Short Story: Mechanisms

Ka-Thunk. The crossbow sang as another bolt leapt from the string. His hand reset the string with practiced ease, placing another bolt onto the notch as he went. His eyes still set on the target, he pulled the trigger again. Ka-Thunk The bolt flew true embedding itself in the stump with its brethren. It hit just above the eye of the crudely drawn charcoal target. By this point only the man who had drawn the target could recognize it for what it was underneath its coating of quarrels. It was an armored head, larger than any that you could find in an armory. Stylized flames could still be seen around its grim visage, scarcely marked by stray rounds. Ka-Thunk. Another bolt placed itself just below the last. Soon the face would no longer be visible under the mass of wood and feathers that covered it. The man drew back the string once more, flexing the old iron limbs with it. The string was set, the bolt placed and the crossbow aimed. The trigger was pulled, gears forged decades previous turned and released the latch. Without the latch the limbs returned to their preferred shape, dragging the string and bolt with them. Immense force slammed into the bolt as the string cut through the air. It flew. Ka-Thunk. An inch to the right of the last, hitting just in the corner of the knight's nose. There was a simple sort of purity in the action of the crossbow. Tens of tiny gears were required to get a heavy arbalest like this one to function, but yet function it did. When you pulled the trigger you knew that the bolt would fly. There was no chance that the bolt would be tired, or lazy, or its legs would give out in spite of all of its efforts, all of its willpower. Ker-Thwack. The bolt skittered off the top of the stump sailing off into the woods. A tremble in the arm at the last second cost that shot its chance to hit the target. He moved as if to check the crossbow for damage before sighing and drawing back the string once more. There was no point in checking as he already knew where the damage was. Ka-Thunk. The next bolt found its home in the target. He reveled again in the action of the reload, in the workings of well maintained iron and lacquered wood. This crossbow has crossed the continent ten times over before he had even laid eyes on it and yet it refused to fail. He sighted the face of his foe once more. Ka-Thunk. If he let himself, he could be out here for hours, just basking in the simplicity of the weapon. It was easier to feel his burning arms and aching fingers than to dwell on what was. He sighted the face again and, but for a moment, he saw the flames burn and felt the pressure of its commands once again. Ka-Thud. Another bolt struck across the hundred meters clearing and bounced off the stump. He tried to draw back the string again but was met by the same spoiling tremble that had before ruined his aim. Grimacing he forced the string into its latch and sighted again. <p style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Thunk. <p style="text-align: justify;">This shot struck true between two of its siblings. Or rather he made it hit there. The bolt has no freedom, it flies as it is dictated. It lacks the freedom to fear, the freedom to lose friends, and the freedom to fail. You see, bolts don't fail to hit the target, it is the hand holding the crossbow that fails. <p style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Thunk. <p style="text-align: justify;">His hand reaches for another bolt only to find his main quiver empty. He slings the massive hunk of wood and iron onto his back and steps toward the stump, the evening sun reveals the bloody blisters on his fingers. He pauses to wrap a cloth around his fingertips. No point in bloodying the handle on his other crossbow. He is just passing thirty meters from his target when the stops. He draws, loads, and fires his hand crossbow in one smooth motion. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">The smaller bolt joins its larger cousins on the target's face. The lighter sound nearly matches the earlier noise by virtue of the shorter distance. The noise has not yet finished echoing when the second bolt is fired. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">The next bolt punches out a chunk of the knight's grimace. It has not yet finished vibrating when the next shot slammed home. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">It hits the mark far from the last, accuracy thrown wayside for sheer practiced speed. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Any lucky man can place a bolt in the center of a coin, only a skilled one can place 2 bolts in the span of a second. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">They fly even faster yet. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Kla-Thud. <p style="text-align: justify;">Thwack! "Fuck!" <p style="text-align: justify;">Misfire. A trigger pulled a moment early can spell disastrous results. He cradled his injured hand, wincing as the welt began to form. He had gotten off lightly. Had that been Julia's old bear killer that had misfired, it might have shattered his hand. That or taken the damn thing clean off. He one handedly collapsed the hand crossbow and returned it to its holster. As he did his hand brushed Quickbrands pommel. Uncertainty danced across the forefront of his mind as he considered the longsword. Its presence was a new addition amidst this habit of years past. He settled his relatively uninjured palm on the blades hilt before letting go. No, there was a time and a place for dwarven steel and this was not it. <p style="text-align: justify;">He moved to the stump and pulled the bolts from its bark. Soon his quiver felt heavy like it should and he returned to his spot on the far side of the clearing. Unslinging his heavy crossbow he loaded before slipping into the state of supernatural focus that others called a hunters 'Mark'. Soon it would be to late for crossbow drills and he would have to lay down and face the demons in his nightmares. While there was still light he would fight back against the knight and it's pets with a crossbow in hand like he should have before. <p style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Thunk. <p style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Thunk. <p style="text-align: justify;">Ka-Thunk.
 * Author: Nathan
 * Google Document