“I beg your pardon?” Brockhurst scowled at him. The ancient figure sneered and raised his voice. “I said, ‘Did I hear you boys right?’!” he barked.
“What’s the matter? Are you deaf?”
“Urn . . . excuse me,” I interrupted hastily. “Before we can answer you, we have to know what you thought we said.”
The old man thought for a minute, then bobbed his head in a sudden nod.
“You know, yer right!” he cackled. “Pretty smart, young fella.”
He began to list, but caught himself before he fell.
“Thought I heard you tell Pinko here you were looking for a force to take on an army,” he pronounced, jerking a thumb at Brockhurst.
“The name’s Brockhurst, not Pinko!” the Imp snarled.
“All right, Bratwurst,” the old man nodded. “No need to get your dander up.”
“That’s Brockhurst!”
“You heard right,” I interrupted again, hoping the old man would go away as soon as his curiosity was satisfied.
“Good!” the man declared. “Count me in! Me and Blackie haven’t been in a good fight for a long time.”
“How long is that in centuries?” Brockhurst sneered.
“Watch your mouth, Bratwurst!” the old man warned. “We may be old, but we can still teach you a thing or two about winnin’ wars.”
“Who’s Blackie?” I asked, cutting off Brockhurst’s reply.
In reply, the old man drew himself erect . . . well, nearly erect, and patted his walking staff.
“This is Blackie!” he announced proudly. “The finest bow ever to come from Archiah, and that takes in a lot of fine bows!”
I realized with a start that the walking staff was a bow, unstrung, with its bowstring wrapped around it. It was unlike any bow I had ever seen, lumpy and uneven, but polished to a sheen that seemed to glimmer with a life all its own.