Free The Immortals of Myrdwyer by Brian Kittrell Page A

clientele.”
    “No need to be snippy about it.” Marac sneered. “Where can we find a bow? Nothing too extravagant.”
    “I’m sorry if I can’t help with that. You might ask Paldren, given that it’s a weapon.”
    “Right. We’ll see Sir Paldren.” Marac turned and walked out of the inn.
    “Thank you for all of your…” Laedron eyed Brenner one last time before leaving. “…hospitality, I think.”
    Laedron, Valyrie, and Brice jogged behind Marac, joining him as he reached the base of the ladder.
    “Sir Paldren?” Marac called.
    Paldren turned toward them. “Yes?”
    “Might you have a bow for sale?”
    “What?” Paldren raised an eyebrow. “A bow for sale?”
    “We have need of a bow.”
    “And arrows,” Valyrie whispered.
    “Arrows, too.” Marac put his hands on his hips. “Do you have any we could buy?”
    “Well, let me think about that.” Paldren climbed down the rickety ladder. “What do you need it for?”
    “One of our party is an archer.”
    Paldren examined Brice. “And he’s without a bow?”
    “Not him,” Laedron said, gesturing to Valyrie.
    “A girl?” Paldren sized her up. “What would such a pretty lass need with a weapon?”
    “To do my part. Will you sell us one or not?” she asked, a fire behind her eyes.
    “I have one, and some spare arrows, too, that I could part with, I suppose. For the right price.”
    Here we go again. Laedron rolled his eyes. How much this time? Twenty platinum, a castle, land, and title?
    “Fifty gold coins for the lot,” Paldren said, scratching his chin. “A bow and fifty arrows.”
    Marac’s eyes widened. “Fifty—”
    “We’ll take it.” Laedron fished out the coins and handed them over.
    “You’re mad, Lae!” Marac tried to stop the money from changing hands. “Fifty gold? And before we’ve even seen it?”
    “It’s a fine bow, I assure you. Your friend knows a deal when he sees one.” Paldren put the sovereigns in his pocket. “I’ll fetch it, and to put you at ease, young master, I will return your coin should it meet with your disapproval.”
    The knight disappeared through the door of his house, then emerged carrying a stringed length of wood about half the height of a man and curved away from the grip on both sides. In his other hand, he held a quiver. He handed both to Valyrie.
    “A composite yew bow?” she asked, her eyes wide.
    Laedron, though he knew nothing of bows, took her comment and apparent surprise as signs in favor of the bow’s quality and construction.
    Paldren nodded. “It’s lower on the draw weight, but that was the way I needed it. I used that one in the past when I thought I may have had need to shoot from horseback. Since I don’t travel much anymore, it’s yours.”
    “Draw weight?” Laedron asked.
    “The power of the bow.” She pulled the string taut. “The harder it is to draw, the harder the impact of the arrow.”
    “Perhaps I underestimated you,” Paldren said. “Would you care to try it?”
    “I’d rather save the arrows if it’s all the same.”
    “Here.” Paldren pulled one from his own quiver. “Don’t worry about breaking that one. That hay bale is your target.”
    She nodded, nocked the arrow, and drew, the bow and string creaking under the strain. Releasing the string, she squinted past the bow at her target.
    “Not bad,” Paldren said, walking over to the bale and pulling out the arrow. “At least you hit it.”
    “I wasn’t aiming at the bale.” With the others following, she joined Paldren, then tugged at the string wound around the straws of hay and frowned. “Missed my target.”
    “It was close, though. Surprisingly close.” Paldren examined her, as if impressed by her competence. “How long have you been shooting?”
    “For a few years, on and off. Each time the university hosted a new batch of men for the militia, I’d be sure to visit and pick up anything that I could.”
    “University? What university trains archers?”
    “The Arcanists