Page 77 of A Thief to Die For

The Commander holds up a hand while he thinks. ‘Fine. I’ll accept that.’

Bloody hellfire. A four-yard disadvantage to hit a spot I can barely see could easily tip the balance in their favour. Maybe I should have opted for being shot.

Soren predictably protests. Although I’m sure he’ll find another opportunity to shoot me. Silas announces for everyone to make their way to the eastpoint lookout post.

I didn’t anticipate we’d be moving locations. I strain to see Marian as she converges with the crowd, but there are too many bodies in the way.

The dirt road takes us into the trees, and we soon reach a wooden tower. It’s similar to the others along the perimeter of militia territory, except this one is less of a shelter. More strictly for observing. A set of open stairs goes up multiple floors to a covered deck for watching the area below. Just beyond, the land drops off in what looks like a cliff, giving a view of a mostly treeless plain.

Silas strides to the front of the crowd. ‘The final round of the contest will be to shoot a passing wagon. The first to strike one wins.’

‘We’re shooting at real people?’ I ask.

The Commander laughs. ‘They’re just vagabonds. And if it matters to you, then don’t hit the people. But the wagons won’t move on their own.’

I move closer to Silas to look over the edge. It’s about fifty feet straight down to the ground, but to hit an approaching wagon, we’ll be firing at max range, two hundred yards – all while navigating the wind gusts up the cliff side and air drag over the land. Hell, then there’s the speed of the wagon, which will change the moment the driver realises he’s the target.

It’s an impossible shot, especially since we’ll be shooting at the front of the wagon – directly at the horse and driver. I shake my head. ‘No. This is too dangerous.’

‘So you forfeit?’ asks the Commander, not hiding his delight.

‘No.’ I frown. ‘I’m saying we need to change the target to something that can’t be killed.’

‘But where’s the drama in that?’ The Commander turns, egging on the crowd’s reaction. It’s delayed, but they manage a collective laugh.

‘I see something,’ a woman calls, pointing northeast. ‘A single rider pulling a covered wagon.’

Right now, it’s only a speck in the distance. But it’s moving fast; a small mushroom cloud of dust billows out behind it.

‘Round three begins now!’ shouts the Commander. ‘Give them back their weapons.’

I accept my bow but don’t move except to meet Marian’s worried eyes from her place beside the Commander.

He’s not going to call it off. So do I risk the life of a horse and driver to protect Kingsland? Win the hand of Marian? Improve the lives of the Dresden?

That’s not all that’s at risk – if I don’t take the shot, I’m dead. Because there’s no way I’m handing over Kingsland’s secrets to the Commander.

Soren hurries to the edge and takes aim at the land below.

Idiot. It’s too early to hit anywhere near the wagon yet. Raising my hand, I feel for the wind, estimating the direction and speed. I mark where I think a controlled shot could land if the wagon continues on its current path. There’s really only one area that’s optimal, and any wagon driver will hightail it out of here as soon as he notices he’s under fire.

Maybe that’s it. Shoot early. Scare him away. Then I insist on a new challenge.

Soren takes a shot.

I watch it and realise he’s testing the air drag and gusts of wind up the cliff. With only three arrows left, I can’t afford to do the same.

Especially with a four-yard penalty, which will push me so far back from the cliff, I won’t be able to angle my shot down.

‘Bloody hellfire,’ I mutter. The Commander knew that.

‘Get higher,’ Marian shouts to me.

I glance around at the trees, then to the lookout post on my right. I love how she can read my mind. Racing up the old stairs, the lookout creaks and quakes. The crowd grows noisy as they spot me. With a running leap, I jump, pulling myself on to the brittle roof.

The cedar shingles look like they’re a century old and could disintegrate under my weight. Slowing down, I take a step and – crack. The thin slab of wood splits and my boot slides. I scramble for a different foothold but it’s more of the same. Wood cracking. Boards splitting. All while the edge of the roof rushes closer. I grit my teeth and jump, praying I guessed the location of a support beam correctly. Incredibly, my feet hit something solid and I don’t crash through. Great. Now don’t move.

Just focus on the shot. Unfortunately, the breeze is different up here. Stronger updraught, which will make any shot the equivalent to pissing into the wind.