The Archer

Chapter Four

A year and a half later there is an unexpected turn of events. There we were, sitting around the fire, roasting a rabbit for dinner as usual. Then ten bandits jumped through the brush. They run in, grabbing things and tucking them into satchels. One of them, who was tall and had strangely glowing yellow eyes, had a bow. He had it pulled back and was about to shoot the wolf cub who was attacking one of the men. Marcus was larger than he was now, not really a cub anymore, and was actually doing some damage.  My mother cried out, as a hand grabbed her neck and a blade slit her throat. I screamed, throwing one of my knives at her attacker’s face, which had a cruel grin on it only until he saw the gleam of metal. It landed right between his eyes, and he coughed, blood pouring out of his mouth and landing on my already crimson soaked mother.

I swung around, throwing two knives, both some how penetrating two more men. I turned to the yellow-eyed man and aimed my sharpest dagger at him. A grin spread across his face. I threw it, but instead of it hitting its mark, the knife hit the tree behind where he just was. All that was left was a puff of smoke and a cruel cackle. “See you soon,” a voice of evilness whispered in my ear. Marcus was tearing apart a man. “Marcus, heel. Marcus, attack.” He stopped mauling him, and attacked someone else. Six down, four to go. I picked up two daggers from the throats of the second two I had thrown at.

I aim at a short man who is digging in my mother’s tent and taking some of the little jewelry she owns. He bends over as I throw, and the knife wedges into the ground a few feet in front of him. He looks at the handle before picking it up and throwing it at me as he turns around. I duck and roll, throwing the other one. It strikes his stomach, and his fat jiggles around it before the slow trickle of blood starts collecting around the dagger and staining his brown shirt to look more maroon. He looks down and I see tears pooling in his eyes. He pulls it out, looking in unbelief at the deep cut through his shirt and skin. “Look what you did,” the tears spill over. “You had to go and kill me, didn’t you?”

I scoff. “I did you a favor, old man. Good riddance to you and you’re welcome. I have put you out of your misery.” A smile curls my lips and I stab him in the heart with the dagger he had removed from his stomach. He coughs and falls to the ground, lying still.

Three men are still gallivanting through the camp. I quickly kill them and go to my mother. She’s dead, and I gently close her staring eyes.

I awake from the nightmares of the events that had taken place two days before and begin shaking. My mother was dead. I had killed ten men. Something nags at my memory from the dream. Something was wrong in it. Something might have happened that didn’t in the dream, or something might have happened in the dream that didn’t happen in real life. I can’t place my finger on it. Then I realize. I was acting blood thirsty and psychotic in the dream. But in life, I had been crying and trembling the whole time. I can’t believe I actually killed ten men. Their blood was on my hands, and I feel terrible. For a second, I have a thought that I killed eleven, but then I swat it away like an annoying fly. I would definitely know if I killed another one. My mother is dead. I let it sink in. I stare off into the distance as the dream flashes through my eyes again. Not a dream. A memory. I burst out crying and Marcus whimpers before curling up against me, his huge body feeling protective. I close my eyes and go back to sleep, pictures of blood and death flashing under my eyelids.

And those so strange yellow eyes.