[Arry]

‘Stick with fiery arrows for now . . . I want to save the wildfire.’ Captain Rakin had given the order and now Takad rasped out his orders. ‘You! Boy!’ he called to Bahir as his eye fell on him. ‘To the firing line, where you belong! You’re not there by the time I’ve blinked my eyes, it’s down to the benches and chains for you.’ He gave the boy a wolfish grin. ‘And wouldn’t that be too bad for those pretty little hands of yours . . .’ Takad snapped his fingers and one of the sailors came to stand by him.

Bahir knew better than to answer back or for that matter to even look the boatswain in the eye. He simply mumbled a “Sir!” and ran for his post. Behind him he could hear the mocking laughter of the two men.

‘I’ll feed your livers to the gulls someday,’ he muttered as he entered the small room where the arrows were kept. Bahir took up one of the racks of arrows with the tips wrapped in oil soaked strips of linen and slung the carry strap over his left shoulder. In the brazier that stood just out side the room’s entry way, he lit the thick punk sticks he held in his right hand. He flew up to the deck where the archers were gathering, lining themselves up for the coming skirmish.

‘Arrows at the ready, Sirs,’ he called out to Azar and Balak, the two bowmen he served in the battles. He took his place behind and between them, waiting for the orders to fire.