2nd Day of Summer, 514 A.V.
The combat training yards were packed in this early summer’s afternoon. The heat beat down on them, making every warrior in the yard gleam with sweat. Zukwa was near the edge, in a staggered line of bowmen all practicing their shot. Across the yard a few other warriors practiced with a boomerang whilst the middle bit was reserved for melee training. There was a crowd there that had gathered to take turns wrestling in a now muddied patch of earth.
Zukwa could hear shouts of glee rise from the crowd as well as exclamations of horror at the occasional surprise knock out. They were boisterous and wild, and he prided himself that he stood amongst them. Those at the archery targets were quite though. It was a solitary task requiring much concentration. Zukwa and the other archers would fire a full quiver of twenty arrows, then call a halt and retrieve them. So far the myrian Rekrut had fired sixty arrows and only hit the target twenty five times. Less than half of them were hitting. He was forced to walk the yards past the target to hurriedly retrieve his shafts. The Myrians calling the order to halt was a slim female Tokoh who had only missed seven times since Zukwa had joined them. She was also quite beautiful, unnervingly so.
Zukwa raised the composite shortbow he carried at all times. He pulled the string back nearly to his ear, using the back and shoulders as he had been taught since a young age. He felt the incredible tension in his left shoulder, elbow, and wrist from holding back the wrath of the weapon. Closing his right eye, Zukwa set his left against the shaft of the arrow he had notched. The dark, murky pupil followed the shaft with it’s gaze. Zukwa set his gaze first at the viciously sharpened point, then at the innocent target in the distance. All of this he did in the span of a second.
Zukwa let the string slip from his heavily callused left thumb, upon which rested the notched arrow. He felt the air rip apart around his head as the shaft tore through it, eager to reach its victim. The bow bent back to its resting state, the string ripping back across the guard Zukwa wore to protect his arm. Opening his right eye once more, the youth watched his arrow sail through the air eagerly. He loved seeing the deadly point embed itself. He had loved watching it when he was six, and he loved it now. The Myrian dreamed of becoming a masterful archer, and raining death upon the Dhani with his skill.
The arrow, however, did not hit its intended target. It ripped at the linen cloth covering the circular target. But only on the very edge. The pale wood of the shaft instead flew past the target and drove itself into the soft mud of the yard beyond. But, Zukwa thought, both the Rekruts beside him missed completely.
He was not embarrassing himself too badly. Most of the ‘warriors’ in the line were fresh Rekruts, youths in their initial phases of service. He had been in the Taloban army for barely two seasons, fulfilling one sixth of his mandatory service. Zukwa did not intend to leave the army however. He would cast his fate in with these warriors from all manner of clan before returning to hope for a place amongst the Poisoned Arrow. Here they may look down at him as unseasoned, untested, but they did not look at him with hate. Here he truly belonged. The Goddess-Queen would appreciate a male who devoted his life to the whole of Taloba, rather than just his clan. Or at least he hoped she would.
This foolish warrior would not venture to know what you would appreciate, my Goddess-Queen.
Zukwa prayed quickly after the ambitious thought. He scorned ambition for ones self. A true warrior was a simple thing. Devoted to the pursuit of perfection, he honed his skills and his mind for the sake of the cause, not of himself. Ambition, greed, pride… these were all things that muddied the ability to kill. They weighed a man down. But a warrior must be light like a flurry of wind. He would strip himself of the excess and become light.
And Myri would find her use for him.
