Chapter 19

The next morning, Shavala accompanied Corec when he returned to the bowyer’s shop, since he’d mentioned that the man worked with more than just crossbows. She carried her own bow with her, along with her quiver and the eight arrows she’d been able to find after the fight with the drakes, though one of the shafts had been broken when someone stepped on it, and several of the metal tips would need sharpening. She’d lost four arrows to the depths of the blackberry bushes and the tall, thick grasses of the meadow.

The shop was on the western edge of town, a long walk from the inn where they were staying, so they rode their horses. Corec directed Dot to a hitching post.

“Here we are,” he said.

“Go stand next to Dot,” Shavala told Socks.

He did, but then stomped his foot in irritation. He answered to his own name readily enough, but he didn’t like it when she used the human names for the other animals. She hadn’t figured out what he wanted her to call them instead.

She and Corec dismounted and looped the reins around the post. Socks stomped again, not wanting to be tied.

“You can be patient,” Shavala said. “Remember what happened last time.” In the last village they’d visited, a young boy had seen Socks without a bridle or reins, and had thought he’d run away from someone. The boy had tried to lead the horse away to find an adult, but Shavala had been standing nearby and stopped him. “I’ll take it off when we leave town.”

Corec untied the broken remains of the crossbow from the side of his saddle. The quiver was already looped over his shoulder. While Shavala waited for him, she found the right storefront, labeled in trade tongue as Marl’s Bowyers and Fletchers. Behind the glass window were stands holding a crossbow like Corec’s and a massive longbow, a foot taller than Shavala. It was made of yew, and she couldn’t imagine how much strength would be necessary to draw the bowstring back.

Corec held the door open for her and they went through.

“Hello, hello!” called out a tall, skinny, older man from the rear of the shop. He stood up from a bench and took off a pair spectacles he’d been wearing while inspecting some fletching. “How did your hunt go? Did the crossbow work?”

“We got the drake, but never got a chance to use the bow,” Corec said, holding it up in front of him. “Can you do anything with it?”

“How did you manage that?” the man said, taking the broken bow and peering at it.

“The drake landed on top of us before we knew it was there.”

“Hmm. I can fix it, but I’ll need a couple of days.”

“We’re leaving in a few hours. Would you be willing to buy it back?”

“In this condition? Even if you include the quiver and bolts, I can only give you ten silver. The limb’s the most expensive part.”

Corec frowned, but said, “We’ll take it.”

Shavala had been walking around the room looking at the various bows and supplies. She stopped when she saw something interesting. “What’s this?” she asked.

“War quiver,” the shopkeeper said, taking a quick glance before looking back at the crossbow.

“It’s big. How much can it hold? I ran out of arrows yesterday.”

“It fits two dozen comfortably. More, if you don’t care how difficult it is to get them back out again.”

“What you have now is what we’d call a hunting quiver,” Corec said. “You don’t need as many arrows when you’re hunting. In Larso, when archers go to war, they’re required to field eight dozen arrows, so they usually wear a war quiver on their back and one on their hip, and carry two bundled sheaves. And they have supply wagons behind them with more.”

“Their hip?” Shavala asked. Some of the older rangers carried large quivers, but not on their hips. That seemed awkward.

“Well, that’s only when they’re headed to a fight. They’re not traveling through a forest for days on end. They’re marching directly to battle, and they need as many arrows as they can bring.”

“Will it fit my arrows?” she asked the proprietor. The quiver was taller than she was used to.

The man put the crossbow on the counter and came over to her. “I’m sorry, Lady Elf. I didn’t realize who you were. Your people don’t typically visit my shop—they’re particular about their bows. My name is Marl.”

“I am Shavala.”

“May I see your quiver?”

She passed it to him.

He carefully examined it, then pulled out an arrow and eyed the length. “Tip’s blunted.”

“It hit the drake’s scales. I need to sharpen it.”

He nodded. “Hmm. Shorter than a traditional longbow, longer than a horse bow.” He glanced at her height. “Though I suppose from your point of view, it’s a longbow. We could put a wooden block in the bottom of the quiver to prop the arrows up high enough, but ... well, let’s see how it fits.”

He set her quiver aside and pulled the larger one from the wall, passing it to her. She slung it over her back but felt it hitting uncomfortably low and knew it wouldn’t work.

“No, that won’t do,” he said. “It’ll bounce around too much, and you couldn’t wear it while you’re riding. Let me see ... I’ve got a horse bow quiver around here somewhere.”

Marl wandered to the back of the shop, which appeared to double as a workshop, so Shavala removed the war quiver and hung it back up on the wall.

“Are you going to buy more arrows?” Corec asked quietly.

“His are too long for my bow, but I have supplies to make more, and if he sells shafts, I can shorten them.”

The shopkeeper returned, carrying a quiver that was shorter than she was used to, but broader. “Here. Let’s try this.”

She moved some of her arrows to the new quiver, and frowned when she saw how much they stuck up over the top.

“That’s not necessarily bad,” Marl said. “It’s tall enough that they won’t bounce out, even if you’re on a galloping horse. That’s what it’s meant for, after all. The arrows being longer than a horse bow’s shouldn’t change that. We’d just need to fix where it rests on your back, so they’re where you’re expecting them to be.”

He had her try it on, and while she was wearing it, he adjusted the straps until she was comfortable with it. It would work, but she decided to try to make her own, with what little leatherwork her brother had taught her. Or ask her brother to make her one, if she saw him anytime soon.

“Do you sell blank shafts?” she asked.

“Not usually, but I have plenty sitting in back. I guess I can make you a deal.”

“How many metal coins would it cost for four dozen blanks, four dozen steel broadheads, and enough goose feathers to fletch them all?” She could use the smaller obsidian and flint tips she’d brought with her to make some hunting arrows, but she wanted to have more of the steel-tipped arrows on hand if she was going to run into angry beasts or men with glowing red eyes.

Marl thought for a moment. “Including the quiver, let’s call that five silver.”

After she’d paid him, Shavala couldn’t control her curiosity any longer and pointed to the longbow. “How does anyone use that?”

The shopkeeper laughed. “A good longbowman is born, not made. We train our whole lives to build up enough strength, and we pass the training down from father to son. I can’t pull a full-strength bow any longer, but I spent thirty years as an archer. How long have you had that little bow of yours?”

“I only started forty years ago, but most of my teachers have been shooting for two or three hundred years.”

The shopkeeper had a coughing fit, and Corec stared at her, his eyes wide.

“Ahh, yes, of course,” Marl said, getting his cough under control. “I’m sure there are benefits to having bows that more people can use. That’s one reason why I started making the crossbows. There are only so many longbowmen around, and most of them would rather make their own gear, but anyone can pick up a crossbow and learn to use it.”

He went back to the workshop area to bundle up her purchases.

“Forty years?” Corec asked her. “I thought you were younger than me!”

She laughed. “I’m only a hundred and twenty. I’ve been an adult for nine years, the way my people count time. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two. I’ve been on my own for six years.”

“Oh,” she said. She’d known that humans matured much earlier, but a ninety-eight year difference seemed like a lot. He’d been an adult at sixteen? She couldn’t even remember being sixteen. Her oldest memories were of her early twenties—mostly getting in trouble for playing with her brother’s belt knife or for getting too close to the cookstove while the fire was lit.

Corec shook his head. “Anyway, let’s finish up here and go look for another pack mule, then see if the others were able to find everything on the list.”