Chapter 77 Rescue

  From the trees, they crept along the riverbank, tracking the longboat. It was no arduous task; the men aboard made little effort at silence, their voices carrying easily over the water. Oars dipped and rose in slow rhythm, the splash of each stroke broken by laughter and coarse talk. Twice Pit stumbled, dry leaves crackling beneath his boots, and twice Caelen’s hand shot back, steady and sure, stilling him as a hunter stills a hound on scent.

  At last, the boat nosed into a shallow inlet opposite the old trade road. Here, the current eddied, sheltered from the main flow by a tongue of rock. The pirates grounded the hull with a jarring scrape and leaped ashore. Their captives slumped over their oars, shoulders trembling, but before any could breathe relief, the whip cracked again.

  “Out! Out, you dogs!” snarled the barefoot pirate, driving them forward with kicks and blows.

  But not onto land. The slaves were shoved back into the benches, lashed to the oarlocks by rope and rawhide. The pirates meant them to sleep in the boat, wrists chafed and backs bent, chained to wood that stank of pitch and river slime.

  Onshore, the five set about their camp with no more care than wolves gnawing bones. One hacked branches with a notched blade, leaving jagged stumps and snapping saplings underfoot. In the search for firewood, one overturned a partially rotten log, scattering beetles, and threw the scraps at any prisoner who dared to look up.

  They shouted, swore, and spat as they worked, building a firepit in the open sand, their laughter harsh as gravel.

  Caelen crouched in the shadows of the trees, watching with unblinking eyes. His gaze traced the line of the inlet, the steep bank behind it, the thick woods hemming both sides. One way in, one way out: the river.

  “Bad camp,” he murmured, voice flat, almost cold. “No road. No cover. River only.”

  Pit squatted beside him, jaw clenched. His eyes darted from the pirates to the prisoners, and back. “So what now? Swim in the dark, cut twelve ropes, and fight five armed bastards while the slaves trip over each other? Veils, Caelen, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Caelen turned his head, slow, deliberate. In the fading light, his eyes seemed to catch a glimmer from the river, sharp as a predator’s.

  “Pit,” he said, broken cadence grinding each word, “bring pig friends.”

  For a heartbeat, Pit just stared. Then he caught the twist of Caelen’s lips—half grin, half snarl—an evil smile, lit by the fire’s glow from across the inlet.

  “Oh, no,” Pit whispered, his stomach sinking. “Oh no, I know that look. That’s your I’ve got an idea face. And every time you’ve got that face, I end up muddy, bloody, or both.”

  Caelen only smiled wider, eyes never leaving the pirates’ camp.

  Beyond the trees, the slaves shifted miserably on their benches. A whip cracked again, and one cried out, the sound carrying thin and sharp over the water. The fire flared high, sparks rushing into the dusk.

  Pit swore under his breath. The night was thick with tension—the steady slap of water against hull, the laughter of cruel men, the low moans of the beaten—and beside him sat a boy with a sling and a plan as mad as any demon.

  …

  The pirates had settled into their fire, bellies full of stolen bread and sour wine, the smoke curling up into the night. Their voices rang with laughter—cruel, careless, thick with the satisfaction of men who believed the dark itself kept them safe.

  But then came a sound.

  Not the lazy lap of river water, not the creak of bound oars or the moan of weary slaves. This was heavier. Branches snapping. Leaves tearing. A rhythm of movement, many feet pounding through the brush.

  “Oi,” the barefoot pirate muttered, looking up from the fire. “What’s that?”

  The others straightened, squinting into the trees. The whip cracked once—out of habit, not need—and the sound seemed pitifully small against the gathering rush.

  Then the forest exploded.

  Pit came crashing out first, cloak flying behind him, boots hammering the earth. He sprinted through the camp with a madman’s grin, dodging between crates and logs, straight for the boat.

  “What in the—?!” one pirate shouted, scrambling to his feet.

  “Who’s that?! Where’d he come from?!” another barked, fumbling for a blade.

  All five stared in disbelief as Pit leapt high, clearing the gunwale of the longboat in a single desperate bound. He landed hard among the prisoners, who flinched away with cries of terror. The boat rocked violently, nearly tipping, before settling again into the mud of the inlet.

  “Veils’ bones!” one pirate roared. “He’s in the boat! Get him—”

  But the order broke on a scream.

  Seven hulking boars tore into the clearing like demons loosed from the mist. Bristled backs gleamed with sweat and moonlight, tusks curved and sharp. They hit the first man before he could raise his whip. He vanished beneath a surge of flesh and fury, blood spraying in arcs as tusks ripped through leather and flesh alike.

  The pirates bellowed in shock. Two drew cutlasses, another snatched up a spear, all of them spinning toward the real threat now tearing through their camp.

  “Fall back! Fall back to the boat!” the one at the stern shouted, voice shrill with panic.

  But before he could move, a stone whistled out of the dark. It struck him square at the back of his skull with the crack of bone, and he crumpled instantly, his cry cut short.

  “By all the devils!” another pirate swore, eyes wide, whipping his blade toward the treeline.

  Caelen’s sling was already whirling again, the leather strap hissing as it cut the air.

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  The boars shrieked, crashing through the firepit, scattering sparks into the night. Pirates cursed and stumbled, slashing wildly, their camp torn into chaos. Prisoners cowered low in the boat, Pit braced at the prow, straining with all his strength to shove the vessel free of the mud.

  “Come on,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Move, you cursed log—move!”

  Another stone flew, and another pirate reeled back with his jaw shattered. The beasts tore into the third, his screams drowned beneath the squeal of tusks and the crash of splintering wood.

  The beach at the inlet had become a tempest of fire, blood, and madness. And through it all, Caelen’s voice rang sharp and clear from the trees: “Pit—push!”

  …

  The camp was now a slaughter yard. The scattered firelight danced wildly across torn canvas, wrecked crates, and the spray of blood. The boars rampaged through it all, shrieking, tusks glinting red, their hooves pounding like war drums on the sand.

  Pit grunted and shoved, shoulders straining against the heavy prow of the longboat. The mud sucked at its hull like greedy hands, but with each push, he felt it loosen, inch by inch. Prisoners strained at their bonds, eyes wide with terror as the boat groaned and finally lurched free, rocking into the shallows.

  “Ha!” Pit shouted, shoving one last time with everything he had. “Move, you cursed beast of timber—float!”

  The boat slid forward, bow nosing into deeper water, current tugging at its flank. It began to drift, slow but steady, away from the killing ground.

  Two pirates staggered toward it, both already bleeding. One clutched his side where a tusk had ripped a ragged hole, the other limped, his leg shredded and crimson. Their eyes locked on Pit, murder flaring despite their wounds.

  “You don’t—leave—” one growled, raising his blade with trembling hands.

  Then the trees split open with a rustle and a crash. Caelen burst out, lean and fast, a long, thin branch in his hands. With a sharp cry, he swept it low, catching both men off-balance. They toppled into the sand with curses, one dropping his weapon as his head struck stone.

  Caelen didn’t pause. Planting the branch deep in the wet bank, he drove it down with all his weight and vaulted high, clearing the boat’s edge in a single motion. He landed hard among the benches, the prisoners flinching away as though a hawk had dropped into their midst.

  Pit gawked for half a heartbeat. “Show-off,” he muttered, then turned back to the oar he was using to shove the craft further into the current.

  Behind them, the camp dissolved into carnage.

  One pirate tried to scramble to his feet, but a boar caught him low, tusks tearing open his thigh. He shrieked as the beast tossed him aside like a rag doll, his body hitting the sand with a sickening thud. The other, crawling for the firepit, was driven down beneath two boars at once. They tore into him, tusks ripping through flesh, their bristled backs quivering as they gored again and again. His screams rose high, broke into sobbing gasps, and then fell silent beneath the wet crunch of bones.

  The last of the pirates vanished beneath the frenzy—squeals and snarls mixing with the crash of overturned timbers, sparks flying as the fire collapsed in on itself. The air reeked of blood, iron, and the musk of beasts.

  Caelen stood at the prow, sling ready, eyes fixed on the shoreline. Pit worked the oar with desperate strokes, guiding the longboat into the safety of the river’s dark current.

  Behind them, the boars squealed triumph, tusks dripping, trampling the wreckage of the pirate camp into ruin. The inlet, once a den of cruelty, now belonged to them alone.

  The current took the two boys and the prisoners into the river’s mist, with echoes fading.

  …

  The longboat groaned as it drifted into the current, heavy with bodies, heavy with silence. The cries of the slaughtered pirates had long since faded behind them, replaced only by the slap of water on the hull and the labored breaths of the bound. Moonlight silvered the river, turning each ripple into a shard of glass.

  Pit pulled hard on the oar, teeth gritted. His arms ached, but he kept the craft angled toward the jagged shadow that rose from the center of the river—a rocky outcrop, black and sharp, jutting up like the spine of some drowned beast. The current broke against it, leaving an eddy of calmer water where they could anchor.

  “Here,” he muttered. “We stop here.”

  With a final shove, he steered the boat into the sheltered pocket. The hull scraped stone, then settled with a heavy sigh. Prisoners shivered in silence, their bodies bent and bound to the benches.

  Caelen moved first. He jumped ashore, hauling the rope and looping it around a boulder. Then he turned, eyes scanning the faces in the boat. Hollow eyes stared back, weary and wide. Their wrists were raw, their shoulders bruised from the oars. Some trembled too much even to lift their heads.

  Pit swallowed. Tib would know what to say here, he thought. Tib could talk like a captain, like a soldier, like a man who belonged. Pit was none of those things. But someone had to speak.

  He cleared his throat. “Listen,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re safe now. The pigs are gone, and pirates are dead, and the river carries you to better things. We—” he glanced sideways at Caelen—“we’re sons of Avalon. And we’re here to help.”

  He felt foolish the moment the words left him, but the reaction stopped him cold. Heads lifted. Eyes widened. A few voices whispered low, too soft to catch. Gratitude flickered across faces, faint but real.

  Pit looked away quickly, muttering, “Don’t thank me yet. Still plenty to do.” His hands shook a little as he drew his knife and began cutting through ropes.

  The first bonds fell away, and a woman gasped, her hands trembling as she flexed her fingers. She murmured something under her breath, a blessing perhaps, before bowing her head. Pit frowned. He wasn’t used to thanks. It sat heavy on him, heavier than any chain.

  Caelen stepped into the boat, quiet and efficient. He drew two knives from his belt and handed them to a pair of the stronger-looking captives. Their eyes widened at the gesture, disbelief plain. They turned the blades over in their hands like men who had forgotten the weight of steel.

  “Cut,” Caelen said simply, pointing.

  The two nodded and set to work, slicing ropes free. The process quickened, arms and wrists loosening, shoulders sagging in relief. Yet not all the freed moved right away. Many lingered, hesitant, as though waiting for the lash to fall again, afraid that the kindness was a trick.

  The boys began to notice something else as the captives stood and stretched, stiff and hunched. They were shorter than expected. Stocky, broad in the shoulder, their limbs thick with a strength that even hunger had not entirely erased.

  One man, rubbing at the red grooves in his wrists, cursed under his breath. The guttural word was rough and heavy, rolling like stones. Pit didn’t understand it. But Caelen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

  “Dwarfs?” he said.

  The man froze, looking at him as if struck. Slowly, others turned, their faces caught between suspicion and wonder.

  Someone else spoke, their voice rough. “Can you comprehend our language?”

  Caelen nodded once. “Know some.”

  The river seemed to hush around them. Doubt and hope warred behind the dwarves’ eyes. Some looked ready to bolt, others prepared to weep. One older dwarf shook his head. “We thought… we thought no one remembered us. That men were dumb or just blind.”

  Pit bristled. “Blind? You’ve been rowing a pirate’s boat in the rock-filled river, how would anyone even—”

  But the leader silenced him with a look, then turned back to Caelen. “You freed us. That makes you more than boys playing at soldiers. Sons of Avalon, you said?” His voice trembled on the words, as though testing their weight.

  Pit opened his mouth, but Caelen spoke first, firm and slow. “Yes.”

  A whisper passed among the newly freed people. Not cheers, but the time will come. They were both worn and battered. But the word was whispered: Avalon.

  Hope stirred in them like embers beneath ash—faint, uncertain, but alive.

  Pit rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable under their gazes. He had never thought himself a hero, never wanted to be. Yet here he stood, knife in hand, while dwarves whispered thanks in cracked voices.

  Caelen met their eyes one by one, unflinching. His face was grave, but in his stance, there was no hesitation.

  And in that moment, on a rocky outcrop in the dark river, the broken and the bound began to believe that perhaps the sons of Avalon had come indeed.

  “Rest night here, “Caelen spoke.