Chapter 43: Good News

What else could they want if not to retreat—wait around for the boar-men to invite them to dinner?
With their main force crippled, the boar-men tribe was no match for the allied troops.
Yet Leo knew that exterminating the tribe would come at a steep price.
Were the militia truly capable of storming the boar-men’s lair and fighting them in close quarters?
Would the wildfolk, having lost their advantage in ranged attacks, be willing?
The kobolds...
Well, among the three groups, only the kobolds were eager for battle, hefting thirty-pound stone hammers, fearless, ready to smash even the king of heaven himself if he dared show his face.
If not for Frisa’s restraint, they would have rushed the front lines.
Given the disparity in size and strength, the fierce wildfolk might manage one-for-one exchanges with the boar-men hunters, but the militia would need to pair up just to take down a single enemy.
Leo and Bjorn were both pragmatic about this.
Elder Zurvan was right!
To maintain one’s strength, one must keep the enemy alive; the wisdom of the ancients.
With the boar-men’s lair suffering heavy losses, their threat had diminished. Their power waned, and now it was their turn to live in fear.
Thus, from the boar-men’s perspective, the intimidating force that had rushed out for the purge was driven back in a hail of arrows, then promptly turned tail and melted away in noisy retreat.
Bearing their spoils, each group returned home.
The wildfolk, unable to bear the sight, assisted the kobolds in hunting two unicorn tusked boars.
The kobolds carved the carcasses into hefty chunks of meat, several kobolds to a piece, carrying and hauling, reminiscent of little goblins dragging home their prize after capturing a monk.
This kobold “expedition” was worthy of their annals—assuming they kept records.
“We fought alongside humans, slaughtering boar-men left and right.”
Of all the unicorn tusked boars trapped in the pit, only six were captured alive; the rest were either dead or wounded, butchered on site and carried home by the militia.
By the time they returned to camp, it was already midday the following day.
The village women surged forward to take the meat.
Some cuts were sliced into strips and dried, others made into sausages, while the meaty bones were chopped into chunks and thrown into a cauldron to simmer into a rich broth.

The camp was draped with meat strips everywhere.
Thousands of pounds of meat!
A horde of kobold pups squatted beneath the drying racks, drooling, leaping madly in an attempt to snag a bite.
Some leaped high enough to catch the end of a meat strip, only to be left dangling, swinging like a child’s plaything until a village woman knocked them down with a rolling pin.
The six living unicorn tusked boars were confined to the lord’s manor.
Ordinary cottages and wooden fences would never hold them; only the manor’s two-foot-thick, six-foot-high stone walls could withstand their battering.
The manor was nearly roofed, with only the highest ventilator left unfinished. The construction crew had disbanded, leaving Valery and a handful of helpers pounding away on the roof.
The manor itself resembled a Viking longhouse, yet hinted at a stone fortress.
It covered almost three hundred square yards, enough to shelter all the village’s elderly, women, and children during wartime.
The main door was set atop the six-foot stone foundation, accessible only by an exterior wooden staircase.
In case of invasion, villagers could retreat inside, close the half-foot-thick oak door, dismantle the outside staircase, and even siege engines would be helpless, forced to rely on axes and hammers to chip away at the defenses.
Other northern villages had nothing so luxurious—a manor often meant a large mud-and-timber hut, little more than an oversized thatched cottage.
But Urian, a seasoned soldier, scoffed at those relics of bygone centuries.
Not only the manor, but the whole camp had a military air—focused on defense, safety, and practicality, with comfort a distant concern.
Watching the unicorn tusked boars rampage through the manor, Urian grumbled, “I haven’t even moved in yet, and the beasts already have.”
The manor was said to be two stories, but in truth, it was three.
At its heart lay a hearth, surrounded by tiered wooden steps stretching up to the hall’s beams, parallel to the six-foot stone foundation, connecting to the main door and various chambers.
The six-foot drop from the wooden floor to the ground formed the manor’s hidden layer.
This hidden layer was originally intended for the northfolk’s livestock—pigs and sheep.
So keeping the unicorn tusked boars inside was fitting.
For now, lacking the manpower to craft so many wooden planks, the hall remained empty, only a few beams spanning the stone base.
The four corners of the hall had rooms partitioned off, destined to be the lord’s quarters.
“Where am I supposed to live? Where do I live?” Leo was excited—finally, no more tents.

“You?” Urian stared at Leo, recalling his daughter’s affectionate manner with him, suddenly feeling uneasy, his expression souring.
Leo was having none of it: “What are you looking at?”
“What, you want to fight?”
Just as the two seemed ready to come to blows, militia member Vicky entered.
“Uncle, the Romon knight is here.”
Clad in light armor, the Romon knight stood at the center of camp with two attendants, surveying the drying meat strips and the bustling village women.
The kitchen had recently been expanded—a sturdy wooden hut now stood behind the wagon, packed with sacks of wheat and other provisions.
Shelters had been built over the cauldrons, no longer exposed to the elements, each bubbling with food as robust village women stirred with pine rods.
The scent of meat wafted thickly through the air; children squatted nearby, practicing breathing techniques.
They trained in the method Leo had taught, while curiously eyeing the foreign visitor, Romon.
When Urian approached, Romon smiled, “It seems you’ve had quite the harvest.”
Urian boasted, retelling the “kobold’s bow to the master” tale, only replacing kobolds with boar-men.
“So, the territory is safe for now,” Romon nodded, tuning out his former commander’s embellishments. “I’ve brought good news as well.”
“My father has agreed with the captain to provide aid to Riverbend for the next three years.”
“Excellent! Excellent! The old man still remembers his friends!” Urian was overjoyed.
Though he’d shamelessly sought help from Romon’s father, Rigolaf, since the first moment they’d headed north, he never expected him to really agree.
Romon smiled helplessly; he knew his father well. Even if he valued friendship, as the lord of four knight domains, he could never aid an outsider unconditionally.
If he sent a sack of grain to Urian, how many sacks would he owe his uncles?
“Come on! Tonight, we don’t stop till we’re drunk!” Urian threw an arm around Romon’s shoulders. “By the way, did you bring any wine?”