Birin deposited the chest on a large boulder nearby and opened it.
‘Arrowheads?’ Elgar raised an eyebrow in ire when he saw the contents.
Birin sighed resignedly. ‘I had forgotten. An arrow from your quiver, if you would; here, we need to remove the head . . . if it will come off . . . thus . . . and replace it with one of these . . . there! That should do it’ Further upstream from the settlement, to the left, was a solitary standing stone. It stood nearly ten feet tall, and was a well known place-mark.
‘That menhir will do,’ said Birin. ‘I suggest aiming for the centre, striking it with some force, so that the arrow doesn’t become lodged.’
‘This is unseemly, if not disrespectful,’ Elgar muttered distractedly, ‘but I will do as you ask. Once.’ Drawing his bow, he took aim and let fly.
They winced at the sound as the arrow struck in a shower of sparks. Disbelieving, Elgar moved to examine where the arrow had struck the stone, Birin at his shoulder. The diamond-shaped hole still smoked slightly. The arrow had passed through at least four feet of solid stone. Trying to conceal his disbelief, he breathed, ‘How is this possible?’