Ilse Witch by Terry Brooks

perhaps by the presence of so many other Rovers and fellow soldiers. There had been no mention of cheating then, no mention of getting his money back. He must have been stewing about it all night.
    “There,” he said, pointing at the same black circle on the beam, stepping to the same line they had drawn on the board flooring the night before.
    “Here, here,” the smith’s wife complained at once. “You busted up a whole row of glasses throwing past the beam last night. Your aim’s as poor as your judgment, Blenud Trock! You throw your knives somewhere else this time!”
    The sergeant glared at her. “You’ll get your money when I get mine!”
    Trock. It was the first time Rue Meridian had heard his name spoken. “Let’s move over here, Sergeant,” she suggested.
    She led him away from the bar and deeper into the room. The makeshift building was backed into a hill, and a stain from runoff had darkened the rear wall in a distinctive V. Just above and to the right, water droplets hung from a beam, falling every now and then onto the floor.
    She stopped twenty feet away and drew a line with her toe in the dust and grime. Not the cleanest establishment she had ever frequented, but not the dirtiest either. These sorts of places came and went with the movement of the army. This one had endured because the army hadn’t gone anywhere in some time. It was illegal, but it was left alone because the soldiers required some sort of escape out in the middle of nowhere, miles from any city.
    She brushed back her fiery hair and looked at the sergeant.
    “We’ll stand together at the line. Once set, when the next drop of water falls from that beam, we throw at the V. Closest and quickest to the crease wins.”
    “Huh!” he grunted, taking his place. He muttered something else, but she couldn’t hear. Throwing knife in hand, he set his stance. “Ready,” he said.
    She took a deep, slow breath and let her arms hang loose at her sides, the throwing knife resting comfortably in the palm of her right hand, the blade cool and smooth against the skin of her wrist and forearm. A small crowd had gathered behind them, soldiers from the front on leave and off duty, anxious for a little fresh entertainment. She was aware of others drifting in from outside, but the room remained oddly hushed. She grew languid and vaguely ethereal, as if her mind had separated from her body. Her eyes remained fixed, however, on the beam with its water droplets suspended in a long row, tiny pinpricks of reflective light against the shadows.
    When the droplet of water finally fell, her arm whipped up in a dark blur and the throwing knife streaked out of her hand so fast that it was buried in the exact center of the Vbefore the line sergeant had completed his throwing motion. The sergeant’s knife was wide of the mark by six inches.
    There was a smattering of applause and a few cheers from the spectators. Rue Meridian retrieved her knife and walked over to the bar to collect on her wager. The smith’s wife already had the tankard of ale on the counter. “This one’s yours, Sergeant Trock,” she said in a loud voice, giving Rue a broad smile. “Pay up before you leave.”
    The line sergeant stalked over to the wall and pulled his heavy throwing knife free. For a moment he held it balanced in his hand as he gave Rue Meridian a venomous look. Then he sheathed the knife beneath his tunic and swaggered over to where she stood. “I’m not paying,” he announced, planting himself at her side.
    “Up to you,” she replied, sipping at the ale.
    “If you don’t, you won’t be coming back in here again,” the smith’s wife advised pointedly. “Stop being so troublesome.”
    “I’m not paying because you cheated!” he snapped, hisresponse directed at Rue. “You threw before the water drop left the beam. It was plain as day.”
    There was a general murmur of dissent and a shaking of heads from the assembled, but no one called him on it. Emboldened,