of it, but the sun reflected off the pale stone wall of the fighting ring, forcing him to wince. He managed to step onto the coarse sand without stumbling. He was bombarded with a stifling heat. The sand was blanched of colour, a stark contrast to his grey-green mottled cloak.
He noticed barred gates set at regular intervals around the wall, and remembered when Rodrigo had told him that the cages where they kept the animals were connected to the Arena by a series of tunnels. These gates were where the beasts would be released.
Only when Will had stepped in line with the other six Champions did he hear the screams and howls of excitement from the audience. He looked up to see them all staring down at him, at them all, the more dignified keeping their seats while others jumped around on their feet, pumping their fists.
They looked just like the crowds in Araluen who watched non-fatal spectacles such as jousting tournaments, only these were blood-lusting vultures thirsting for gore and death. Will felt disgust writhe in his gut, bile threatening to creep up his throat.
To distract himself, he glanced around at what he could see in search of anyone who looked like he could be Lord Aetius. It didn't take long. There was a balcony just above, draped with silk and protected from the sun, and standing at its rail was a well-dressed man with a pale face. Will squinted. No, it wasn't a face, it was a mask, a silver mask.
The commentator spoke again, and then Will realized that it wasn't one man, but two, positioned across from each other in the stands, talking in complete sync. The one Will could see was easily identified by his colourful clothing. Once more narrowing his eyes, Will saw that he too was wearing a mask, but not like the Aetius'. This one had an exceptionally wide, coned mouthpiece, which, Will realized with a jolt, was how the voice was amplified so much.
Beside the commentator was a set of flag-bearers, who communicated with different coloured banners to the other commentator. That would come in useful when the crowd grew too ecstatic to shout over.
Though he didn't know what the commentators were saying, Will had been informed earlier that this was the point when six of them were to depart the Arena and be led to a reserved bench in the stands. The remaining Champion would show off his skills in a safe, yet impressive, display, and they would all take a turn. Oslave, he knew, was to be first.
He gave the hulking Skandian a reassuring smile and nod, and Oslave pounded a fist over his heart in return. Will then followed behind Razeen Jamike through a set of doors that were virtually invisible from the outside, and ascended a set of stairs to a ladder. It climbed up to a trapdoor, which opened into the area of their reserved seats. He sat himself beside Muriel, who radiated an air of distaste but said nothing. Across the vast ring, Will could see the Aetius' silver mask glinting.
The pair of commentators spoke again, and then Will jumped as someone spoke just behind his ear.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the first and fiercest of our Champions, the great Skandian berserker, Oslave the Bear."
Will realized that he had his own translator, who spoke for Muriel as well.
"A brute built like the beast he was named for, he comes from the northern wastes where the gods have forsaken the earth and its inhabitants," the man continued to translate.
Oslave, as previously bidden, was showing off his greatsword and making himself look ferocious. He, too, knew that impressing the crowd was his safety line. He had no idea how demeaning the Toscan commentators were in speaking of his homeland. Will bristled.
"An outsider in his youth, Oslave had never let a chance to prove himself pass him by," the commentators and translator continued, "defeating many a foe with fist and steel, and even renowned for his feat over two score trained soldiers with his berserker blood!"
What nonsense is this? Will scoffed inwardly as the approving howls of the spectators roared deafeningly throughout the Arena. He was glad that, once it was his turn, he would not be able to understand what they were saying about him.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, he stands here before you, a champion of desiccated Skandia, a Champion of the Munerian Games!"
More bellows and roars. Will wondered whether it would be appropriate to clap or not. He couldn't exactly rely on his fellow prisoners to show much respect, but he didn't approve the way the Toscans brutalized Oslave's reputation.
"Today, Oslave the Bear faces his first challengers..." Two sets of doors at angles to Oslave opened to release a pair of large, hulking men, almost completely identical to each other. Bare-armed, they both had a breastplate forged to appear like chiseled abdominal muscles, as well as a massive, circular bronze shield emblazoned with the seal of the Munerian Games. About their waste was a loincloth held by a cingulum, and their lower legs were protected with greaves. Facial helmets guarded their identities, and so the only way to tell the brothers apart was by the dyed horsetail plume on the top of their helmets, one red, the other blue.
"We present the twin Gladius warriors, and last year's runners up, Elio and Eleo!"
Elio, with the red plume, lifted both arms and turned slowly, showing off his physique to the exultant spectators, while Eleo, in blue, merely raised one arm, his hand clenched in a fist.
Though neither were as tall as the Skandian before them, they were two, and experienced with the rules of the Arena. They both faced him, ten paces from each other, and stood in preparation, swords drawn and glinting in the sunlight. Oslave looked reserved, but ready.
And suddenly, with the echoing blare of an initiation horn, it began. The two brothers surged forward, roaring defiantly, and Oslave chose. He turned left and charged to Elio, the more vivacious of the twins. Without even drawing his greatsword, Oslave turned his upper body so that his shoulder was leading, and threw himself against Elio, who had no time to lower his gladius before the Bear's shoulder slammed into his sternum, knocking him flat into the sand.
Will sat forward suddenly, barely suppressing the urge to cry out with relief and excitement. The strength of the temptation alarmed him, and he eased back, swallowing the stone in his throat.
Eleo, who had seen the massive Skandian turn to face his brother, did not try to follow him with the momentum he had established. Instead, he continued on past where Oslave had been standing, before coming about and starting his charge again, gathering fresh speed. The Skandian turned, expecting this, and let Eleo come to him.
As the challenger approached Oslave's reach, the Skandian drew his greatsword and seamlessly swung it across himself, parrying the strike Eleo had aimed at his broad chest. Off-balanced, Eleo staggered past Oslave, who side-stepped with a mocking bow of his head, and the challenger tripped over his stunned brother, into the sand beside him.
The audience snapped up the comical display like sharks, amused but hungry for more. Will found himself as taut as a bowstring, and could not relax. Even his hands, clenched into iron fists on his lap, were impossible to curb. Was it excitement? Was it fear? Was it both?
Oslave toyed with Elio and Eleo for a few more breathless minutes, and Will was impressed by his melee skills. Then he noticed something. Something that only a quick-eyed Ranger would notice, even if he wasn't expecting it.
Eleo had a perfect opportunity to dismantle Oslave when the Skandian's foot slipped in the sand. But he didn't, instead feigned a hindering exhaustion, or perhaps slow reflexes, permitting Oslave to regain his footing. By this time, the challenger twins would be desperate, fighting to win, exhaustion or no exhaustion, and the Skandian should have been finished.
They've rigged it, Will thought, frowning as he leaned forward again, back rigid. Now that he realized it, he noticed that the twins never actually attacked at the same time. They acted as two different bodies, not one, as what would be logical.
Finally, Elio was knocked to the ground one last time by Oslave's battering ram of a fist, and he did not get up. Eleo surrendered, sheathing his gladius sword and falling to one knee, bowing his head, clenched fist over his heart. The response from the crowd was deafening, demanding to see blood. But the opening ceremonies were not about bloodshed and the people would not be appeased.
The masked commentators repeated Oslave's name and title as the Skandian sheathed his own sword and bellowed at the crowd, goading more frenzied screams. A man came through a set of doors to present Oslave with a palm frond as a a small shower of coins, flowers and food was thrown down from the stands. Oslave accepted the frond, picked up an apple, bit a large, juicy chunk out of its side and marched through out of the Arena. Will could not see his face.
Eleo made a great show in supporting his twin out another set of doors, the doors of the defeated, chased by hisses and boos of the disapproving spectators. It was as though the brothers had never been the revered Gladius warriors they were when walking into the ring minutes before.
Amarr Ibn Mahmud was next, and then Razeen Jamike. It was difficult to tell with Razeen, as he was on horseback fighting other mounted warriors, but Amarr's round, too, was clearly rigged. Clear to all those of logical mind and calculating eye, anyway. And Will had both.
Will they rig an archery contest? he thought, as he stood for his turn at last. Probably. Is it necessary?
That was the question. The three Champions before him might have fallen to their challengers if the latter hadn't been told to let them win.
Will did not realize how stiff he was until his foot caught on a stone step and he nearly fell onto his face. He was shaking as well, trembling like a newborn kitten. His palms were as wet as his brow and there were dry cockleshells caught in his throat.
You've shot in front of spectators before, many times, he told himself, inhaling deeply through his nose. And Halt was as critical as any man. This is nothing.
His new longbow suddenly felt clumsy and ungainly in his hand as he slipped through the trapdoor, climbed down the ladder and descended the stairs. He was back in the antechamber that would emit him into the ring. The commentators and audience gradually grew softer, but never quite died.
The vultures will get what they want this time, Will thought, gritting his teeth. But we'll see if they'll keep singing when their lord gets an arrow in the eye.
The abrupt thought startled even him, but he could not shake the image of Lord Aetius, mask glinting in the sun, slumping limply in his throne as the arrow pierced through the thin slat of dark eye space—
A streak of blinding light startled him out of his bloody reverie. The doors were opening at last. The heat was smothering after the shaded stands; he could already feel it clogging his throat and his lungs. He brushed a forearm along his brow, feeling the brand on his arm tug at the soft skin around it.
The commentators renewed their introductions as Will stepped onto the sand, head bowed slightly to protect his eyes until they readjusted to the light. They were cheering for him, he knew, but he didn't care. He despised the lot of them.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He did not show off his physique as Oslave or the others did, and not only because he was rather diminutive in size. He was trembling so hard with fury, he was afraid that if he was to raise an arm, he might actually shoot Aetius Opus. Instead, he merely stood there, calm, still, and that, he knew, was as intimidating as any bulging muscle or towering frame.
The Toscan commentary continued a little longer than it did for the other three. Will nearly shuffled his feet with impatience, a muscle jumping in his jaw. What were they playing at? He would collapse from a heat stroke in front of them all if they were going to insist in recounting his entire life's story.
Then the doors to his left suddenly parted, and he glanced over with his eyes, expecting to see his challengers marching through. Before, the commentators had given the challengers' names. This time, they only said Rodrigo Salvini—the Genovesan exile and potentially Will's very bane.
He felt his jaw part a little, but hastily snapped it shut.
What the blazes...?
As the exile approached, he was even more impossible to decipher than usual – beneath his dark hood, Rodrigo had covered his face with a scarf of the deepest scarlet, reaching up just below his eyes. If the commentators hadn't said his name, Will wouldn't have thought he was Rodrigo at all.
Then the Genovesan was standing right beside Will, and the Ranger's own hood prevented him from seeing him without turning his head.
"Change of plans," Rodrigo said, barely heard over the cheering. The commentators were now describing his past.
"You don't say," Will muttered back, spicing his tone with sarcasm.
"You sound worried."
"I hate being toyed with."
"What are we, Will Treaty, but pawns in a greater game?"
Before the Ranger could open his mouth again, another set of doors opened and four men stepped out, two pairs carrying a standard archery target between them. The targets' stands were curiously formed – instead of an easel-like structure, they were like wooden boxes.
They were set down so that they were positioned right where Lord Aetius would see them best, and then the men hastened off. Will and Rodrigo stepped to the opposite side of the ring, putting almost fifty metres between themselves and the targets, and waited.
"You have three attempts to make the best shot at your target," the Genovesan exile hissed from the side of his mouth, translating the commentary for Will.
"I know. That part they didn't change," the Ranger replied flatly.
He bit his tongue. Why was he so bitter? Did he fear Rodrigo being as skilled as him? Will could make this shot in the dark, and he knew it, yet right now he was feeling like a stupid, oafish apprentice with no more skill than a monkey. There was a hole where his stomach should be and his confidence had fled with his spirit, each with their tail between their legs.
"I'm just ensuring you don't aim at Lord Aetius," said Rodrigo, and Will couldn't stop himself from turning his head to stare at him. Even if the exile hadn't been wearing the facial scarf, he knew he would have been able to glean no emotion from his features.
"Incominciate!" the commentators bellowed in unison, and the crowd screamed.
"Begin," said Rodrigo.
"After you," said Will, oozing graciousness.
Rodrigo ignored the sarcasm with sarcasm of his own. "You are too kind."
He lifted his bow, arrow nocked, the string already drawn by the time he had the tip of the arrow trained on the miniscule gold circle that was his target. He lifted it a few notches, accounted for the lack of wind, then checked his breath. Muscle memory told him when the moment was ripest, and he released.
The bow twanged with ringing familiarity, the arrow whistling away like an eager hound across the open space. Letting his bow arm lower slowly, Rodrigo waited expectantly, heart thudding with anticipation, but then the monster within him snarled in fury as he watched the arrow pierce into the red burlap ring with a thwack, inches above the circular bronze, winning shot.
There was heightened applause, broken by a few hisses of derision. But Rodrigo cared not. He slipped a sideways glance at his opponent. Will Treaty said nothing, standing like a poised heron ready to strike. Rodrigo could not see his face.
The Ranger's skill, he knew, was legendary, bordering mythical. It had to be seen in order to be believed. And Rodrigo was ready to see.
Will raised, nocked, sighted down his own arrow and released—all in about one and a half seconds—and then his target moved.
The spectators booed and laughed tauntingly as the arrow hit over a foot further lower from where Will had aimed, where the bronze spec had been a second before. He stared, jaw agape, as the entire target fell back into place. There was someone inside it!
"Unfortunately, Ranger, most targets do not stand still," said the nearest bellowing commentator in the common tongue. Those who could understand howled with hilarity, while others hissed their disapproval.
Face burning, Will refused to react to the goad, and instead remained stiff and taut, staring straight at his jiggling target.
They did not warn me of this...
"Hm, the gods are not with you this day, Will Treaty," Rodrigo toned monotonously. Will wanted to strangle him.
"They'll know if you cheated—"
"If I cheated? No..." Rodrigo sighted down his second arrow, hesitated, then re-aimed and fired. Like Will's had done, the target rose into the air—this time Will saw the feet of the person hidden inside the box-like stand push off the ground—and the arrow hit just below the bronze mark.
"I did not know of this myself."
Will would have to be flawless with his last two shots to be declared a winner. Or...he recalculated in his head. If he got a perfect bull's eye, right in the middle, he might scrape a win if Rodrigo could not better his first two shots. But to get a perfect bull's eye, he would have to know exactly when the target would move and how high it would go. Would it be the same as before? Would it move at all? Could it shift left or right?
Rodrigo cleared his throat. Will suddenly became conscious of the jeering laughter echoing about him. He must have been deep in thought for far too long.
"When you are ready, Ranger."
Suddenly it clicked. A corner of Will's mouth curled upwards, but then he composed himself.
One hand reached over his shoulder, fingertips caressing feather fletching for a moment before gently taking the tip and pulling an arrow free, gently, contemplatively.
"I'm ready."
He nocked and sighted.
Ready to make a shot that will slow time itself.
The arrow had barely left the string before Will was reaching for another. He waited a fraction of a moment before drawing again and releasing on pure instinct, no impeding thoughts, no second guesses.
As he expected—and relied on—the target lifted up to avoid what would have been a perfect shot. It could do nothing, however, about the second arrow, which it did not suspect and could not avoid. The man inside the hollow stand yelped in shock as the waspish arrow thudded right into the bronze eye, just before the target fell back to earth.
The feat caused an uproar of disbelieving spectators, who immediately began throwing down food and coins in admiration. Will, however, utterly ignored them, fresh calculations whizzing through his head like hummingbirds. He knew he had sacrificed his third shot by firing both arrows as he did, and the decoy arrow was in a worse position than the first round's. If Rodrigo missed his last shot...perhaps Will's skill had thrown him clear of his concentration...
But no. It was as though Rodrigo had been the only one to have not witnessed the Ranger's accomplishment. Even his target was stunned, and so made no move as Rodrigo's third and final shot smacked into its heart, piercing the bronze plaque that was its centre.
Will felt a bitter, salty disappointment burning like an ember in his gut. He did not need to understand Toscan to know that Rodrigo had been declared the winner. Two of his shots were much closer to the centre than two of the Ranger's, and though it merely meant that respect would lean more towards the Genovesan exile, Will's pride felt stung at the core.
"Well done," he said to Rodrigo, who looked no more pleased than Will looked disappointed. He held out a hand for the exile to shake, and Rodrigo stared at it for a few moments before accepting it firmly.
"You've a good eye," Will continued, "better, I admit, than I expected."
"I know you would much rather run me through with your blade than shake hands with me. Thank you for being the gentleman," said Rodrigo.
Will chose not to reply, and instead tucked his bow in closer to his body and turned to exit through the doors of the defeated, which were already open to admit him. But a single voice, piercing through the roars and even silencing lesser throats, bode him to pause.
"OI! Treaty!"
Will turned to where the other Champions were sitting, up in the stands. Oslave the Bear had stood on the bench, towering over everyone like the giant he was. Once he knew he had the Ranger's attention, he threw something.
Will had nocked and drawn before he even realized what he was aiming at. An apple, half eaten, fell towards the vast space between Will and the treacherous targets, and he knew exactly when to release, and from what angle.
He knew he had succeeded from the moment the string snapped away from the stiff, calloused flesh of his fingers. The apple was falling, and then it was skewered and streaking off horizontally, juice and chunks of flesh showering to earth in its wake. And then the projectile thudded into the target, almost splitting Will's bull's eye arrow down the middle, and the Ranger was nearly deafened by the response.
"Il mio dio! Impossibile!" the nearest commentator shrieked. "Incredibile!"
Had sound been solid, Will would have been smothered alive. But he would give all of their respect, all of their praise and more, just to have had Halt there to see him make that legendary shot.
Boo-yeah!
You know what should have been in The Lost Stories? Will's first kill. There was the kalkara in The Ruins of Gorlan, yes, but that's not human. If I had to guess, I would say it was when the Temujai invaded Skandia...I really can't remember...He can't have taken it very easily. Anyway, I was just curious.