The Boar Knife, Rise of the Witch Guard: Prequel Novella
by
Luke Sky Wachter
Copyright © 2013 by Joshua Wachter
All rights reserved.
Books by Luke Sky Wachter:
As of 08-06-2013
SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES
Admiral Who?
Admiral's Gambit
Admiral's Tribulation
Admiral's Trial
SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS
Admiral's Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire
RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES
The Blooding
RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS
The Boar Knife
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Table of Contents
Chapter: 1 Robins Chirping, Flowers Blooming and Pigs a-Grunting
Chapter 2: A Rude Awakening
Chapter 3: No news is Good News…so this is definitely Bad News
Chapter 4: Preparing for the Levy
Chapter 5: An Impromptu Pow-wow
Chapter 6: Digging In Versus the Big Reveal
Chapter 7: A Weighty Decision
Chapter 8: A Great Deal of Pain
Chapter 9: A Heart to Heart
Chapter 10: Hiding Out
Chapter 11: Confessions and a Meeting of the Minds
Chapter 12: Getting Ready
Chapter 13: Stuck in Her Room
Chapter 14: Some Fresh Air
Chapter 15: Knock it off you two
Chapter 16: A Sisterly Scolding
Chapter 17: The Great Escape Leads to Greater Trouble
Epilogue 1: Meat for The Machine
Epilogue 2: Binding Moonlight
Chapter 1: Robins Chirping, Flowers Blooming and Pigs a-Grunting
Falon walked through the orchard smelling apple, pear and cherry blossoms, imagining herself riding alongside a gallant knight out somewhere in the wide world, having adventures in her own right.
Instead of a pair of careworn and threadbare trousers handed down by her long lost brothers, she imagined wearing a dress of the finest satin. A bow—or better yet, a sword at her side, instead of an old boar which was spear so heavy it made her arms ache just to carry it. She looked down at its gnarled, pig-iron cross-guard which was stained red with old blood and rust.
Up ahead she heard a furious grunting noise.
Imagining she was simultaneously a fine lady riding side saddle on her palfrey, and somehow the veritable reincarnation of Duchess Rathtyen the Huntress fitted out in her custom leathers and wielding the fine broad-headed spear the envy of any man or lord, she snuck forward. Instead of galloping toward the boar full tilt, she crept from tree to tree; she was so caught up in the excitement of the moment that she almost gave vent to her imagined mighty roar, a sound which would have surely put the fear of the Forest Spirits into man or boar. Catching herself just in time, she shook her head at such girlish flights of fancy. Silence was her battle cry, not some mindless roar that would only attract the attention of the boar.
When she came to the last of the apple trees standing between the boar and her, Falon’s eyes widened with dismay. This boar was four hundred pounds on the hoof if it was a stone! The angry boar turned sideways to rub against the trunk of one of her family’s beloved cherry trees. The force of its furious itching caused the tree to shake back and forth alarmingly.
Feeling a cold nose press against her backside where her too-short tunic ran up above her too large hose and trousers, she jumped and barely stifled a squeal when she saw Old Betty stared up at her with soulful eyes.
“You scared me half to death, you mangy old flea-bitten dog,” she hissed at the old war hound.
Betty’s tongue lolled out, exposing a gape-mouthed grin as she took a big sniff, reorienting again on the boar Falon had thought she was hunting alone.
“Go on—git,” she hissed at the old dog.
The dog just looked in the direction of her voice expectantly, with her milky, cataract eyes showing more animation than at any time Falon could remember in the past three years. Then the confounded dog put her nose to the ground and started to sniff about, as if saying since she couldn’t see it, the old girl was just going to smell her way to the big old boar.
The big boar hog gave an angry squeal and Falon watched in dismay as the old tyrant used its nose and tusks to bring up a section of the Cherry tree’s nice and tender roots to chew on.
“Papa would die if you went and got yourself killed, you old mutt. Go back home!” she hissed at the visibly excited old war hound.
The hound who had looked up at her when Falon started talking snorted and put her nose back to the ground, clearly letting her know that Old Betty wasn’t about to turn tail in the face of any mere boar hog.
The dog clearly had no interest in listening to her, so unless she was willing to take the time to drag Betty home and let the old tyrant-of-a-boar tear up their one source of clear income, it looked like she was stuck with the mangy old dog.
“You were a gift to papa from Lord Lamont—and a war hound, not a courser to boot! On your head be it if you die,” she hissed angrily.
Gritting her teeth, she brought the boar spear into position. Looking back and forth between the veritable giant of a boar and the sturdily designed and built cross-guard of her weapon, for the first time she wondered if the old spear was going to hold up.
Feeling her lower lip quiver, she suddenly wished that Daman and Garve had not both taken off in the middle of the night two winters ago, leaving her the task of caring for the twin orchards and the duty to protect them.
Her face hardened at seeing the boar snorting and grunting about their fruit trees. It’s not like pretty Christie, with all her airs and mother’s fancy old dresses, was going to work property, she thought cattily. She took a deep breath, pushing aside the unfairness of it all. Expecting little Rogan—all of five years old—to be the man of the house and kill this boar while father was laid up in bed would have been laughable, had it not been akin to outright murder.
Nope, it was up to plain, mud-faced Falon to play at being a brother instead of a sister. Put on trousers Falon, she thought bitterly, use some dye to make your hair darker just like Garve, Falon. Go with Rogan and pretend to be your older brother for father, Falon; anything to get father talking and stop fading from this world.
She gritted her teeth. If she had to listen to one more story about the Siege of Deep End Keep…or the battle over Cole Creek Ridge, while Rogan listened with wide-eyed awe as father told—and retold—the tale for the two dozenth time, she was going to scream.
She needed to know how to manage fruit trees, maintain orchards, and run a farm. That was really all that their little estate, Brown Creek Grove was: a big, fat, run-down farm. At least she already knew how to work with bees, since Papa considered that a fitting hobby for a lady.
Having deliberately worked herself up until she was spitting mad, she stepped around from behind the trees, ready to face the creature which intended to ruin her orchard.
“Come on, boar,” she yelled, leveling her spear and placing her foot on the metal spike at the end of the spear, just like her father had always said the young lords and hunters would do when rousting boar.
The way the mighty old boar’s head swiveled around and tracked on her suddenly frozen form caused her to left leg to quiver. When it snorted and pawed the earth, that quiver turned into an outright shake.
Letting loose an unholy squeal, the boar lowered its head and charged. Her eyes widened with panic, and she jerked
on her spear unconsciously as she tried to stumble backwards. She only realized this when she found herself trying to pull the end spike out of the ground so she could retreat behind the apple tree.
Tugging at the spear, she realized it was sunk in deep and her only choice was to hold where she was, or turn tail and run, and in so doing abandon her father’s prized boar spear. The thought of what she would have to say to Father sprang to her mind. Admitting she lost his favorite spear like it was one of her dolls abandoned in the grass, or tossed aside like one of her old girlhood toys, brought her up short.
Just the thought of the way he would look at her, disappointment and censure in his eyes, was enough to snap her out of it and stiffen her spine.
Placing her right foot on the end of the spear with all her weight behind it, she looked up to stare at the beast.
Unfortunately she never got the chance, for the beast was already on her. She had spent entirely too much time panicking and jumping about like a little girl.
She shrieked in spite of herself, and the next thing she knew her grip on the spear bucked in her hands and she was slammed into the side of the apple tree beside her. The boar squealed with rage and it was all she could do to hold onto the spear as the boar forced itself towards her.
There was a clang followed by a pop as the old, rusty metal cross guards (meant to keep the boar from spitting itself on the spear and closing the last few feet between them) snapped off, first one and then the other.
She screamed with equal parts fear and determination, and the boar matched her. With its unending, almost human-like scream of pain it bunched its muscles, digging its splayed little hooves into the ground as it jerked forward.
The ashwood haft of the boar spear actually bent in the middle. Wide eyed with terror at the realization that her spear might not be enough to hold off the boar, Falon tried to throw her weight down on the bowed wood of the boar spear. But she might as well have tried to bend a sword with her bare hands, for all the good she did.
Another ear-piercing squeal was followed by another surge forward, and this time the boar’s brute power caused the spear to snap, shattering into a dozen pieces which flew in all directions. Feeling as if she had just been hit in the face harder than she could remember being hit, Falon was thrown into the air.
Slamming against the apple tree for the second time, she lay there stunned. All she could feel was pain; her side ached, her face stung and the pain in her hands where she had held the spear was simply terrible. She was paralyzed with the fear that she had done permanent injury to her body—and that she was about to die.
Even when the charging boar slammed into the tree beside her its feet inches from her nose, all she could do was stare. It squealed defiantly and lifted its nose under her side, digging its tusks into her side as it tossed her into the air.
I’m going to die, she realized as she landed with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. She feebly lifted her hands to ward off the blow that was a charging boar, when there was a new, loud sound which greeted her ears.
It was Old Betty, calling out her braying war cry which turned to a savage snarl as the old war hour moved to close with the savage boar, and the sound of it prompted Falon to try to make it to her own feet. Her lungs couldn’t draw even one breath of air, and the parts of her body that weren’t screaming with pain—like her side and hand—were numb and reluctant to work.
Panicking, she rolled around and scrambled to her feet as best she could. Getting half a breath was better than no breath but the sight of blind old Betty with her gape toothed grin, snarling and lunging at the giant boar like a dog a third her age, sent Falon into a panic.
“Get away,” she croaked, trying to wave the dog off, even though she had known for years that the dog could hardly see. Anything more than light and dark were beyond it in these, its later years.
The old dog was doing its best to dance around the boar, lunging in and biting it before being tossed aside, only to charge back in, barking and biting. If the boar had not already been speared, the young woman was certain the family dog would have been long dead before now.
As it was, the boar spear went in through the chest, and out through the side. She could tell at a glance, when she noticed the tip of the spear sticking out its right flank and the way its right front leg kept giving out.
Then the boar whirled around on the war hound, its tusks catching the loyal dog and slicing through her patchy old fur like a razor. Seeing the blood, and knowing how her papa would feel when he learned his dog—the last living gift from Lord Lemont—was dead, her heart clenched.
Hearing her dog yelping, and watching Betty scrambling on her old arthritic limbs trying to get away, something inside Falon snapped.
Her hand fell down to her side landing on the pommel of her Shri-Kriv. If she’d had the presence of mind to think it, she would have been grateful to her sister Christie for pointing out that if she was going to pretend to be a brother, then she needed a Shri-Kriv. All men, and most boys, carried a knife or dagger of some kind. Garve and Daman certainly had as soon as father would let them. So if she was going to go to village and sell their honey, fruit or hard-pressed berry wine, she was going to need one to play the part.
None of which went through her mind until later.
Instead, she jerked out the Shri-Kriv and threw herself at the boar. For the moment it was focused on the dog, which was all Falon needed. Jumping on its tough, hairy back she put all her strength into stabbing down with her sharp dagger. She had honed it down to a razor sharp edge point, to the point one of the village boys who had seen it once commented that she had over-honed it. But what did they know anyway? It’s not like she was going to be fighting off bandits on a daily basis and re-sharpening it nightly.
It sank into that boar’s tough old muscles, and she jerked it out and stabbed again and again. The boar snorted and began bucking and kicking, and she was immediately tossed from its back. Grabbing her dagger up off the ground, the very one she had tried to hone down until it was as sharp and pointed as a Lady’s stiletto—something she had only ever heard about in tales—she held it ready.
This time, when the overgrown pig charged it was noticeably slower than before and the sound of its harsh strident breathing definitely labored. Sadly, even at half or a quarter of its strength it was more than capable of defeating anything she could throw at it.
All she could do was rise to a half crouch and stab the thing in the face when it came. Her Shri-Kriv skittered up along its snout and lodged in something, before what felt like a hammer slammed into her midsection and everything went black.
Chapter 2: A Rude Awakening
She was dreaming. Falon knew it was a dream because Prince Charming was planting kisses all over her face— a thing she had never had much experience of in reality. Then he took her face in his hands and started kissing her in ways that made her face blush and her toes curl. They were the type of kisses she had only ever read about.
It was definitely a dream, but the sort you hoped you wouldn’t wake from anytime soon.
Then Prince Charming stepped on her hand, sending shooting pain up and down her arm and she frowned at him. When he started whining and licking her face, she failed to contain her response.
“Eww,” she exclaimed, realizing the tongue entering her mouth belonged to a foul breathed, old war hound.
“Go off! Go off! Get away from me you disgusting, overgrown, fleabag,” she shrieked before the pain in her side shot through her like a hot lance and she curled up.
The dog kept licking her face and whining, so even though all she wanted to do was stay curled up in a ball to protect herself from more pain, she picked her head up instead.
“Oh, you poor girl,” she stared with sympathy at Old Betty, her hind left leg clearly broken in several places and flopping around for all to see. The dog clearly took this as encouragement, and her tail thumped the ground as she turned to press her cheek up against Falon’s face. So d
oing, Betty exposed a large flap of skin hanging on her left, leaking blood and generally looking gruesome.
If she hadn’t been so shaken up and fuzzy, Falon was sure she would have turned green. As it was, she clamped her teeth shut and gently pushed Betty’s head away. Suddenly remembering the great big boar, she lifted her head and looked around frantically for the ornery old male pig.
Her heart thumping in her chest like a galloping horse, she somehow managed to wrench her right side hard enough to send fire shooting through it, all the way down to her leg. Curling back up into a ball and cradling her ribs she was looking down toward her feet, sobbing and generally feeling sorry for herself when she spotted the fur and tough-as-leather, dark brown back of the giant boar.
Her sobs cut short and she stared at its unmoving figure for several wide eyed moments before remembering she needed to get up and do something before it remembered she was still here.
Gingerly placing her hands and knees for best effect she carefully—and silently, save for a grunt or two when her ribs shifted despite her arm and elbow placed to keep them steady—she carefully got back up to her feet. Holding her side she was getting ready to oh-so-carefully step back and away from the angry old boar. A girl like her had no business tangling with a full grown boar. That was a job for grown men, and lots of them, not a daughter one season away from her sixteenth year!
She knew this and yet almost despite herself, she found her feet wandering their way towards the fallen boar. She stared at it perplexed; it didn’t look like the boar was breathing! Had it suffered a heart attack? Seriously intrigued, just like a young cat that just couldn’t seem to keep itself out of trouble, the closer she got the more certain she was that it wasn’t alive.
Then the boar twitched, its back legs gave spasming and she screamed, jumping back reflexively. Landing on her hind end with a thump, she would have scrambled backwards on hands and feet but the instant she took her hand away from her left side, fire shot through her core.
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 1