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Chapter 3 - Spears and Slaughtergrass

The morning tasted of willow bark and stale sweat. Edric clenched a fist, pleased when the knuckles only creaked instead of screaming. Ashcoil lay looped like black ribbon across his shoulders, tongue flicking at the chill. The serpent's runes glimmered faint gold, brightening whenever Edric's pulse quickened—a silent reminder that his strength was on loan.

Down in the yard, Sir Brynn had planted a row of spears in the mud: ash shafts the height of a tall man, heads filed from old scythe blades. Beside them stood wooden crescent targets smeared with red paint.

"Yesterday you moved a wall," Brynn called, voice carrying through cool air. "Today you learn the tooth in that wall." She marched down the line, handing each recruit a spear. The weapon looked enormous in Fiona's small hands, comically light in Ronan's.

Edric hefted his own. The grip rubbed fresh blisters raw, yet the long weight felt honest—like work that could not lie. Will wobbled beside him, nearly braining himself as the spear tip dipped.

"Remember the push drill," Edric whispered. "Same stance. Spear's just the arm that reaches farther."

Brynn demonstrated: step, lunge, twist. Her single eye glittered. "You're planting trees," she said. "Roots—tip—turn. Plant, pierce, protect."

The first volley of thrusts looked more like broom sweeping. Shafts wobbled, blades bit mud. Will stabbed too low, dirt splashing up his tunic. Fiona overbalanced, toppled forward; Edric caught her wrist before the blunt butt smacked her nose.

"Again," Brynn barked. "And again." Mud slicked boots, but gradually points began to land on painted crescents. Edric's palms screamed, yet each correct strike felt like a nail driven into shaky courage, pinning it steady.

Ronan strolled the rear, visor up. "Imagine the target owes you rent," he advised. "Collect with interest."

Will puffed laughter. His next jab struck center. Edric thumped the youth's shoulder. Confidence, tiny and fragile, flared in Will's grin.

A distant horn cut the morning—the gate lookout's low warning blast. Edric's pulse leapt; Ashcoil's scales sparked bright amber.

Brynn snapped to the parapet ladder, Edric on her heels. Fog still ribboned the fields, but near the tree line a clump of underbrush convulsed. Something huge and dark shoved through bracken, crushing saplings as easily as grass.

"Dire boar," Brynn said. Her tone lay somewhere between curse and calculation. "One of the big sows, by the shape."

The beast emerged, hulking shoulders matted with mud and burs, curved tusks stained rust-brown. It rooted at the ground, ripping clods the size of helmets. Edric's stomach tightened—dire boars could gut a horse and keep running.

"The outer fencing isn't finished," he said. "It'll wander to the fields, maybe the village."

"Or here," Brynn answered. A sharp smile ghosted her lips. "Opportunity."

Edric knew the word had two edges. He looked down at the recruits still clutching practice spears. None had ever faced live tusk and fang.

"They're not ready."

"They'll never be until something charges back," she said. "You stood the wall yesterday; today the wall stands you." She cupped a hand around her mouth, voice ringing. "Spears to the south gate. Quiet run."

Rafe sprinted to fetch spare hafts. Ronan fitted his tower shield into its leather sling across his back. Will swallowed so hard Edric heard it five paces away.

Fiona's hammer trembled against her leg. "Boar hide's thick," she whispered.

Edric knelt, met her wide eyes. "Aim behind the shoulder. Soft spot between ribs. But only if it breaks the line—your job is keeping the forge hot for our return." She nodded, fierce despite the quake in her braid.

They filed through the south sally-port onto churned pasture. Ankle-high grass—locals called it slaughtergrass because blades sliced skin when whipped by wind—rustled around their boots. Brynn halted them fifty paces out, forming a half crescent with Edric at center and Ronan anchoring right flank.

"Plant, pierce, turn," she reminded. "When it breaks, drop spear, draw whatever's left."

Hooves pounded earth. The sow barreled from mist, eyes red, snout dripping froth. At forty paces its breath steamed like a forge bellows. Edric's heart hammered in his ears; Ashcoil hissed—warning or battle-urge, he couldn't tell.

"Brace," Brynn snapped.

Edric sank knees. Mud sucked heels. Spear angled. For a heartbeat the world shrank to tusk and point.

The boar hit Will's end of the line first, swerving toward the gap between door-shield and training spear. Will's shaft skittered off bristled hide. The animal's shoulder slammed wood—door and boy flew apart.

Edric pivoted left. "Wall!" he shouted. Ronan lunged, tower shield locking with Edric's spear butt to cover the breach. Brynn stepped into Will's place, her blade flashing to bite the boar's flank—shallow, but blood welled.

The sow squealed fury, wheeled on Edric. In its eyes he saw rage, hunger, and something like pain. He thrust. The point sank behind the shoulder—not deep enough. Tusk arced; he twisted, iron scrape singing past ribs.

Heat flared along his bracer; instinct screamed to trigger Ironhide—but crash cost flashes before his mind. Not yet.

Ronan roared, swinging shield like a door. Edge met snout. Bone cracked; the boar reeled, then charged anew, this time at Ronan. Spear butt lodged in mud, Edric pivoted, slashed with short side-knife—blade bit ear.

Sudden whistle—Merra's spear struck true, slipping between ribs. The beast staggered. Brynn finished the job—two-hand thrust to throat. Blood sprayed, dark against fog.

For five seconds no one breathed. Then the sow's legs folded, a slab of shaking meat hitting earth with a wet thump.

Silence broke—first a ragged cheer, then relieved laughter edging on hysteria.

Edric's hands vibrated; only when he tried to sheath knife did he see the fine line of blood along his forearm—tusk kiss, shallow but burning.

Brynn tore a strip from her cloak, wrapped his arm in three swift loops. "Wall held," she said.

"Mostly," Edric replied, glancing at Will. The youth knelt beside his shattered door shield, eyes glassy.

Edric crouched, laid a hand on Will's shoulder. "First charge is the worst. You're here—door did its job."

Will blinked, realization dawning that he still lived. Tears mixed with mud; he wiped both away and managed a crooked grin. "Next door better be iron."

"We'll work on that."

Somewhere beyond the marsh, Baron Tevrin's black banners were said to be recruiting plague-priests—another storm waiting its turn.

Ronan prodded the boar's corpse. "That much meat means stew without regret."

"Also hide for shields." Brynn tapped tusk with her sword tip. "Waste nothing."

They dragged the carcass through the gate, Fiona sprinting ahead to stoke the butchery fires. Lanterns lit the yard as recruits filed in behind the steaming trophy. Even the goat on the balcony bleated approval.

Night smelled of blood and woodsmoke. Pot after pot of rich stew bubbled; every bowl refilled, every story grew longer. Edric sat on the fountain rim, arm freshly bandaged, watching steam curl into stars. Ashcoil coiled nearby, content after a strip of raw boar liver.

Fiona approached, cheeks smudged, eyes bright. "Saved the tusks," she said proudly. "Smithy gets first pick."

"Well done," Edric said. "They'll cap spear hafts nicely."

Brynn appeared with two cups of thin ale. She handed one to Edric, lifted hers in toast. "First blooded hunt without losing a soul. That's your wall, Highness."

"Our wall," he corrected. He glanced toward Will, who now traced designs on a plank destined to be Old Shieldy II. The boy's strokes were steadier than yesterday.

"Geldar counts levy by numbers," Brynn murmured. "We count ours by names. Let's keep them."

They drank. Ale tasted watered and sour, yet never had anything warmed Edric faster. Thunder rumbled far off—storms still paced the night, but they felt smaller.

He rose, cups in hand, and walked the inner wall. Lantern light kissed the banner overhead, now blotched by blooded palms and flanked by fresh boar tusks lashed into an X. Not pretty, but it told a story already.

One wall, one hunt. Tomorrow spears would feel lighter. Tomorrow Fiona would chase sparks in iron. Tomorrow Will would lift a new shield without shaking.

Tomorrow a kingdom would be one day closer.

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