Chapter 539: A Day in Spring
A Day in Spring
Spring festival was a day of revelry and joy, except for those soldiers, who had one way or another angered their commanders and thus been volunteered to do guard or patrol duty. This did not include any prefects, and Martel was free to make his way to Esmouth and experience the merrymaking. Together with Eleanor, he walked into the transformed town. The main road was lined with stalls and entertainers, all of them travellers who had arrived over the last days. For once, nearly everything could be found in Esmouth, whether something to sweeten the tongue, wear on the right occasion, or thrill the eyes and ears.
His purse full, Martel threw pennies at every performer, and sometimes a silver piece if he felt impressed. Anything that looked tasty or smelled delicious, he gave a try. He made sure to buy two every time, in case Eleanor could be tempted; if not, he had no qualms about eating both treats.
"Your stomach will hurt," she cautioned him.
"I accept this pain."
They continued on their leisurely stroll, taking their time to investigate anything that caught their attention. Eventually, this brought them to a small section by the wall, which had been cleared. Ropes and posts had been erected to fence off an area, creating a small archery range. Using the wall as background, a cow's hide had been strung up. The middle of the hide had a sheepskin on top of it, which itself had the pelt of a squirrel in the centre, thus creating concentric circles to act as target.
At the other end of this improvised range stood several Tyrians. "Any archer dare try against Bjorn?" one of them asked, gesturing towards a lean hunter with long, sinewy arms. "One silver to shoot an arrow, and if you do better than him, you get five back!"
Egged on by friends and by-standers, the legionaries familiar with a bow gave it a try. Many of them were excellent shots, often striking the innermost pelt. Yet every time, the Tyrian struck better, hitting the empty eyehole of the squirrel serving as target.
Having a little more knowledge about the Tyrian scouts and their arrows than most, Martel noticed how this Bjorn had this own quiver, while they gave a different set of arrows to the challenger. "Eleanor, why don't you give it a try?" he suggested.
"I may be a decent shot, but I doubt I can do better than him," she admitted.
Martel dug out two coins, one of gold and one of silver. He gave the latter to Eleanor. "I'll be happy to patronise your entry. I have faith in your abilities."
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"Alright, why not?" Eleanor assented, and she pushed her way towards the Tyrian in charge of the spectacle.
Meanwhile, still holding the other coin, Martel also moved through the crowd, but he went for the archer. Avoiding attention, he let the golden coin brush up against the Tyrian's quiver.
Eleanor went first. Her arrow struck the squirrel, just below the head. After her, the Tyrian archer took position demonstratively, slowly nocking his arrow and pulling back the string. After spending time taking aim, he released his arrow. It struck just outside the squirrel pelt, hitting the sheepskin instead.
Grumbling, the Tyrian in charge of the game paid out five silvers. Eleanor looked around and found Martel, approaching him with a smile. "I won!"
"As I said, I have faith in you." As she tried to give him her winnings, he raised his hands in rejection. "That's yours."
She gave him a look born of suspicion. "How did you know he would miss?"
He grinned. "I'll tell you if you buy me something to drink."
"I suppose that's only fair."
***
Once they each had a cup of wine, the pair sat down on some of the logs and debris used as seating in the main square. Before long, the resident stonemage joined them, likewise equipped with a drink. "My favourite wizards in this town. Granted, the field is narrow." Henry laughed at his own words. "How is the festival treating you?"
"I beat the Tyrians at their own game," Eleanor related with pride. "At the archery contest. Martel helped a little, perhaps."
"How so?" Henry looked from one to the other. "I wouldn't have thought his magic could help with shooting arrows."
"It wouldn't, but the Tyrians were winning because they used arrows with runes to help them hit their mark. A touch of gold brushed against those arrows, and their advantage evaporated," Martel explained.
"I would never have thought of that," the stonemage admitted, "but I don't know anything about Tyrians either, or runes, for that matter."
"They didn't teach them to you at the Lyceum?" Eleanor asked.
Henry shook his head. "I don't think any of the teachers had such knowledge back when I attended."
"You must recall, our good friend Henry finished his studies sometime in the previous century," Martel helpfully pointed out.
"I'm not decrepit," the stonemage protested. "Didn't you just ask for my help the other day, fixing up that shack where you brew your little potions? And now you mock me."
"But think of all the good that my elixirs and balms could do for you," Martel replied. "You know, given how much your health is bound to suffer from old age."
"No respect for elders." Henry shook his head at this sad state of affairs.
"Master Henry, Master Henry!" A gaggle of children appeared. "Show us something!" they shouted as they practically surrounded him.
"What, am I some marketplace jester, performing tricks on command?" Despite his indignant words, a pillar of earth shot up from the ground in the midst of the children. They recoiled in confusion that quickly turned to laughter.
A blanket of fire appeared, enclosing around the earthen pillar, and the children reacted with appropriate awe. "Master Henry, you've gotten better!"
"Hm. Indeed." Henry looked at Martel as they both dispelled their effects. "Now run along, you little scoundrels!" The children did so, to the sounds of loud laughter. Around them, the festival continued.
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