Kindred: The Man With No Name

Alec

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"Release."

A flurry of arrows cut through the thick morning air and with sharp synchronized cracks, hit their targets four hundred yards away. In the fog, the trees were blurred like an old painting, but Alec did not need visibility to know that all the arrows had found their mark. The first tier never missed.

They step aside and let the second tier approach.

He was up.

"Nock," Ivar's voice cut through the mist again.

He drew an arrow from his quiver and placed it on his bow.

"Draw."

He pulled it back between bent fingers, all the way to the bridge of his nose and held it still, even as the fog drifted past him, looming as far as he could see.

"Release."

He let go. The arrow cuts through the two hundred yard marked tree he had aimed at. Alec looked around. Most of the boys in his group had found their mark as well.

Ivar started towards the two hundred yard marked oaks. The grim expression in his gray eyes as he walked back made some of the boys groan. They all turned their heads towards Bard. The boy was about twice as tall as most of them, but under all the glaring gazes, he looked just as small.

"Again" Ivar slowly whispered.

They drew their arrows and released. Almost every single one of them found their mark.

Bard's arrow found the bark of a pine tree fifty yards away from his target. Ivar took the long carved nymph bow from him and handed him a smaller hunting bow. It had a relatively lighter draw weight, but the result was remarkably worse. He found the bushes this time as a family of squirrels jumped out perturbed, and scurried off into the forest.

Alec grumbled as hard as the rest of them every time the boy missed and they had to go again. They kept at it until their forearms and fingers ached raw. He could barely lift his bow as he pulled back its bowstring for what felt like the hundredth time. His arrow skated off the tree he was supposed to hit, its shaft shattering into two.

A feeling of relief like he had never known engulfed him as Ivar finally dismissed them. They rushed towards the trees to fetch their arrows before making their way down the ravine.

There were muted grumbles as soon as Ivar's large dark frame was out of sight. It wasn't hard to guess whom most of the ire was directed to as they unstrung their bows. Bard had never been much of a hunter, he wasn't much of anything really, which was offsetting considering the boy's heritage.

He was from Lion's mane, a city built on the foundations of blood and war. His people were as famed as the Amazons when it came to ferocity.

It was well known that every child in Mane, upon his or her twelfth birthday, was cast out into the ungirded wild lands, where they were tasked with hunting and bringing back whatever creature they were assigned. The killing came after, and they mounted the remains of their slain prize in their homes.

Bard was as far off from a warrior as one could be. However, what he lacked in physical strength, fortitude, nerve, intuition or any other particularly defining skill set, he more than made up for with his ability to spin a tale. His brothers nicknamed him bird as his mouth seldom remained shut, even as he ate. He could chirp on for hours once he got going. The meaner faction of the Brotherhood claimed that the name spawned from his cropped back auburn hair, obscenely long freckled nose, and large wooly eyebrows.

Most of the younger boys crowded next to him as they supped. He told stories of lions as large as bears, the fierce warriors who hunted them, and the world of old, in a time when men could fly, and glass buildings stretched out and touched the sky.