The sharp morning chill clung to the air in the lower bailey of Rattay Castle, where the shadows of the stone ramparts stretched long across the trampled turf.
Leaving the churned mud and dust of the upper combat ring behind, Henry followed Captain Bernard down the narrow, descending cobbles toward the archery range.
The quiet rustle of leaves along the riverbank was broken only by the rhythmic thud of their boots and the distant, dry thwack of arrows striking straw.
The range was nestled in a long, narrow strip of grass directly below the wooden walkway—the elevated timber bridge that townspeople and guards used to pass between the upper castle and the lower town quarters.
At the far end stood three thick, woven straw targets bound tightly to timber posts, their painted black concentric rings faded and scarred from years of weather and iron bodkin points.
As they approached, Henry noticed they were not alone.
Standing near the center shooting mark, dressed in a tailored, pale-green riding doublet lined with fine silver thread, was Lord Hans Capon.
The young lord held a beautifully crafted yew hunting bow, his posture loose, arrogant, and casually graceful.
Behind him stood two pages, one holding a velvet-lined quiver of polished, goose-fletched shafts, the other holding a goblet of watered wine.
Capon paid no mind to the common guards milling about; he drew his string to his cheek with careless ease, let fly, and watched as his arrow thudded cleanly into the middle ring of the furthest butt.
Bernard halted near the weathered wooden equipment bench, his heavy brow furrowing as his small, sharp eyes swept over the targets before landing on Henry.
Let’s see if this Skalitz boy is truly blessed by God, or if his swordplay up in the arena was just pure, blind luck, Bernard thought to himself, his jaw tightening beneath his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Take this bow,” Bernard grunted, reaching into the heavy timber weapons rack and pulling out a plain, sturdy longbow.
“Go and stand in position over there.
We can start.
Let’s see if you can even shoot.”
Before Henry could step up to the wooden mark, Bernard reached into a leather crate on the table, pulled out a scuffed, thick leather arm guard, and tossed it unceremoniously at Henry’s chest.
“And another thing—put on this arm guard.
Without it, you’ll flay the flesh clean off your forearm with the bowstring before your third shot.
Be sure to wear it every time you shoot as long as you’re a greenhorn.”
Henry caught the leather brace, buckling it securely around his left forearm until the leather bit snugly into his sleeve.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Save your thanks and get in position,” Bernard barked back, pacing a short perimeter behind him.
Henry stepped up to the mark, taking his stance facing the far target.
The wooden bow felt familiar yet entirely distinct from a sword—a weapon not of leverage and edge, but of balance, patience, and breath.
“Now concentrate,” Bernard rasped, his voice cutting through the morning stillness.
“A bow ain’t exactly the weapon of choice for a knight, but it can come in very handy on the road.
Picture it: you’ve got two bandits coming at you from a distance.
You shoot one straight through the eye, drop your bow, and draw your steel on the other!”
Bernard shoved an unadorned ash hunting bow and a battered leather quiver containing six fletched shafts into Henry’s hands.
“Emperor Charles himself encouraged his subjects to learn archery—he even organized grand contests in Prague,” Bernard added, his tone carrying a rare flicker of historical gravity before snapping right back to his usual drill-instructor edge.
“Six arrows.
Target butt at forty paces.
Let’s see if you can hit the straw, or if you’re only good for scaring the crows off the corn!”
From a few paces to their right, Lord Hans Capon paused mid-draw, lowering his bow slightly.
His blue eyes drifted over to Henry, taking in the bruised cheeks, the sweat-stained gambeson, and the plain ash bow in the blacksmith boy’s hands.
A slow, smirking smile spread across Capon’s youthful face.
He rested his hands on his hips, leaning back against the wooden railing with an air of refined amusement.
“Well, well, Captain,” Capon called out, his voice dripping with light mockery.
“Who is this master marksman you’ve brought to grace our humble targets?
Has Sir Radzig sent his forge-boy to show us how peasants hunt rabbits?”
Henry ignored the young lord’s jab, though his jaw set firm.
His gloved fingers curled around the smooth ash grip.
His forearms still throbbed from the bruising Bernard had handed him in the arena, but as he locked his grip on the grip wood, he forced his muscles to stay still.
Without a crosshair, you never aim the point directly at what you want to hit, Henry reminded himself, visualizing the invisible geometry of the shot—the parabolic arc governed by draw weight, wind, and gravity.
A barebow speaks its own language.
He drew a fletched shaft from the leather quiver, setting the horn nock securely onto the hemp string.
Raising the bow, he rolled his shoulders back, engaging his strong lats rather than relying on his tired arms.
Anchor point first.
He pulled the string taut until his index knuckle pressed firmly against the corner of his jawbone.
Through the corner of his eye, the iron bodkin point hovered in his field of view.
On his first attempt, misjudging the bow’s draw weight slightly, Henry released the cord too hastily.
TWANG!
The ash shaft snapped forward with a sharp hiss.
THWACK!
The arrow struck the extreme outer edge of the circular target—barely catching the outermost wooden rim, its tail feather quivering precariously in the breeze.
Hans Capon let out a soft, delighted laugh, taking a slow sip from the silver goblet his page presented to him.
“Magnificent!” Capon chuckled.
“A devastating blow to the bark on the outer ring!
The trees of Rattay shall tremble before the mighty blacksmith of Skalitz!”
Henry didn’t rise to the bait.
He merely smiled faintly to himself, his eyes fixed on the distant straw.
He noted the offset.
The bow pulled slightly heavier than old hunting rig, but the tension was steady.
He just needed to drop his aim half an inch.
Without breaking his rhythm, Henry drew a second arrow, nocked it, and took a deep, steady breath.
He adjusted his stance, raising his arm slightly higher to compensate for the distance and the drop.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The second arrow flew true, biting deep into the outer ring—much closer to the center, just below the third ring line.
Capon’s smirk faltered slightly.
He set his goblet down on the wooden bench, stepping closer to the barrier to watch.
“Hmph.
Pure coincidence,” the young lord muttered under his breath, crossing his arms.
Henry drew his third shaft.
His mind was entirely clear now, the rhythm of draw, anchor, breath, and release flowing naturally.
He lined up the iron tip just a fraction below the painted black core.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The third arrow pierced the third inner circle with a loud, wooden crack.
TWANG!
THWACK!
Before the vibration of the third shot had even died away, Henry’s fourth arrow struck right beside it—burying its point dead-center into the black bullseye!
The quiet of the bailey settled again, broken only by the hum of goose feathers shivering in the center of the black ring.
Bernard let out a low, rough hum in his throat.
Lord Hans Capon stood frozen, his eyes darting between the bullseye and the calm, unassuming squire holding the ash bow.
A flash of red crept up Capon’s neck beneath his stiff linen collar.
“Beginner’s luck!” Capon declared loudly, stepping onto the turf with an exaggerated swagger, his hand resting on the pommel of his decorated hunting sword.
“A lucky gust of wind, nothing more!
You don’t honestly believe you can shoot, do you, blacksmith?”
Henry lowered his bow, turning to face the young noble with a cool, measured gaze.
“The arrow went where I aimed it, my Lord.”
“Did it now?” Capon sneered, though his eyes burned with competitive heat.
“You strut around in Sir Radzig’s colors thinking a few lucky shots make you a archer?
Tell me…
do you dare put that luck to a real test, or are you only brave when shooting at inanimate straw?”
Henry tilted his head.
“Are you challenging me, Lord Hans?”
“I am offering to humble you,” Capon corrected, stepping right up to the firing line.
“A contest.
Right here, right now.
Five arrows each at forty paces.”
Henry looked at his own plain clothes and empty pockets, then back at the lavishly dressed lord.
“A wager requires stakes, my Lord.
But I am only a squire—I haven’t much to offer that a nobleman would care for.”
Capon laughed, a rich, mocking sound.
“Ha!
Truth be spoken!
What could an illiterate blacksmith offer that I care to hold?
If I win, you shall groom my hunting hounds for a full month and carry my quarry through the forest like a common knave whenever I ride out!”
Henry reached into the small leather pouch at his belt, pulling out a handful of silver coins he had managed to keep.
He counted them out into his palm.
“If I lose, my Lord,” Henry said calmly, “I offer twenty groschen—nearly all the coin I possess—and my service with your hounds.
But what do you wager?”
Capon gestured grandly with his silk-gloved hand toward the magnificent bow leaning against his bench—a finely crafted, oiled yew bow with horn-reinforced tips and a silver-wrapped grip, worth more than a small cottage.
“If by some miracle of the Saints you win,” Capon declared, “you take my hunting bow.
And my public recognition that you aren’t completely useless.”
Henry looked at the splendid bow, then at the young lord’s confident smirk.
“Accepted.”
Captain Bernard stepped between the two young men, his massive frame looming over them like a stone wall.
He looked from Capon to Henry, realizing there was no stopping the pride of two hot-headed youths.
“Right then,” Bernard growled, shaking his head.
“If you’re both determined to act like fools, I’ll judge the contest.
Five arrows each.
Standard scoring: outer ring is one point, middle rings are two and three, bullseye is five.
Highest score takes the prize.
No do-overs, no whining.
Lord Hans, you step up first.”
Capon smiled smoothly, stepping to the mark.
He smoothed his doublet, picked up his yew bow, and signaled his page, who presented five pristine, steel-tipped arrows with blue-and-white fletching.
The young lord took his breath, his playful demeanor instantly vanishing as he drew the string back to his cheek.
His form was elegant, refined through years of private noble tutelage.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The first arrow struck the inner third circle—a solid three points.
Capon didn’t hesitate.
He nocked the second shaft with practiced fluidity.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The second shaft landed barely half an inch from the first—another three points.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The third arrow hit the inner ring as well, clustering tightly.
On his fourth shot, Capon took a fraction longer, his eyes narrowing as he held his breath.
He released—
TWANG!
THWACK!
The fourth arrow struck dead-center into the black bullseye!
The page cheered softly, and Capon permitted himself a satisfied nod.
With supreme confidence, Capon nocked his fifth and final arrow.
But as he drew back, a sudden breeze swept through the lower bailey, catching the long sleeves of his doublet.
He released a fraction of a second too late.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The fifth arrow drifted wide, striking the outer ring for just a single point.
Bernard calculated quickly, his deep voice booming out over the range.
“Lord Hans: three, three, three, five, one!
Total score: fourteen points!”
Capon lowered his bow, stepping back with a confident smirk, though a slight grimace betrayed his irritation at the final shot.
He crossed his arms and looked at Henry.
“Top that if you can, blacksmith.
Fourteen points on a windy morning is no simple feat for a commoner.”
Henry stepped up to the mark.
The turf felt solid beneath his boots.
He took a slow breath, letting the pressure of the wager fade from his mind, focusing entirely on the target forty paces away.
He drew his first arrow.
THWACK!
The shaft struck the inner third circle—three points.
He drew his second arrow, breathing out as he reached his anchor point.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The second arrow hit the inner circle alongside Capon’s blue-fletched shafts—another three points.
Henry nocked his third shaft.
He adjusted his stance slightly, feeling the cool river wind against his cheek, timing his release between the gusts.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The third arrow flew with lethal precision, slamming squarely into the black bullseye right next to Capon’s arrow!
Five points!
Capon’s jaw tightened.
He leaned forward, his hands clenching into fists.
“Curse it all…” he muttered under his breath.
Henry now had eleven points.
He needed four more points across his final two arrows to win.
He raised his fourth shaft.
His arms were beginning to feel the heavy strain of the day’s constant combat, but he kept his grip iron-steady.
He released.
TWANG!
THWACK!
The fourth arrow hit the inner circle, sinking deep into the three-point ring!
Henry now sat at fourteen points—tied with Lord Hans Capon!
Everything hung on his fifth and final arrow.
If he hit the outer ring, it would be a tie.
If he missed, he lost his twenty groschen and his dignity.
If he hit the inner rings or the center, the victory was his.
The range was dead silent.
Even the pages held their breath.
Captain Bernard stood still as a statue, watching Henry’s form with sharp, unblinking intensity.
Henry drew his final arrow from the quiver.
He set the nock on the hemp cord, brought the string back to his jawbone, and locked his eyes on the target.
He felt the tension in the ash wood, the pull in his shoulders, the quiet hum of the morning air.
Deep breath in.
Half-breath out.
Release.
TWANG!
The shaft cut through the air with a clean, whistling hiss.
THWACK!
The arrow struck the straw just below the black center ring, biting deep into the inner three-point circle!
Bernard stepped forward, examining the target closely before turning back around with a wide, rare grin hidden behind his thick beard.
“Henry: three, three, five, three, three!
Total score: fifteen points!” Bernard announced loudly.
“Winner by Three point—Henry of Skalitz!”
+——————————————————-+
| [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] |
| Skill Progress: Archery (Level 3 -> Level 4) |
| +140 Bow EXP | +95 Agility EXP |
| |
| |
+——————————————————-+
Hans Capon stood frozen for a long second, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.
He looked at the distant target, counting the arrows in his head, before looking back at Henry, who was carefully lowering his bow and catching his breath.
The defeat was narrow— Three point difference, largely due to Capon’s final arrow catching the wind.
It was not a humiliating rout, but rather a hair’s-breadth victory that left both marksmen standing on impressive ground.
Slowly, the shock on Capon’s face melted away, replaced by a wry, rueful grin.
The young lord let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head as he unbuckled the fine leather strap of his hunting bow from his belt.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Capon said, walking over to Henry and extending the beautiful yew hunting bow.
“You really do know how to handle a cord, blacksmith.”
Henry took the bow, feeling the smooth, exquisite weight of the polished wood and silver fittings.
“Thank you, my Lord.
It was a close match—you’re a fine shot.”
Capon clapped Henry on the shoulder, his earlier arrogance dissolving into the casual camaraderie of youth.
“A fine shot, but one point poorer in bows!
You are good, Henry.
Truly.
If you have the time down the road, I’ll wager against you once again, blacksmith.
See you around!”
“I look forward to it, Lord Hans,” Henry replied with a respectful nod as the young nobleman turned, calling his pages to follow as he headed back toward the upper castle, laughing to himself about the loss.
Bernard watched Capon walk away, then turned his gaze back to Henry, who was admiring his newly won bow.
“Well, lad,” Bernard said, his voice dropping into a dry, gravelly chuckle.
“You really do have the Devil’s own luck—in sword fighting, in archery, and even in making friends.”
Henry looked at the captain, somewhat surprised.
“Making friends?
He just lost his favorite bow to me.”
Bernard snorted, resting his hands on his belt.
“Lord Hans doesn’t usually try to mingle with peasants, lad.
He would have walked away without a word if he didn’t respect you.
You held your ground, you didn’t flinch, and you proved your worth with steel and wood.
In a place like Rattay, that counts for more than fine words.”
Bernard clapped Henry hard on his sore shoulder, making him wince slightly.
“Now, clean up your gear and get those arrows out of the straw.
You’ve earned your keep today, squire.”