Enchanter: Book Two of the Axis Trilogy. Sara Douglass

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      “I am not dressed for combat, SpikeFeather. Please do not aim any arrows my way.” She grinned at the Wing commander, her hand indicating her Avar clothing and bare feet. All the Icarii present, both female and male, wore light leather training armour over brief loin cloths – although the armour did not protect against serious blows. They were sweating after their exertions, and Azhure noticed that several had abrasions and dark bruises on their unprotected arms and legs. Feathers lay scattered across the floor mats.

      “I would be hounded from Talon Spike should I land an arrow in a guest, and such an admired guest at that,” SpikeFeather said gravely, then turned to one of the members of his Wing. “TrueFlight, would you lift the Wolven from the rack and select a quiver of arrows?” He paused dramatically, ignoring the collective gasp of the Wing.

      Azhure watched curiously as TrueFlight retrieved a beautiful bow and a quiver of arrows and handed them to SpikeFeather, who slung the quiver over his shoulder.

      “As creatures of the air ourselves we have a special affinity with weapons of flight,” SpikeFeather explained as he notched an arrow into the bow. “See.”

      In one liquid movement, so fast Azhure found it difficult to follow, SpikeFeather lifted the bow, aimed, and loosed the arrow. It soared towards the ceiling and lodged in a small scarlet target ball suspended sixty paces above their heads.

      “The stories of your ability don’t do you justice, SpikeFeather,” Azhure said. “Can I try that bow?” The bow SpikeFeather held was a weapon of elegance as well as of skill, and Azhure found its lure almost irresistible.

      SpikeFeather studied her. Since the Wolven’s creator had died four thousand years ago, only he had been able to master it. The Icarii had extraordinarily powerful flight muscles in their chests and backs, and SpikeFeather doubted whether Azhure, despite her height and obvious fitness, would even have the strength to draw a notched arrow back in a normal Icarii bow, let alone the Wolven.

      He finally shrugged. What would it hurt? He picked another arrow from his quiver and handed the bow to Azhure. Tall, but made of surprisingly light ivory wood, it was patterned with golden tracery and strung and tasselled in vivid blues and scarlets. It was as beautiful as it was deadly.

      “Here,” SpikeFeather said, showing Azhure how to place her hands, then notching the arrow. Standing behind her, he curled her fingers around the arrow. “Let me help you to …”

      “No,” Azhure said, stepping away from him slightly. “Let me try first, SpikeFeather. What should I aim for?”

      SpikeFeather smiled indulgently. “Aim high, Azhure, at any of the targets suspended from the ceiling. If you hit one I will make you a gift of the Wolven itself as a mark of Icarii admiration and fashion you a quiver with my own hands.”

      Azhure looked at the targets hanging from the ceiling. Then, without lowering her eyes, she raised the bow and started to draw the arrow back.

      SpikeFeather saw the exact moment when Azhure found that the Wolven required extraordinary strength. Her shoulders, back, and arms suddenly tensed, and her hands quavered so badly that SpikeFeather was sure she would drop the bow or let the arrow tumble to the floor. He started as if to step forward and help her, but EvenSong caught his elbow. “Let her try for herself,” she whispered, and SpikeFeather subsided, although a frown of worry creased his face. What if she couldn’t control the flight of the arrow, and skewered one of his command? None of them wore armour that could withstand a loose Icarii arrow.

      But Azhure managed to retain control, although SpikeFeather could see what a supreme effort it cost her. Gradually her hands steadied and her back straightened. Then she took a deep breath and pulled the arrow all the way back, raising the bow to her face and sighting along the shaft of the arrow.

      SpikeFeather’s eyes widened in amazement. Where did she find the strength to control the bow? A human woman?

      Azhure, as taut and tense as the Wolven itself, finally let fly the arrow in as good an imitation of SpikeFeather’s action as she could manage.

      As one the Icarii watched the flight of the arrow.

      It flew straight and true, striking a golden target the size of a man’s head. But Azhure, for all her effort in drawing, aiming and releasing the arrow, could not give the arrow the same power as SpikeFeather had, and the arrow head only penetrated the target superficially. It hung there for a long moment, then slowly slipped from the target and tumbled to the floor.

      “I hit it!” Azhure cried triumphantly, lowering the bow and turning to SpikeFeather, who stood with an expression of absolute amazement on his face. “It stuck for a moment. It did!” She laughed with joy. “Is the bow mine, SpikeFeather?”

      She spun around in an excited circle until she faced SpikeFeather again. “Well?”

      SpikeFeather lowered his eyes to the woman before him. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself he would never have believed it. It wasn’t simply Azhure’s strength in drawing the bow and loosing the arrow, it was also the fact that she had actually hit the target she’d aimed at. It usually took a novice Icarii archer several weeks of practice before they even got an arrow within spitting distance of a ceiling target – and the Icarii were flight intuitive. Was it simply luck?

      SpikeFeather looked at the magnificent bow that Azhure clutched possessively to her side. It was one of the most valuable and treasured items in the Strike Force’s arsenal. What had he done?

      Azhure’s smile died and her eyes narrowed as she watched the welter of emotions play across SpikeFeather’s face; emotions mirrored on the faces of the eleven Icarii who stood at his back. EvenSong looked as though she had swallowed the arrow instead of simply watching it hit the target.

      Azhure stepped over and lifted another arrow from the quiver on SpikeFeather’s back. He flinched a little as her hand brushed the downy red feathers on the back of his neck.

      “No fluke,” she said, her eyes unexpectedly dark as she stared into SpikeFeather’s face. “If I miss this time then I will return the bow. But if I hit the target, then you will not only fashion me the quiver to sling across my back, but fletch the arrows to go in it with your own flight feathers, SpikeFeather TrueSong. Dyed the same blue as my eyes, I think.”

      Then, in a movement almost as elegant as SpikeFeather’s, Azhure notched the arrow, raised the bow, sighted, and loosed the arrow. This time it struck the target true, the solid thunk as it penetrated deep into the golden orb audible around the chamber.

      “The Wolven is mine,” Azhure said into the utter silence. “I think it likes me. It felt easier the second time.”

      SpikeFeather dropped his eyes to Azhure, then bowed deep before her, his wings sweeping a wide arc on the floor behind him. When he straightened, his eyes were solemn. “The Wolven is yours, Azhure. I will fashion you a quiver to hold arrows fletched with feathers from my own wings. You are an archer-born, Azhure, and I will welcome you whenever you wish to train with my Wing.”

      “Yes,” Azhure said to the handsome birdman. “I would like to return and train with your command, SpikeFeather TrueSong.”

      “Then make sure that when the time arrives, you deal death with the Wolven, Azhure. That is why it was crafted.”

      Later, the muscles in her back, arms and chest burning with the effort required to use the bow, Azhure mounted the ladder, the bow slung across her СКАЧАТЬ