The shooting range was a wide open field, with targets set up at different distances. There were tables set up next to the shooting positions, with boxes of ammunition and supplies. There were five stations set up in total, but a surprise awaited us when we arrived; there were no guns; instead only a pile of metal parts, with some tools and cleaning supplies. The guns had been completely disassembled, and the tiny old man with prickly white fuzz on his chin and a tweed cap seemed to relish in our shocked expressions. He gestured us over. 

“Ah’m Ser Callaghan, retire’d knight an’ in charge o’ the armoury. Here we’ll be testin’ yer familiarity with rifles.”

He paused, taking in our confused stares at the disassembled guns. 

“Ah squire’s gotta look afta their knight’s guns! Ye cannae shoot if yah don’t know how a rifle werks! Y’ell be timed on how quick ye can put the rifle tagether an’ hit the target. Ye get ten points if yer the first. If yer not, ye lose a point for every minute ye take after someones hit the first shot. So ye best be quick!”

He turned and pointed down the range at the targets. They were about thirty yards out; a difficult shot for an amateur, but not impossible. I had hit shots like that before.  

“The targets got three rings; Outer one is werth five point, the next ten, then twelve an’ lastly the bull’s eye is twenty. Y’start when I fire off a shot. Now, git t’ yer tables!”

To my delight, the beet red barbie (as I had taken to calling her) was part of my group, as well as one of the commoners and two other noble children. We all hurried ahead, slightly intimidated by the man’s aggressive tone. I took the second to last table, then breathed a sigh of relief: the gun was a standard issue bolt action rifle, just like the one my father had. I had spent dozens of hours taking his apart, cleaning it and putting it back together again; I would have no trouble with the first part of the test. Looking to my right, I saw Beet Barbie staring at her table with an expression of confused worry. It seems she was not as lucky as me; if I had to guess, she was more familiar with high end classy rifles than a low quality gun common guards used. 

“Hi Beet! Good luck; I’m sure you have no trouble with putting yours together!” I said with a cheeky sneer. I knew I was being an ass, but the more flustered she was, the better my chances were. Plus it was fun. 

She gave me a dagger filled glare in response, then sniffed and tossed her hair. “Of course. Just wait and watch; I’m sure I’ll have the highest score out of everyone. I bet you don’t even know the right way to hold a gun.”

I grinned, but before I could respond a loud gunshot went off, starting the competition. 

My hands flew to the table, shifting through the different components of the rifle. They moved with practice ease; it was just like the one my father practiced me on. I started with the barrel, slotting the recoil lug onto its end and screwing the receiver in place behind it. The sights were already attached to the barrel, so I moved to the trigger mechanism next; securing it to the receiver with a pair of pins. 

I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over towards my competition as I worked. Beet Barbie was having a tough time; she clearly had never taking a gun apart before, likely relying on her servants to clean it for her. But she was not as hopeless as the commoner boy just past her: he clearly had never even held a gun before. It looked rather pitiful, as his table was next to the other two noble boys, who were having no trouble at all; it looked like I needed to hurry up. 

With the trigger in place and its spring attached, I reached for the bolt before a sudden thought struck me. Wait… why did they include cleaning supplies? It seemed weirdly suspicious that they would provide materials that weren’t needed, unless…

Acting purely on a hunch, I knocked out the pins I had just installed and inspected the trigger a little more closely. Sure enough, it was filled with enough gunk that it was practically begging to break. If I didn’t clean it, it could potentially seize during my shooting but if I did, I’d likely lose a chance at the first shot. 

Shit… what do I do?!

As I debated my choice, I remembered the old man’s words: a squire must look after their knight's guns… that’s right. I wasn’t in a competition to be a knight, I was competing to be a squire. Trusting my instincts, I began to take apart the trigger mechanism and clean it as well. 

A shot rang out as I worked, accompanied by a shout of excitement. One of the noble boys had managed to hit his target first, scoring him the first ten points. But for the rest of us, it meant the clock was on; from now one every minute we kept working on our guns was a point deducted. 

“If yer on the battlefield, sumtimes yah got tah be ready at any moment. Werk faster if ye don’t want to fall behind!” shouted the old man as he paced between our stations. 

Another shot rang out as the second noble boy fired his first shot. Their eager cries spurned my fingers to only work faster, as the knot of worry in me grew. What if I failed- no. I couldn’t let myself sink into such thoughts on the first trial. I knew taking my time to clean the trigger mechanism would pay off. 

It took another minute before I managed to piece it back together and reattach it to the receiver. I was already two points down and was about to lose a third, but I made sure to double check the parts as I went; they needed to be clean to work properly. 

The firing pin and the spring also needed to be cleaned, and nearly seven minutes total passed before I finally could attach the stock and finish assembling the thing. It was perfect timing as well; just as I ran over to the firing line, I heard a click and a loud curse from the boys at the end of the line. One of their rifles had jammed, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the other one did as well. 

I couldn’t help but let slip a satisfied smirk as I raised my rifle and aimed through the stock sights. 

*BANG*

My first shot went wide, clipping the edge of the target. I adjusted and fired again, but this time I over compensated, sending the bullet sailing right past the target on the other side. It was frustrating; I knew my hands weren’t steady enough for this. 

Hang on a sec… he didn’t say we had to do it standing

I glanced at the supervisor, then slowly got down on my hands and knees. He raised an eyebrow at me but showed no reaction, which I took as tacit permission.

Now lying on my belly, I had a far easier time holding the gun steady. It showed too; my first shot hit the ten mark, immediately making up for my lost points.

“Number twelve, ye hit yer target! With a reduction o’ 8 minutes, ye now got a total o’ two points!”

Grinning, I reloaded and aimed again; I could do this.

Miss Beet Barbie, on the other hand, was not having a good time. After the boys jammed their rifles she noticed that the parts needed to be cleaned. Her expression was filled with disgust as she got oil and dirt all over her manicured hands but she eventually pulled through, finally managing to finish her rifle half an hour after the first shot was fired. She was thirty seven points down, but she showed no fear; instead, an expression of excitement overcame her. Standing proud and tall, she fired off her first shot. 

“Bullseye for number ten! Well done missy, but ye still got plenty o’ points to make up fer!”

But make up for it she did. Her next shot scored her another twelve, and before long her points were quickly back into positive numbers. 

The trial took an hour long in total, after which the old man gathered us together for our scores.

“Number nine, ye scored a zero since ye couldn’t finish assemblin’ yer gun. Number eleven, ye got the first shot but yew only scored a nineteen, cause yah dinnea check if yer shooter need’n cleanin’. Same to yew, number thirteen, only ye only scored a thirteen. Seems fittin’ no?”

He turned to me, a mischievous grin on his white stubble face. “But it seems like the two missus ‘ere did best, cause number twelve scored a thirty-six. BUT, she cleaned ‘er rifle, which gets ‘er an extra ten points, for a total o’ forty six.”

One of the noble boys sputtered. “That wasn’t mentioned in the rules! How was I supposed to know I had to clean them as well?!”

“By payin’ attention,” roared the old man. “Ah squire’s gotta look afta their masta’s gun, dinnea Ah say that? Are ye’ arguing wid me boy?”

The boy swallowed. “N-no sir.”

“Gud! Cause none o youse were half as gud as number ten! She scored a fifty two in shootin’ alone, and that was afta a thirty seven point deduction! Plus, she cleaned ‘er gun, so she gets sixty two points total. Well done missy, but youse gotta learn tah be quicker in fixin’ yer gun!”

Beet Barbie tossed her hair again and gave me a smug grin. I had to admit, I was impressed; one wouldn’t have expected this short little girl to be such a crack shot. Still, it meant I’d have to work a lot harder.