Trading Knives: Prequel Short Story #1 to The Bow of Hart Saga by Solomon P. H

Author:Solomon, P. H. [Solomon, P. H.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2015-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

The End

Thank you for reading Trading Knives, feel free to review it at your favorite retailer or site. I'm pleased to present an excerpt from The Bow of Destiny on the following pages:

THE BOW OF DESTINY

Sample Chapter

When his dead father touched his hand, Athson almost dropped the arrow. He squeezed his eyes shut. Ignore him. Focus. He took a slow, deep breath. Not this, not now.

"That's it, slow breaths, steady your hands." His father helped him nock the arrow.

"You're not here. You're dead." Athson whispered lest he startle his prey. He didn't need help with the arrow.

"And Athson, make sure you keep that secret I trusted with you." Ath's hand dropped away.

"I've held my tongue." Athson's lip quivered and he forced his hands steady. A memory and nothing more. That's what he got for forgetting his medicine. But he had kept the secret over the years since his father taught him the bow that day.

Athson knelt on one knee with an arrow nocked and gauged each target. Wind gusted and flattened grass in its weaving dance. Waves boomed against the Sea of Mist's rocky shore beneath the cliff's edge two hundred strides distant. The pheasant was trickier, he decided. The rabbit would do. His gaze shifted between the two animals. No shakes, no more old memories while cleaning the kill. He brushed the vane feather with his thumb. But the memory didn't bode well.

Athson eased into his stance at the shaded edge of forest, waiting unseen by his prey. The wind fell still. He drew the arrow to his cheek, aimed, and exhaled. A litter of kits hopped near his intended meal. He blinked. No killing a mother. He shifted targets and released.

The arrow sprang away in silence and pierced the green-feathered head.

Athson strode from hiding, high grass tangling at his shins. The rabbit and her litter scrambled into their hole. "You’re safe this time."

He squatted by the pheasant and plucked out chestnut tail feathers. When he cut the striped neck, Athson shut his eyes. The less blood seen, the better, to avoid the memories. Athson yanked his arrow loose with a grunt. "Sarneth sends me to the middle of nowhere so I waste time hunting." Father plucked the arrows with more care. Maybe his father should have used other things with the same care.

He thrust with his belt-knife and gutted the bird. Torn innards stank. Images flashed behind his eyes of bodies writhing as weapons were yanked free. He swallowed. Why this, why now? He sat on his heels and counted the months since his last fit. Over a year, and his elvish tincture of Soul's-ease lay forgotten at the ranger station. Not good. He needed that medicine. He rubbed his temples. Fits were hard, but seeing things later confused him. He sighed. Days of parsing reality lay ahead. Gweld, his elven friend and fellow ranger, would be disappointed at his laxness with the medicine.

He buried the bird's offal well away from his camp. Athson brushed a hand over his eyes with a sigh.

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