Chapter 2 - The Impossible Distance
Shouts of utter disbelief tore through the stands. Merchants jumped onto their benches; soldiers leaned over the stone barriers, screaming in shock. A boy in rags had just equaled the score of Prince Adrian, the greatest archer in the realm, in less than five seconds!
"Impossible!" Adrian raged, lunging forward, his hand grasping the hilt of his ceremonial sword. "He’s using magic! Sorcery! Seize him!"
"Hold your blade, Adrian!" King Robert roared, stepping to the very front of the royal box. The King’s face was pale, his eyes wide as he watched William standing calmly on the platform. "The boy uses no magic. I know sorcery when I see it, and that is pure, unadulterated skill. Let him finish!"
Adrian backed away, his body trembling with pure, unbridled fury. He stared at the child as if he were a ghost sent to destroy his legacy.
On the platform, William did not join in the excitement. He didn't look at the screaming crowd, nor did he look at the King. He held the third and final arrow in his fingertips.
This was the arrow that had defeated every archer in Aurelian history. The third target rested over two miles away, perched atop the jagged peak of Mount Crag, visible only as a microscopic dot of red paint against the gray rock face. To make matters worse, the wind blowing through the mountain pass was notoriously unpredictable—violent, swirling, and fierce enough to knock a mounted man off his horse.
When Adrian had attempted this shot, his arrow had been swept off course by three inches due to a sudden thermal draft rising from the valley.
William turned his body sideways. He raised the final arrow.
"Boy," the old beggar spoke softly from behind him. "Remember who you are. Remember why we came here."
William nodded once. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away fiercely. He remembered the cold nights in the northern mountains. He remembered the fire that had burned his family's village to the ground five years ago. He remembered the crest worn by the men who had carried out the massacre—a silver dragon wrapped around a broken sword.
The exact same crest embroidered on Prince Adrian’s chest.
William notched the third arrow. But he did not point the bow toward the distant hill.
Instead, he angled the bow upward—nearly forty-five degrees into the sky, pointing almost directly at the burning sun.
The crowd went dead quiet once again.
"What is he doing?" a noblewoman whispered. "The target is straight ahead! He’s aiming into the clouds!"
"He’s lost his mind," another laughed nervously. "The child got lucky twice, and now he’s firing into empty air!"
Prince Adrian let out a bitter, mocking laugh. "He doesn't even know where the target is! He’s throwing the shot away!"
William didn't care about their ignorance. He knew that at a distance of two miles, a direct shot was impossible against the valley’s rising heat currents. To hit a target that far, an arrow had to be launched into the upper atmospheric wind streams, allowing the heavy mountain gale to catch the fletching and drop the projectile straight down like a falling strike of lightning.
It was a technique known only to the ancient Royal Guards of the Old Dynasty—a discipline thought to have died out fifty years ago when the Old King was overthrown.
William drew the heavy bowstring back. He drew it further than before, pulling the iron tip of the arrow all the way to the wood of the grip. The ash wood groaned beneath the extreme pressure, tiny stress lines appearing along its spine.
CRACK.
The bow was at its absolute limit.
William released his breath.
THWIP!
The arrow launched into the sky like a silver streak of lightning. It flew so fast that the human eye could barely track it. Higher and higher it climbed, piercing through the low-hanging clouds, vanishing completely into the bright blue expanse of the heavens.
One second passed.
Two seconds.
Five seconds.
The arrow did not return.
Laughter began to bubble up among the royal nobles. "He shot it into the sky!" a baron sneered. "It's gone! The boy failed!"
Adrian stepped forward, a triumphant, cruel smile spreading across his lips. "You wasted our time, beggar. Guards, execute the child for wasting royal arrows, and hang the old man from the city gates!"
The guards stepped forward, their swords drawing from their sheaths with a sharp iron hiss.
Suddenly, a loud, ringing sound echoed from the high watchtower at the edge of the arena.
A scout, holding a heavy brass spyglass to his eye, was trembling violently. He dropped the brass tube, his face completely drained of color. He scrambled to the edge of the tower wall, grabbing the brass signal bell, and struck it with all his strength.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
"WHAT IS IT?" King Robert yelled, leaning over the balcony. "SCOUT! REPORT!"
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The scout fell to his knees on the stone watchtower, pointing a shaking finger toward the distant peak of Mount Crag.
"THE TARGET!" the scout screamed, his voice cracking with sheer terror and awe. "THE TARGET HAS BEEN DESTROYED! THE ARROW CAME STRAIGHT DOWN FROM THE CLOUDS AND SPLIT THE ENTIRE STONE STAND IN TWO!"
