Chapter Seven – Arrival in Elland

  The joys that the heathland had brought her lasted for far too short a time. The biome itself was far smaller than Atalanta had both expected and hoped. She could have stayed there for a week, at least, noting down all the different animals and behaviours that she’d seen in her journal. Indeed, although she had intended to use the journal as a way to keep track of her adventures – and the front of it was being filled with daily happenings, it was about as much fun to talk about the reconstruction of a roof as it was actually reconstructing it. The back of her journal was where, she believed, the best of it was. It was where she kept her notes, like a very roughly ordered bestiary. Really, it was just the order that she saw things and noted them down. Maybe later, much later, she could come back and refine it. Some day. But that day wasn’t today.

  The landscape that followed the heath, frankly, the only way Atalanta could describe it was with the word scarred. The vivid purple heathland had given way to a notably dull landscape. Spurs of rock jutted out of the ground at odd and oftentimes random angles. The odd wildflower did still shine through, but for the most-part, the rough highlands did little to excite her, with its sickly pale grass. Travelling through it was a nightmare, too. The irregularity of the rocks and often thickness of the lichen that grew on said rocks, made for slow going. You could never be sure where was safe to walk. What patches of ground would hold your weight, and which patches would leave you with a sprained or broken angle. It was better to stay in the cart for this leg of the journey, she feared.

  Which brought with it another problem. This accursed land was cold. With nought but scarred landscape stretching out in front and behind her, there was nothing stopping the wind. It blew a gale. A freezing, biting gale. If it was safe to walk without breaking herself, she’d likely have walked alongside the cart. Used it as a makeshift barrier against the wind. Warmed herself up with some kind of exercise. As it was, however, with the cattle having fully encircled the cart and following the only truly safe path, it’d be near impossible to get back in. No, she just had to make do with temporarily appropriating some of the cowherd’s merchandise. He certainly wouldn’t mind a deer’s pelt being used to keep her arms and legs warm, now, would he? Even if it left much of her face exposed, red and angry from the wind’s harsh bite.

  “How far until Elland?” Most of the journey had been quiet between them. The cowherd was doing her a favour, in return for her giving him back his livelihood. There was little to talk about, and the cowherd had largely given up on small talk the day before. Atalanta didn’t even know his name, she realised, but it was surely too late to ask for it now. She’d just pick it up when he introduced himself in Elland, that would be fine.

  “We’ll be there by day’s end, by my reckoning. We’re not too far off, now.” She raised a sceptical eyebrow at the cowherd’s confidence, then glanced up towards the sun. It was past noon, there would only be a few more hours of daylight, and this mythical village was nowhere in sight. She sighed her affirmation, then slumped down, staring up at the sky. At least it was a clear day, today. The last thing they needed was any early snow, or some hailstone to make this a truly dreadful experience.

  Sure enough, it wouldn’t take long for signs of civilisation to appear. The grass grew more vibrant, replaced with the green leaves of various vegetables sprouting from the earth. A field of gold grew right next to it. Some kind of grain, no doubt. Farmers worked the fields, harvesting their crops, tossing dirt-laden carrots into carts, stacking cabbages up tall, packing the grain all up together. Each of them smiled and waved at the approaching duo, and Atalanta couldn’t help but wave back.

  Then she saw the village. It was certainly... quaint. Small. Far smaller than Ulssia had been. There were, what, three large buildings in the entire settlement? One of them was surely a barn, or another form of storehouse, another was likely the village hall, and the third was likely some kind of inn, or bunkhouse for the rare traveller on the road, she figured. All the buildings were made of stone, with thatched roofs. Strong, sturdy, hopefully watertight. The same stone made up the village’s “walls”. They were a little more impressive than a fence, in reality. They stood about as tall as a man, two stones thick, with the odd “watchtower” around the edge. Raised sections, meant for a single archer to stand in and fire from. There were two entrances. One in the north, and one in the south, which they were approaching. They were simple gates, rather than actual fortifications. A determined force would break through with little to no issue. Still, better to have walls than not, she supposed, and the craftsmanship certainly seemed impressive, if nothing else. No doubt the main advantage of them would be stopping this infernal wind.

  The cowherd blew his whistle once more and the cattle dispersed, looking for land that had been upturned by the farmers, or even a nice fallow field. No doubt the people of the village would appreciate the cattle’s “blessings” in the summertime. The cart progressed onward. The village lit in the orange glow of the sunset as they approached its southern gate.

  “Hold it.” Their progress into the village was halted by a pair of villagers. They had pot-lids in one hand, and a rusted iron-spear in the other. Still, they did their job, even if one of them paled upon seeing Balmung resting on Atalanta’s lap. The quality of their weapons was simply leagues apart, as was their training, no doubt. “What business do you have here?”

  “I’m a trader, and cattle-handler. I come to stay the night in a warm bed and supply myself for the morrow’s journey.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Atalanta. Mercenary. He’s taking me north.” She spoke up for herself, looking down at the pair of villagers. They weren’t cut out for this at all, she could tell, even if they did have best equipment. The rusted spears quivered in the villager’s hands; their grip was weak. They exchanged a look with each other and, after some silent deliberation, eventually nodded. The crossed spears opened up, letting them in.

  “The bunkhouse is at the north end. We don’t get many travellers from the south. The crag tends to dissuade them.”

  “Oh, it nearly dissuaded us. Alas, we are time limited. We’ve already lost a week of our journey. Going around would prove far too much." The way the cowherd spoke unnerved her. His natural cadence had all but disappeared as he spoke to the villager, as if it was just an act. Or perhaps this accent was? She frowned all the same, grabbed Balmung and her bow, then hopped out of the cart, resting the guard of the blade on her shoulder and hooking her bow to her belt.

  “I’ll pay for my own bed, later. I’m going for a walk. Stretch my legs a little. We’re sleeping in the north, right? I’ll find my way.”

  “Then this is where we shall part ways. See you tomorrow, Atalanta.” The cart moved through the village gates and, after giving it a few seconds, Atalanta turned to the villagers, smiling a them.

  “Alright, what's going on here?” Straight to business. It would’ve been normal to be wary of a stranger, if not for the fact that the farmers in the fields had greeted them with open arms on the way in. It would’ve been normal to guard your gate, if your soldiers were actually well-trained. Or well-equipped. Or if there was actually a real gate to defend.

  “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is standard Ellandi Protocol.” The taller of the two guards said. His grip was a lot surer on his spear, but the spearhead also looked a lot more worn.

  “Jacob, she could-” The shorter of the two guards started to speak, but Jason held his hand up to stop him.

  “We are not getting her involved.”

  “But she has a sword-”

  “And what if that’s what they’re looking for, Frank? Not a chance.” Atalanta smiled and crossed her arms, watching the two villagers bicker amongst themselves. She’d gotten some good information from them at the very least. She was thankful for that.

  “Er, sorry about this, miss. It’s probably best if you move on. This dunderhead here doesn’t know what’s best for him. Rest assured, Elland is safe with us on guard.” Jason turned back to her, Frank growing more energetic behind him. Rambling something about how rare travellers were, and how they were ‘blessed’ that she had appeared before them.

  “Oh, no, it’s no worry. But, hey, if you need an extra blade, I’m always available. For a fee.” She smiled and gave the pair of guards a bow, heading into the village.

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  It was quiet. Too quiet. She expected that there’d be some lull in the town’s activity. It was early evening, after all, and many of the farmers were still coming in from working the village’s fields, but that didn’t explain everyone else. There were only three people by the village's well – fetching water for the rest of their evening or washing their clothes. Back in Ulssia, there were days that you wouldn’t be able to see the well, with so many people swarming it. The local alehouse – at least, she assumed that was what it was, with several benches set up outside it – was just as quiet. There were only two people sat outside, with a single tankard of ale each. They smiled and waved as Atalanta passed – she just gave them a nod and carried on her way. Quite frankly, she wanted to be out of here first thing tomorrow morning. This town was just setting some alarm bells off in her mind that she simply couldn’t understand.

  Thunk! Her head shot up as she heard a sound that she recognised. An arrow hitting straw. A target, no doubt, set up by someone. Her eyes darted around – initially trying to find where the target was, then trying to find where the shooter was. Standing in the middle of an active archery range wasn’t her idea of fun. She found her shooter first – up in the village’s watchtower. A young man with dusty blonde hair. His bow was still in hand, a second arrow primed. He loosed his arrow – it soared straight over Atalanta’s head. She followed its flight, watching as it missed its target and embedded itself into the ground.

  She looked to the watchtower again and held her two shooting fingers up on her right hand, high above her head. They were together, the rest of her fingers curled up against her palm. It was a hunter’s guild signal – to show that they saw the other. A hunter with good sense would then hold their fire until the other hunter passed or provide a counter signal to coordinate amongst themselves. A useful tactic whilst hunting, eliminating opportunities for their prey to notice and flee from them. It evidently wasn’t a signal that this bowman knew, however. He nocked and fired another arrow – this time going way over his makeshift target. She sighed and stepped back, taking refuge in one of the village’s streets and leaning on one of the villager’s houses. She hoped they didn’t mind her being there. The view she got was just enough to watch the arrows fly by.

  Of the ten that followed, three of them hit the target. Four of them went over, and three of them undershot her mark. One of them even landed where Atalanta had been standing, moments prior. Four out of the thirteen arrows she was aware of landed. Not exactly world-class. Especially with their precision. One of them hit the centre of his target, the other three that had landed, however? They formed a triangle surrounding the centre. One at the top, one at the bottom, and one all the way on the right. If it was a sporting target, she doubted that they’d have won him any points. Still, it seemed he was out of arrows, as the archer descended from the tower and approached his mark with a frown.

  “Four of them this time... Maybe if I aim in the middle of them..?” He spoke to himself as he plucked the arrows from the target. It was generally good advice to fire in the middle of a target, but something told Atalanta that that wasn’t what he meant. She stepped out from her cover and spoke up.

  “Nice shooting.” He nearly jumped out of his skin. His head whipped around to look at her, as if she’d just appeared from nowhere. He quickly relaxed, though, trying to laugh his reaction off.

  “You’re that girl from the cart.”

  “You’ve got good eyes, when you want to use them.” She was still somewhat sore about him just ignoring her presence and continuing to shoot. There was no way he didn’t see her, did he really trust in his own skill that much?

  “Huh? Oh- Nobody'd be stupid enough to stand in the middle of an archery range, now, would they? I figured you’d move on.” He approached her, and she got a good look at him. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen – his face was smooth, untouched by facial hair nor razor. His eyes were a piercing blue colour, cutting straight into Atalanta’s soul. He held his left hand out for a handshake, given his right hand still had all of his arrows in them. His wrist was red and bloodied. A sight that Atalanta was all too familiar with, the string of his bow cutting through his soft flesh. At least he’d continued shooting throughout it. He may have had rocks for brains, but the kid was tenacious, she could see that much. “The name’s Harold. You can call me Hal, if you want.”

  She took his hand – his grip was surprisingly strong. His smile far friendlier than the guards had greeted her with, much closer to the farmers that were out in the field, if anything. “Atalanta but call me Ata, Hal.” If he was fine with her shortening his name, she’d give him the same respect. She’d answer to pretty much any form of her name, if it was recognisable. He silently spoke her name a couple of times, before seemingly giving up.

  “So, what brings you here, Ata?”

  “Travel for me, trade for my companion. But that’s not important.” She didn’t want to be asked a dozen questions about her travels, as she would’ve done in Harold’s shoes. Instead, she wanted to get to facts. “You’re hurt. You’re training. Why?” Although Hal’s eyes may have been piercing, her words were cutting, and if he had been older, maybe he would’ve had a convincing lie for her. He just slumped instead and shook his head.

  “Despite what the guards say, we’re... not doing too hot. Some fellas showed up last week, looking for something. Gave us a week to find it, else they’d put us to the torch. Thing is, we don’t have what they’re looking for. I’ve never even heard of a golden sword-” Atalanta’s eyes widened. Her grip tightened on Balmung’s scabbard, knuckles whitening. No, there was no way they were looking for her. Nobody could’ve known that she’d be here. Nobody would have a reason to even look for her in the first place. Yet the threat was so close to her home. It couldn’t just be a coincidence, could it?

  “So, you’re practicing your archery to defend yourself? That’s noble. That’s good. But your aim...” She twisted the conversation. She couldn’t believe it. She refused to believe that she was the one endangering this village. It was a coincidence. It was a coincidence. But those words just wouldn’t settle. She had to do something. If not for herself, then for this village. She couldn’t just overlook people in need, even if her wallet wasn’t going to benefit from the transaction.

  “Not the best, I know. I’m doing what I can with what I’ve got, but... it’s not going well.” He was still young. If he’d been practicing for a week, then... maybe he’d just burnt himself out? Put too much into it, not let himself rest enough? He should’ve improved far more than he had. She couldn’t even remember the last time she struggled to hit her target without some outside circumstance affecting it. Maybe it was an equipment issue?

  “Let me see your bow. I’ve got one of my own, maybe I can offer some pointers.” She tapped the bow at her side, as if bringing it to Harold’s attention for the first time. This kid. Observant, and yet not in equal measure. How did he function?

  “Right. It’s still up in the tower. Follow me.” He took a moment to collect the rest of his arrows, then lead Atalanta up into the watchtower.

  The bow was resting in its stand, the bowstring sitting just above the wooden platform. It was long – about as tall as Harold himself was – with the bow’s shelf in the centre. Its limbs were in good condition, although quite notably a pale shade of green, the bowstring seemed fine enough. She reached down to pick it up, Harold nodding in confirmation. She gave it another inspection. It was heavier than she expected. Still made of wood, that was for certain, as she could see the grains running along the bow’s limbs. She wasn’t an expert, though.

  “She’s Boressian Copperbirch. My dad’s. He used to be a soldier for the king, so he says.” It was a war bow then. One formed in the frozen north. She tested the string, nodding to herself. That was his problem, she should’ve known.

  “It’s too much for you. I’m surprised you can fire the thing at all.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s made to punch through plate. You’ve given yourself a week of training. Watch.” She held out her hand for an arrow, nocked it, and drew the bow back. Her body screamed bloody murder at her. Her chest felt like it was ripping itself in half, her forearm trembling. She lined it up, straight at the centre, and fired. The arrow rocketed out of the bow, slamming into the target. She’d overshot somewhat, hitting the upper quarter mark. At least she was still horizontally central.

  “You’re firing too quickly and you’re firing a bow that’s far too powerful for you. You have any prior experience?”

  “Only hunting with my dad every so often. He always brought his bow along but never let me fire it.” He looked dejected. Atalanta had the perfect way to improve his mood. She unhooked her bow and held it out.

  “Try mine. You’re not keeping it but test your aim.”

  He gingerly took Atalanta’s bow – as if it was something fragile that would break in a moment – then nocked an arrow. Bullseye. A second arrow. A third. All scattered around the centre, far closer than Atalanta’s own shot with the longbow had been.

  “It makes a difference, right?” She perched on the other side of the watchtower’s wall – careful not to fall off – and smiled.

  “It does. I never could’ve known...”

  “It’s good that you’re building strength with your dad’s bow, but don’t overdo it, okay? Now, when are these bandits coming back?” Back to business. She’d helped the village defend itself somehow, that should’ve quelled her paranoid conscience. It didn’t. Why would it? One soldier couldn’t turn the tide of a battle, no matter how advantageous his position.

  “Let’s see... Uh... tomorrow, I think.” He counted on his fingers, evidently counting back to when he’d seen them last arrive. He’d got to six. The full week would be tomorrow. If they set out in the morning, perhaps she’d encounter them? She could draw them away? Or... No, it would be suicide. It wasn’t the cowherd’s fight, either. She’d stay here. Until the bandits came. She had to stay.

  “Then I will fight them alongside you, Hal. Elland will not burn, so long as I stand to watch over it.”

  “Really? But you don’t know us, we hardly have the coin to pay you, the harvest is looking like it’ll be bad this year, and-”

  “I’ll fight. It’s the least I can do. Don’t worry. I’m better with my blade than I am with my bow, anyway. I’ll hold one gate, you need to watch over the other for me, okay? Make sure those guys don’t get too hurt, and that you get a good night’s sleep. It’s going to be a long day. Keep the bow for now. You’ll do better being able to actually hit something than being the second most dangerous thing in the fight.”

  “The first?”

  “Myself, of course.” She grinned and opened the watchtower’s hatch, climbing down to the village streets. She had no intention of sleeping. She’d rested enough on the cart. Tonight, she was going to prepare herself for the coming attack.