The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Looking up she saw that the boar still twitched occasionally, but it was completely uncoordinated.

  “Be quiet, you ninny,” she scolded, taking herself to task. This wasn’t the first time she had seen a slaughtered animal moving and twitching. Steeling her courage, she gritted her teeth and levered back up to her feet. She stepped forward tentatively and leaned over the back of the boar, determined to get a good look.

  She realized she was looking at the wrong end as soon as she saw a pair of nuggets, each as big—or bigger!—than an apple.

  “Eww,” she shuddered, turning away and averting her eyes as she pursed her lips in disgust. She truly hoped that human men did not resemble male boars because every time she saw an uncut male pig, it grossed her out. It definitely didn’t look comfortable having a pair of fleshy apples sticking out like that. Shuddering, she looked at its head, once again infinitely grateful that she was a girl.

  Then her eyes caught on its head. A couple inches of razor sharp metal stuck out of its left eye. A smile started to cross her face. It was dead and she’d killed it all by herself. Then her side stabbed with pain and her smile wilted.

  She was glad the cherry tree and orchard were still intact and now safe from the ravenous beast, but on the whole she’d much rather someone else like Papa, or a full-fledged hunting party for instance, took care of things like this from now on.

  Fairly certain the big male was dead, a breath she hadn’t known she was keeping pent up whooshed out.

  Turning and limping out of the clearing she felt something on her cheek. Using her right hand she lifted it to rub at it, then stopped stock still in the middle of the orchard. There was a great big sliver of ash wood sticking through the palm of her hand and out the other side between her first finger and thumb.

  Reaching over with her left hand she gave a tug, but it wouldn’t dislodge without more pull than she could manage with her elbow still stuck to her side. It didn’t seem to hurt in the slightest, which seemed really odd.

  Giving it up for a lost cause she stumbled back to a pear tree where a pair of snapped and well frayed leather reins hung freely. Like everything else around the place it was old and careworn…when it wasn’t out and out threadbare and rotting away. The reins must have snapped, and she would have stamped her foot with frustration but her left leg gave the barest shiver and she thought better of it.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a half-eaten carrot.

  “Bucket,” she called out in a loud voice and then stopped to listen. Silence was her only answer.

  “Come on Bucket,” she called and then made a series of clicking sounds out the side of her mouth…nothing.

  This time she ever so lightly lifted her left foot and then brought it down to the earth as softly as possible. It really didn’t fill the place of a good angry stomp, but it was the best thing she could manage right at the moment.

  Looking down at the half gnawed carrot in her hand she glanced away giving the Orchard one last desperate sweep but there was still no Bucket.

  “Come on, Bucket. Get over here,” she said sharply, her temper getting the better of her but of course this failed to bring back the wayward animal. Grimacing, she reached up and shoved the carrot into her mouth and took a big noisy bite, before she could think twice about the disgusting Bucket slobber that had probably been left during his last bite.

  Placing her teeth carefully on a thick remainder of the carrot, she put just enough pressure on it to cause another crunching crack.

  An angry whicker and the sound of outraged hoofs on the dirt and grass patches beneath the orchard indicated this last effort had just done the trick.

  A long, horse-like head peered suspiciously around from behind a pear tree, and then saw the carrot still sticking out of her mouth.

  With a squeal, Bucket—her uncut male donkey—ran around the pear tree and charged her position. Anyone who didn’t know him would probably be afraid he was about to trample them, but she had no fear. Pulling up beside Falon with an abrupt motion, Bucket started prancing around, acting more like a carnival trick horse than the two year old descendent of pair of West Mountain pack animals, and he strutted his stuff in an attempt to win a carrot.

  Rolling her eyes at the animal, Falon cautiously pulled the recently slobbered on carrot out of her mouth. Suppressing a shiver of disgust and absolutely refusing to imagine what the carrot so recently in her mouth had been covered in, she carefully extended it toward Bucket.

  Now looking at her suspiciously, as if she might jerk his treat back out of range at any moment, the male donkey carefully extended his head. Gently taking the tasty morsel in his mouth he closed his eyes and crunched blissfully on his carrot, mouth working from side to side in an effort to wring every last big of yummy goodness out of it.

  Falon deftly snagged the now broken pair of reins. Bucket ignored this little action as completely beneath his notice and when she gave a gentle pull and started walking back to the scene of the attack, he followed along as docile as could be. The sight of a smelly old male pig lying next to an apple tree caused him to roll his eyes and stamp his feet, but her youngest brother Rogan’s so called ‘war pony’ that great charger Bucket the Magnificent (at least as he was known to Falon’s very imaginative five year old brother) was used to unusual requests by now.

  Stomping his feet and tugging from side to side to let her know that he wasn’t at all pleased with the idea, Bucket the Magnificent finally decided to approach the carcass of our fallen foe.

  Snorting and stamping nervously, he pawed the ground for a moment before settling down to snag a clump of grass and start chewing, as if nothing at all unusual was going on. Good old Bucket, the one thing you could trust was that he would always look after the best interests of his stomach first and foremost—even surrounded by bloody predators.

  Pulling a short length of rope out of a saddle bag tied to his otherwise barebones harness, Falon first tied it around Bucket’s harness and neck and then knelt down, attempting to secure it tightly to around the neck of the boar.

  Slapping Bucket on the rump to encourage him, she watched with dismay as the rope she had ever so laboriously maneuvered underneath that impossibly heavy dead weight that was boar’s neck, slipped away. If at first you don’t succeed: try, try, again; and that’s exactly what she did.

  “Stay on,” Falon yelled at the pig the second time Bucket pulled and the rope came free, slipping out from around its neck and sliding across the dirt and grass underneath the trees of the orchard.

  Glaring at the dead pig, she stiffly squatted down to retrieve the rope, nearly swooning with the pressure the maneuver placed on her ribs.

  “If it won’t stay around your neck,” she muttered staring at one of the pig’s feces-covered hooves, “then we’ll just have to tie it around your leg instead,” she finished with a huff.

  Looping the rope around the great thundering pig’s back leg and tying a cross over slip knot—the only knot she actually knew how to tie—she once again turned to Bucket.

  This time the rope didn’t slip out as soon as the high spirited little donkey started to pull.

  “Go-go-go,” she encouraged happily.

  Bucket looking surprised at the heavy weight as he drug it several steps, before snorting in protest at heavy load.

  “Come on Bucket,” she urged tapping him on the rump and moving up to his head to encourage him.

  The donkey glared at her and after another half dozen muscle straining steps, ground to a halt.

  “You can do it, Bucket the Magnificent,” she encouraged, slapping him on the rump and pulling on his reins as if to help him.

  Bucket wasn’t fooled.

  “Well isn’t this a fine kettle of fish,” Falon said crossly.

  The normally high-spirited donkey only dug in his heels and refused to budge.

  After several minutes of trying to get him to move, Falon was so frustrated she felt close to tears.

  She tried again,
but Bucket still refused to move. Ignoring a few tears dripping down her face because the splinter still in her right hand meant she still didn’t want to try touching her face with it, she patted her pocket in search of inspiration. All she found was pair of spare spring onions she had spotted growing under one of the apple trees earlier in the day.

  She was about to put it back in her pocket when Bucket picked up his head and took several long, laborious step towards her, dragging the old boar along behind.

  Through eyes still filled with water, she looked over at the difficult donkey.

  Not paying the least attention to her, Bucket leaned over and took a bite out of the green shoots sticking out of the bulbous end of the onion in her hand.

  “Nothing but a Magnificent thief is what you are,” she accused, half laughing and half crying with relief. The donkey strained forward for another bite and she quickly moved down the path.

  Snorting and stomping his feet, Bucket gave chase, clearly lusting after another bite of fresh spring onion. Several minutes passed without the overworked little donkey getting so much as a nibble before he ground to a halt.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked. The donkey had just stopped on the edge of the orchard, and the house was now just in sight. She carefully brought the onion to a position in front of him just out of range, but Bucket wasn’t about to be fooled any longer.

  She stared at him crossly before finally figuring it out.

  Leaning forward until the onion was just within range, she let him pretend she didn’t see anything until he suddenly reached out and took a big bite.

  Dismayed at how much he had taken, she glared at the now smug-looking little West Mountain breed Donkey.

  Now filled with a renewed sense of hope, Bucket (having once again displayed his Magnificence) lurched gamely after her.

  All her attention focused on keeping Bucket moving, Falon didn’t realize they had returned to the main house until stepping backwards on hard packed earth, and seeing a number of horses tied up outside the house on either side of her.

  “Falon what took you so long—” Christie started to demand in that irritated, no nonsense, voice she tended to use when she was really worried.

  Letting go of Bucket’s reins Falon turned to look up at her sister now standing on the porch, and Christie gasped as she reflexively covered her mouth.

  Chapter 3: No News is Good News…so this is definitely Bad News

  “Ouch, you’ve taken a bit of damage to you now haven’t you lad,” said a voice behind Falon sounding slightly impressed.

  Falon’s eyes widened with alarm and she turned around as quickly as her damaged ribs would let her. Looking around with alarm, she first spotted Farmer Doyle, the man who had just spoken. She then saw the powerfully built Vance the East Wick village blacksmith, followed by Reeve Modesto, a rat-faced little runt of a man whose only happiness in life seemed to be finding ways to tax—and collect those taxes—from the inhabitants of the Two Wicks.

  Nothing about this meeting looked good. Worse, there was no good reason for anyone but the Reeve to come all the way out here to Brown Creek Grove without an invitation.

  Vance the blacksmith stepped over and looked down at the fallen boar, his eyes suddenly climbing for the sky. Then he looked at her face searchingly—too searchingly for a sister only pretending to be a brother. She had only agreed to play the role so they could continue selling their produce in a village market without attracting the attention of his lordship to the fact that father was doing poorly, and that all the brothers of age had flown the coup nigh on two years ago.

  “You’ll have a handsome little scar on your face after its cleaned and all healed up; it’s a sure winner to attract the attention of the ladies,” he said, giving her a wink and a brief clap on the shoulder. “Your hound will fare the same given a moon or so to recover, with the proper care of course,” he added.

  Despite her happiness at hearing that Betty would survive, Falon stared at him in horror. The last thing she needed were scars on her face! What kind of man was going to be interested in marrying a scar faced woman? Only the kind of man she wouldn’t want to have for a husband in a hundred—or thousand—years!

  “Don’t worry; the Reeve just put a five silver bounty on the head of that there pig today. Was part of why we came over here today was to warn you; it tore up the Headman’s squash patch something terrible, and killed one of Doyle’s calves to boot, it did. So don’t fret, you’ll be more than able to hire a healer to take care of all these,” Vance said pointing at her face before then reaching down and grabbing her hand. She stiffened, looking down with alarm to see that he had her right hand—the one with the ashwood splinter still sticking out between her thumb and forefinger.

  The Reeve huffed in response to this little aside but held back from saying anything in direct response.

  “I’m impressed that a mere boy like yourself managed to bring down such a mighty boar,” the Reeve said suspiciously, and almost despite herself Falon stiffened.

  “I was almost killed,” she snapped, feeling angry at the suggestion that she might not have been the one to actually kill the thing, and also at the way the Reeve was staring at her with disapproval.

  Breaking her gaze, Modesto the Reeve stepped over to get a better look at the boar, and his brows rose in surprise as he took in exactly how big it was.

  “I can see that,” Modesto the Reeve said, his lips twisting as if he’d just tasted something sour, before stepping back.

  “Hold your thunder for the wenches, lad; there’s no need to get yourself all worked up over nothing,” the blacksmith said, a sly smile on his face and Falon’s jaw dropped as the implications of what he was saying penetrated. Opening her mouth for a retort, she didn’t manage to get anything out because as soon as she was distracted, the blacksmith grabbed hold of the large splinter and jerked it out with his gnarled, powerful hands.

  Crying out with pain, Falon instinctively covered the wound, jerking away from brutish metal worker.

  “That hurt,” she exclaimed, tears of pain suddenly in her eye. It felt like all the pain she hadn’t been feeling in that hand up until now had suddenly come back home with a vengeance.

  “Buck up, lad,” farmer Doyle said a touch sternly, giving a significant look towards Falon’s sister. “There’s no need to go on about a small scratch like that when it’s clear you’ve been bearing up with worse,” he finished, tossing his chin in the direction of her left side where she was still holding her arm to stabilize her broken ribs.

  Vance put a heavy hand on her shoulder and laughed.

  “Falon Boar Slayer, wouldn’t you say?” he said, shooting a look over at Doyle but the Reeve’s face darkened and he interrupted before the Farmer had a chance to speak.

  “Boar Slayer? That’s outrageous; the lad is still just a pimple-faced boy!” the Reeve exclaimed, cutting in to the conversation.

  Stepping around the carcass like it was a hunk of meat at the market, the three men gathered to point and argue about the relative size, power and ferocity of said boar.

  Falon stared at them in dismay as they proceeded to ignore her in favor of the boar. A hand on her elbow—one filled with desperate, worried strength—managed to drag her back to reality with a veritable snap.

  “You’re hurt Falon,” Christie whispered in her ear her voice filled with dismay, “you could have been killed!”

  “It’s okay, I’m fine,” Falon muttered back to her.

  “You’re not a man, and you’re not trained to hunt boar — you could have been killed,” her Sister hissed to her, “and then where would we be!”

  Falon turned and stared at Christie, who jutted out her jaw in response but in the face of Falon’s look of astonishment and betrayal, Christie had the grace to look shame-faced.

  “We can summon the town Militia or a Hunter next time, there’s no need to run around playing the hero or get yourself killed and eaten trying to be something you aren’t,” Christy sa
id in a low voice.

  “I thought that playing at being something I’m not was exactly what you said I had to do,” Falon retorted, glaring at her older sister, “and we all voted on.”

  “Come lad,” Doyle said grabbing Falon’s good arm and dragging her away from her sister, “let your sister fret for a while. A woman isn’t happy unless she has the chance to yell at you a bit after you go and get yourself hurt. Best you learn that lesson now with your sister, rather than later after you’ve gotten a wife.”

  Finding herself propelled away, the young woman didn’t know if she should be mad at her sister for telling her to stop acting like a young man, or at the good man of the East Wick village for telling her to buck up and actually be one! In the end, she found herself fuming and angry at both.

  “Let your sister get some water and bandages; you’ve done a man’s job today,” he said clapping her on the shoulder with enough force to rock her, and solicit a quickly muffled gasp as her ribs painfully reminded her they didn’t like to be jostled about, “that being the case, it’s time you stay out here with the rest of us.”

  “True enough,” the Reeve said sourly, for some reason still shooting her dark looks whenever he wasn’t prodding the boar.

  “That your blade?” Vance asked mildly, pointing to the remains of her Shri-Kriv.

  Falon frowned at him for a moment.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, trying to figure out whoever else they thought the blade might belong to that they had to ask.

  “It’s the death blow, most like,” Vance said stroking his chin.

  “Aye, Vance,” agreed Farmer Doyle, “you’re the expert, of course,” he said shooting the blacksmith a significant look, “but from the way that thing’s been ground down to the nub almost, I think even the Reeve here would agree that there’s only one person in the area with a Shri-Kriv like that.”