Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07) Read Online Free PDF Page A

loosed too soon, the string loud against his leathers. The arrow disappeared into the forest.
    Tennetty laughed out loud, and Jason started to bristle, but caught himself.
     "Well," he said, "let's say we start hunting in that direction."
    "After," I said. "Let's fire some more practice arrows first."
    * * *
    Hunting, like fishing—and sex, for that matter—is one of those things where you really have to be there to understand it.
    Except for the killing part, I like it, a lot. At least the way we did it. You stalk across the floor of the dark forest, the comforting rot of leaves and humus in your nostrils, listening, watching intently—and without worrying about somebody jumping out from behind a tree and killing you. It's a good thing.
    At my side were people I trusted, because I don't go hunting with people I don't trust.
    There are other ways to do it. One of the best ways to actually catch food involves finding a good spot and waiting for the game to pass by. You sit, conserving energy, and wait. Eventually, if you've picked your spot right, your rabbit comes into view, or your deer, or antelope or whatever. But that's survival hunting.
    This was more fun. Back on the Other Side, I never could move this quietly. I'm not complaining, mind, but being one of the big guys isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Trust me.
    Besides, we weren't really hunting. What we were doing was relaxing, and by the time we'd worked our way into the forest, firing a few practice shots here and there, I'd managed to get rid of my jumpiness. For now.
    Just as well. "Jason, you see that stump over there?" I asked, pointing to one about forty yards away.
    "The one just behind that fallen tree?"
    "Right. Bet I can put an arrow into that root, the one that bends up to the right."
    He shrugged. "So can I."
    "From here?" I raised an eyebrow. "A silver mark to who gets closer?"
    He nodded. "Sure."
    "Tennetty?"
    "No, I don't need to donate to the cause," she said.
    "No. We need a referee and judge."
    "Yeah, sure." She took up a drill instructor's stance. "Awright. Nock your arrows. Draw your bows. Three. Two. One. Loose. "
    It was a tricky shot, trickier than it looked, if I was right—the leaves from a lower branch of an old oak blocked the top of the parabolic flight of the arrow. You have to remember that your shot does not travel in a straight line, but in an arc. The trick was to aim so that the arrow's flight would take it through a gap in the leaves . . .
    I released, smoothly. I was a bit off, but more lucky than off: it barely nicked a couple of leaves, not slowing it enough to make it miss. It thwok ed comfortably into the root, while Jason's arrow buried itself in the ground, easily a foot short.
    "Pay me," I said.
    "Put it on account," he said.
    "Sure."
    I retrieved my arrow, and nocked it, looking for another target.
    "Er, Uncle Walter?" Jason frowned as he examined the head of his arrow, but I didn't think he was frowning at it.
    "Yeah?"
    "How come I get the feeling that we're not really after deer?"
    Tennetty chuckled. "Maybe because we're too busy shooting up the trees?"
    "There's a perfectly good archery range behind the barracks," Jason said.
    "If you know anything more boring than spending a morning firing arrows at a bull's-eye, you be sure and don't let me know."
    Me, I'd much rather pretend to go hunting and shoot up a few trees. I never really practice with my throwing knives—I just use them, every once in a long while, to assure me that I still have the Talent for it. But that's deeply imprinted. I don't have to practice that any more than a fish has to practice his scales.
    My learned skills are different; if I don't put in at least a few hours with the longbow every tenday or so, I start to go real sour, and there have been more than a few times that would have been unfortunate. Unfortunate in the sense of Stash and Emma Slovotsky's baby boy getting himself dead. As Woody Allen would say, death is one of the worst