Chapter 92 Boars and Steel

  The air was still blue with dawn when Pit and Tib rose from their bedrolls. The Hollow was half awake — smoke curling from a few low cookfires, a child’s laugh somewhere near the kiln, the dull crack of wood being split. The mist still hung thick in the hollowed valley, soft as wool and carrying the scent of the hollow mixed with clay, smoke, and wet earth.

  Pit stretched, his shoulders tight from the day before, and scanned the camp. “He’s up,” Tib muttered before Pit could even ask.

  Of course, he was. Caelen rarely slept past the stars.

  They found him near the water cave, as Tib had named it — the place where the internal waterfall roared. There, Caelen knelt with a stick in his hand, scratching lines and rectangles into the damp earth. Mirelle stood beside him, thick ledger in one hand, charcoal in the other, her heavy brows furrowed as she tried to keep pace with the boy’s direction.

  “Troughs here,” Caelen said, stabbing the stick into one of the drawn lines. “Drainage—” he moved his hand sharply, “—to bad water. Flow out.”

  Mirelle nodded, jotting quick notes.

  Caelen’s next mark was a firm circle at the cave mouth. “Seal. Put door. Keep children out.”

  Mirelle raised her eyes, brow creasing further. “Aye. You mean a gate or a full wall?”

  Caelen straightened, gaze hard on the dark entrance. “Full wall. No risk. Door here.”

  The words hung heavy in the morning air, and Mirelle bowed her head slightly, as if in reverence.

  Pit and Tib approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt, but Caelen’s head lifted before they were within twenty paces. He spotted them at once, eyes bright even in the dimness. Without a word, he stood, brushed the dirt from his hands, and strode toward them.

  “Ready?”

  Pit nodded. “Aye. Spears balanced. Rope and packs in the cart.”

  Tib hefted the leather water skin slung over his shoulder. “We’ve enough for the morning, maybe more if we’re lucky.”

  Caelen gave a curt nod, then reached for his chain mail, where it lay folded on a nearby rock. The rings jingled softly as he lifted it and pulled it over his tunic, the light catching on each damp link. His movements were quick but practiced, efficient — more like a soldier preparing for battle than a hunter preparing for game.

  Pit and Tib each picked up one of the new Pilum, the long iron-tipped spears gleaming faintly in the cold morning light. They glanced at one another, a spark of anticipation passing between them.

  Behind them, three of the freed folk — two men and a young woman — waited by the cart, its single axle creaking slightly under the weight of rope, Pilum, and the few tools they might need.

  Caelen checked the cart with a glance, then motioned toward the mouth of the Hollow. “Go. River first.”

  They set off through the mist.

  As they climbed the narrow path up to the entrance of the hollow, the air grew thinner, the mist beginning to break apart into pale ribbons that drifted through the mound and the few remaining trees. The sound of the forge faded behind them, replaced by birdsong and the distant murmur of running water.

  When they crested the ridge, the first rays of sunlight cut through the fog, painting the valley floor below in streaks of gold and silver. The Hollow lay behind them — alive, breathing, smoke rising from its fires in thin trails that curled into the morning sky.

  Ahead stretched the forest, its trunks black with dew, the underbrush still slick from the night’s damp. The path wound toward the river, half-road, half-animal trail. The sound of the water grew louder with every step until the glint of it appeared through the trees — bright, cold, restless.

  Pit felt the damp moss under his boots, the scent of pine and salt mixed on the wind. Tib adjusted his grip on his spear.

  “Strange,” he murmured. “Used to be quiet here. Now everything’s… waking.” Seeing the movement of animals and birds.

  Caelen glanced at him, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Alive,” he said simply.

  They passed through a stand of old oaks, the cart bumping behind them, wheels crunching over roots as they moved north along the terrible road. The freed folk kept silent, their faces drawn with effort but their steps steady.

  As they neared the river, the trees thinned, giving way to gravel and reeds. Mist hovered above the water’s surface, catching the light in fragments. Caelen paused there for a moment, his gaze sweeping the current, studying the bank’s curve, the depth, the movement of the flow — always assessing, always calculating.

  “Upstream,” he said at last, pointing. “Boar trail, open ground. Hunt there.”

  Pit grinned, tightening his grip on the Pilum. “Aye, let’s see if these things work as well as you claim.”

  Caelen gave no answer. His eyes had already drifted toward the treeline ahead, toward the faint prints in the mud that told of life — of danger, and of promise.

  Behind them, the Hollow faded into the distance, its mist rising like breath from a waking giant. Ahead, the river glimmered like steel under the growing sun.

  The hunt had begun.

  The sun had climbed halfway into the sky before their luck turned.

  They’d followed the river north of the bend, keeping low beneath the canopy, when Tib froze and raised his hand. In the dappled shadows just beyond a tangle of ferns, something moved—broad, dark, and rippling with muscle. The boar’s snout rooted the ground, tusks flashing pale beneath the shade.

  Pit grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Big one,” he whispered.

  Caelen motioned them wide, his eyes fixed on the creature. When they were set, he lifted two fingers. Pit took a breath, drew back, and hurled his Pilum.

  The spear cut the air with a hiss. It struck home—square into the beast’s right flank.

  The forest exploded with sound.

  The boar squealed, a piercing, furious cry that echoed through the trees. It tried to whirl, muscles bunching for a charge—but the shaft of the Pilum caught against a tree root, jamming, head bending, but holding fast. The boar flailed, churning the ground to mud, pinned between its rage and the spear that hobbled it.

  Caelen and Tib closed in from the sides, blades drawn, moving as one. When the beast lunged toward Caelen, Tib was there—his strike swift and clean. The squeal cut short, the boar collapsing into the leaf litter.

  For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

  Then Pit laughed—half disbelief, half triumph. “By the Veils, it worked!”

  Caelen knelt beside the body, running his fingers over the bent iron. The shaft had warped near the head, but it hadn’t broken. He nodded once, approving. “Good. Holds.”

  They worked in rhythm then—gutting the beast by the river, the blood running dark and thin into the current. The cool water steamed faintly against the meat as they washed it, and the smell of iron and earth filled the air.

  By the time they had finished, the sun had climbed higher, and the forest hummed with heat. Together, they hoisted the carcass onto the cart, its weight pulling the wooden frame low.

  Tib wiped the sweat from his brow. “If we catch two more like that, we’ll feed everyone for weeks.”

  Pit was about to answer when the woods went quiet. Too quiet.

  Then came the sound—heavy, snorting, rhythmic.

  Caelen’s head lifted. “More.”

  The underbrush rustled to the east. Then it parted.

  Two boars burst into the clearing, bigger than the first, one of them massive—tusks like curved daggers, flanks rippling.

  “Now!” Tib shouted.

  Caelen threw first. The Pilum arced, spinning as it flew before striking deep into the smaller boar’s shoulder. Tib’s followed an instant later, embedding in the massive one’s chest. Pit’s throw went wide due to the big one's reaction, leaving a deep gash before clattering into the dirt.

  The clearing filled with fury.

  Both beasts screamed, thrashing, tearing up the ground in sprays of mud and moss. The larger one stumbled, tripping on the bent Pilum behind it, but it didn’t fall—it roared, tossing its head, tusks gouging furrows in the earth.

  The hunters braced themselves to finish the job, blades drawn.

  Then the forest erupted again.

  Three more boars came crashing through the trees, their eyes wide and wild. The sound was chaos—snorts, squeals, the drum of hooves, and breaking branches.

  “Back!” Caelen’s voice cut through the noise. “Fall back! Ignore wounded!”

  They stumbled over roots and rocks, the freed folk pulling the cart back down the road, the wheels bouncing hard.

  Two Pilum left.

  “Now!” Caelen barked. He and Tib hurled in unison—two iron darts flying like lightning through the air. Both struck true—one glancing, one deep—and suddenly the clearing was a storm of movement, beasts shrieking and floundering.

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  All but one.

  The last boar—a smaller brute, but quick—charged straight for them.

  Pit’s eyes widened. He barely had time to dive aside before it hit where he’d been standing, tusks gouging the ground. He rolled, scrambled to his feet, and bolted into the trees.

  The boar wheeled, snorting, head swinging wildly. Then it fixed its eyes not on Pit, but on the cart—the humans in the open.

  “Brace!” Tib yelled. His voice cracked. “Here it comes!”

  Caelen stepped forward, empty-handed now, only his shortsword at his belt. His mind raced, every instinct screaming. The air was thick with heat, the stink of sweat and blood. The boar pawed the ground.

  Pit shouted something from the trees, but the roar of the beast drowned it out.

  Then—

  A thunder of hooves from behind.

  Caelen turned, just in time to see four riders burst from the treeline at full gallop. Cloaks whipped behind them, spears gleaming in the sunlight.

  For a moment, it was chaos—the boar spinning to meet this new sound, the riders shouting to one another as they bore down the road, the glint of steel and the pounding of hooves shaking the earth.

  Tib’s breath caught. “By the Veils—”

  Caelen’s hand went to his sword, though some instinct told him not to draw it yet. Whoever these riders were, they had come fast—and not by chance.

  The boar’s charge never landed.

  Two riders came like thunder down the path, their spears leveled in perfect line. The impact was a single, deafening sound—iron through flesh, the beast’s scream cut short as both lances struck deep and drove it to the ground. The riders didn’t stop. Their mounts thundered past, dragging the boar several feet before the shafts splintered and the carcass tumbled aside in a heap.

  Behind them, the other two horsemen wheeled sharply, reining hard as their mounts snorted and pawed at the earth. One lifted his arm, his voice sharp and commanding.

  “On foot! Finish them!”

  From the trees and along the road, six more men appeared—foot soldiers, armored in mismatched gear but moving with the trained rhythm of drilled men. Two bore short pikes, the rest carried spears and curved knives. They advanced without hesitation, surrounding the remaining wounded boars that still flailed and squealed among the brush.

  Within moments, the forest was alive with the brutal sound of finishing work—steel thrusting, hooves stamping, and the hiss of blood hitting dirt.

  Pit, Tib, and Caelen stood frozen in place.

  The lead horseman urged his steed forward a few steps, dismounted with a fluid motion, and approached them. His armor caught the light—a dented breastplate of dull steel, a leather baldric across his chest, a sword sheathed at his hip.

  “My apologies,” he said, voice deep but courteous, breath still catching from the ride. “We came up the road at speed. Must’ve driven the beasts down toward you.”

  Tib, always quickest to speak, lowered his weapon and gave a stiff nod. “No harm done, sir. You’ve our thanks. That charge would’ve gutted half our cart.”

  The man’s lips tugged in a faint smile, though his eyes never left Caelen. “Travelers, then? Or hunters?”

  “Both,” Tib replied, glancing sidelong at his companions. “We keep our group fed.”

  The soldier’s brow furrowed slightly, the faintest crease between his eyes. “Group?” he echoed, as if the word rang faintly familiar, while he looked around.

  Pit stepped in, his grin breaking the tension. “You’ll forgive him, good sir. We’ve had a morning of squealing death and mud. You might say conversation isn’t our strong suit right now.”

  That drew a chuckle from the dismounted man, who at last extended his hand in greeting. “I am Esquire Corwin Dathren, sworn sword of the Heartlands. My men and I are bound south to Litus Solis.”

  “Dathren?” Tib repeated, shaking his hand firmly. “A fine name. I’m Tiberran. That’s Pit. And this—” he gestured toward Caelen, “—our leader.”

  Caelen merely inclined his head. “Hunting north,” he said, his broken cadence firm but straightforward.

  Dathren’s gaze lingered a second longer, studying him—the bearing, the poise, the quiet command that didn’t match the clothes of a woodsman. “Aye,” he said softly, “so I’d guessed.”

  Behind them, the footmen were finishing their grisly work, dragging carcasses into a pile. The air was thick with the scent of blood and iron, the forest alive again with the buzzing of flies.

  Dathren turned and gestured toward his men. “These are my company—Harric, Drell, Jowan, and Mern on foot. Riders— Kirn, young Althas, and the twins, Harlen and Tor. You’ll forgive their manners; boars make beasts of us all.”

  Pit wiped his brow, glaring down at the dead beast. “You’d think after the last dozen that tried to eat me, word would spread. But no—apparently, I’m the favorite flavor on the boar menu.”

  Dathren barked a genuine and warm laugh. “You fight well, for men without lances. Those—” he nodded toward the bent Pilum still jutting from one of the carcasses “—are clever work. Light, but true.”

  Caelen said nothing, merely nodded once. “Made,” he murmured.

  Tib filled the silence easily. “Our blacksmiths’ handiwork. Meant for beasts, not war.”

  Dathren gave him a sidelong look. “A pity. You’d fare well in either.”

  Pit, ever irreverent, smirked. “Not unless the enemy’s made of pork.”

  That earned another round of laughter from the guards. Even Dathren smiled as he glanced once more at Caelen, his expression thoughtful.

  As Dathren’s men led the horses down to the riverbank, the air filled with the soft clink of tack and the steady rush of water. Caelen and his crew worked nearby, downriver, knives flashing in the morning light as they stripped and cleaned the boars. The scent of blood mingled with wet earth and horse sweat.

  Dathren crouched beside the stream, filling his waterskin. His gaze drifted toward the cart piled with their supplies—and the cooled results of the hunt. “You’ve done well for yourselves,” he said thoughtfully. “Your camp must not be far from here. Are you north or south of Gloamhollow?”

  Pit didn’t even look up from his work. “Gloamhollow!” he said, grinning wickedly. “That’s home. The only place the pigs don’t follow me. Even they’re smart enough to stay clear of that hole.”

  The words hung in the air like a dropped hammer.

  Dathren froze mid-drink, eyes snapping up. “Gloamhollow?” he repeated, his voice edged with disbelief. “You—live—there? How can anyone survive in that cursed pit?”

  Pit snorted and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Oh, we manage. Bit of mist, bit of stink, few ghosts maybe—but at least the pigs mind their manners.”

  Tib groaned. “Ignore him,” he muttered to Dathren. “He’s been dropped on his head more times than I can count.”

  Dathren looked from Pit to Caelen—who only met his gaze, calm and unreadable—and back again. “Then either you’re blessed,” he said slowly, “or mad.”

  Pit winked. “Little of both, if you ask around.”

  …

  The smell of blood and damp earth clung thick in the morning air as they finished cleaning the last of the boars. The ground was slick; the carcasses had been cooled in the river water. When they began to load them, it became painfully clear—the cart was already groaning under the weight. There was no way to fit all six beasts without snapping a wheel.

  Tib sighed. “We’ll have to come back for the rest.”

  Dathren, who was watching from where his men watered the horses, shook his head with a grin. “You’d leave good meat to rot? Not while my lads have arms to carry it. We’ll help you bring them to your camp. Wouldn’t feel right stealing your spoils.”

  Caelen regarded him silently for a long moment, then nodded once. “Grateful,” he said simply. “Take spear heads, repair.”

  So they lashed the extra carcasses between cut branches, each carried by two men, and began the trek south. The forest swallowed them again, a tangle of shadow and green. Hooves clopped softly against the old road. The air grew thicker, cooler, and the faint scent of stech began to drift on the breeze—the Hollow announcing itself before it was seen.

  The men from Dathren’s company began to murmur as they walked.

  “Strange place,” said one, a young soldier named Fennar, frowning as he scanned the valley ahead. “The mound’s getting cleared. Wasn’t it all choked with bramble last spring?”

  “Less stench, too,” another—Rusk, an older guard with a scar down his jaw—added. “Used to reek like a dead ox left in the sun. Now the smells are mixed with—” He sniffed. “Smoke and clay.”

  As they rounded the curve of the mound, the sight struck them into silence.

  Fires burned in the twilight—small ones, ringed with stones. Rows of people moved among them, faces clean, clothes drying on lines. A great trench cut across the southern side ridge heading to the river.

  “By the Veils,” muttered Fennar. “Is that a trench? And—are those buildings?”

  “More than buildings,” Rusk said, blinking. “That’s a forge there—see the sparks? And next to it, a kiln.”

  A third soldier, Daro, reined in his horse sharply. His voice was thick with disbelief. “There are people here. Dozens of them—children too.”

  They descended the last stretch slowly, still staring as though they had stepped into a waking dream. The Hollow that everyone in the south had called cursed—unlivable, poisoned, haunted—was now alive with firelight, hammering, and laughter.

  Pit, leading the cart, threw a grin over his shoulder. “Told you pigs don’t like it here,” he said.

  Fennar’s jaw dropped. “This isn’t a hollow,” he muttered. “It’s—”

  Dathren finished the thought quietly, eyes on Caelen. “It’s becoming more.”

  The valley glowed in an amber light as they crossed the final stretch, smoke curling from cooking fires, and the rhythmic clang of hammers echoing faintly off the rock walls. As soon as the first shout went up—“They’re back!”—figures began to emerge from the mists and shelters.

  The dwarves came first, their short strides sure and solid, eyes bright in the firelight. Bran had a hammer still slung in his belt, his thick forearms blackened with soot, while Petyr followed beside him, wiping his hands on a rag, his face lit with curiosity.

  Behind them came the Freed People, still a little thin but strong now, their clothes clean, their eyes clear. Brother Renn walked with a faint limp but an easy smile, no longer leaning on a staff. And then Mirelle, hair bound back with twine and fingers smudged with ink, appeared from one of the row homes, her expression shifting from worry to relief as she saw Caelen leading the procession.

  The sight of Dathren and his armored riders caused murmurs to ripple through the gathered folk, but it was Tamsen who broke the tension first. She pushed past Bran, hands on her hips, and declared with her usual boldness, “Well, if we have guests, then we’ll have a feast tonight! And not a scrap less than the best—boar roasted, stew thick as mortar, and bread enough to shame the priests!”

  A cheer went up, the kind that pushed away the weariness of the day.

  Caelen stepped forward, dropping the cart’s handle. “Many help,” he said, nodding to Dathren’s company. “We feast.”

  Mirelle’s voice called out, “The trough is done, so store them there.”

  The dwarves wasted no time inspecting the spoils. Bran crouched beside the Pilum leaning in the cart, running a thick thumb over the bent iron tip. “Saint’s fire,” he muttered. “You threw these?”

  “Pierced clean through,” said Pit, his grin wide. “Boar didn’t know what hit it.”

  Petyr, half-hidden behind Bran’s shoulder, was already turning one of the weapons in his hands, muttering about weight and balance. “A bit more iron here,” he said absently, tapping the shaft, “and it’d fly truer. But the bend—aye, that’s clever.”

  Caelen nodded. “Make more. Need six. Also, repair these,” as he handed Bran two spear points.

  Bran looked up at him and gave a toothy grin. “Aye, by morning, you’ll have them. Better than before.”

  “Good,” Caelen replied simply, his tone final as a hammer strike.

  By nightfall, the Hollow was alive. Fires dotted the open spaces, casting long shadows against the newly built walls. The smell of roasting meat drifted thick in the air—boar sizzling on spits, herbs crackling in the flames. The newly arrived soldiers, after hobbling their horses nearby, found themselves ushered toward the central fire where bowls and laughter were already waiting.

  They sat uncertainly at first, armor creaking, hands hovering over the stew as if afraid it might vanish. But warmth has a way of disarming even the wary. Soon they were eating heartily, their helmets laid aside, the sound of conversation mixing with the hiss of fat in the fire.

  Then Brother Renn rose. The light caught the gray of his robe and the soft gleam of his eyes.

  “Before we eat more,” he said, his voice calm but carrying across the Hollow, “let us give thanks—to the Veil, who has mended this place, and to those who have the will to build what was once broken.”

  He lifted his hands in benediction. “May this food bless the strong, heal the weary, and bind us together in labor and purpose. May the Hollow, unbroken, endure.”

  A hush followed his words. Even Dathren and his men bowed their heads—more out of respect than belief. But when Renn finished, and the murmur of assent spread through the crowd, Dathren leaned toward Tib and spoke quietly.

  “A priest of the Veil,” he said. “Here. In this place.”

  Tib grinned, ladling another scoop of stew into his bowl. “Aye. We’ve got a bit of everything down here. Pigs, stink, and even miracles.”

  Dathren glanced toward Caelen then—seated cross-legged near the fire, children clustered around him again, their laughter rising into the night air. The young man said little, but his presence commanded the space, quiet and steady as the heart of a forge.

  “Miracles,” Dathren repeated softly, eyes narrowing. “Or something far greater than that.”