The advance of the spear-points continued to push the umbrar back and it gained an increasingly harried look. The tail flicked in agitation, the tip needles extending and retracting in sync with its twitches. It tried to lash the tail tip at the right flanker, but the core pair stepped forward double-time at the motion and lunged. Their bodies were the muscle engines, they drove the spears forward in unison, every motion translated into deadly thrust. The umbrar had no choice but to abandon its strike and twist around the attacks, contorting again in that unnatural way.

It tried to gain distance, moving to dart around the left flanker, but once again they were ready. The spear was thrust ahead of it, and for a moment Jack worried that it had been mistimed and the umbrar would simply brush past and escape their net. But when it slammed against the spear, rather than give way, the wood remained rigid and still, and it was the umbrar that bent around it.

Briefly stunned, the umbrar scrabbled back but the left opportunist did not leave the moment unexploited—she darted forward, body extended into a lunge that saw her spear tip thrust cleanly into the umbrar’s back haunch. That teeth-etching scream bought it a moment of reprieve. Its tail wrapped around the shaft and—heedless of its own body—twisted it up and out of the attackers hands. Fresh blood gushed from the wound, flesh torn worse by its own actions than the initial blow. With remarkable dexterity it twisted its tail and flung the spear end-over-end back into the edges of the clearing behind it.

One weapon lost, but the umbrar's characteristic stalk had gained a flavour of stagger.

The spears landed now, glancing cuts and bruising shaft-slaps wore away at it. There were no critical blows, even hounded by five aggressors, its movement was unpredictable and quick to respond. But it was only a matter of time, just as they had been ground down by attrition, it too would be worn to exhaustion; until bleeding from dozens of wounds, it would be slain.

They drove it up against the wall of the haven trees, even with its nimbleness there would be no navigating through the densely interlocking branches, any attempt would see it torn to shreds by the countless thorns. The end was drawing near.

Jack could see the moment coalesce. Jam was rearing back; he would commit to a killing blow, forcing the umbrar to dodge to the side—there was no further retreat for it. Whichever way it went, the flankers and opportunists would already be mid-thrust, there would be no chance of evasion.

Jam lunged.

The umbrar jumped to the side—no—jumped up.

Showing none of the lethargy it had earlier, it glided up the haven tree in a blink. Before the attackers could recover from their premature stabs it was leaping up and over their heads. It landed without any stumble, then it was blurring away towards the break in the grove.

Jack grabbed a loose spear without hesitation, then he was running.

'You learned didn't you? We taught you how to feign weakness. We taught you that we're dangerous. You're going to come back for us, you won't make the same mistakes, you won't give us a chance next time.'

He yelled at it as he ran, screaming defiance. If he kept his pace he would intercept. He didn't know what would happen next—delay it until the others came, hope not to die.

But the umbrar altered its course, it moved away from him.

It wasn't willing to be held up. The new angle would keep him from reaching it before it would be past him.

He couldn't stop it.

It would escape and hide within the tall grasses, waiting for its skin to recover. They wouldn't even have an hour before the next assault.

Everything they had gone through, all the struggle, just to die from a weapon unleashed by people long dead.

Frustration welled within Jack. His every step, a fruitless protest against the inevitable.

A nightbird called.

Jack didn't realize at first, it was mimicking the wails they had produced earlier, it sounded eerily human until its scream tapered to an avian squawk. But in that instant, the umbrar's attention had twitched.

He knew then what it thought.

Inspired, he summoned every ounce of performance he had—every afternoon spent running lines and play-acting with Syra—and wailed like a child.

It was a taunt; the only one that would work.

"You have been toyed with, manipulated, and injured. Your every delight was by my design. You stupid beast that cannot tell an honest scream from a feigned one, do you think this is all I have for you?"

The umbrar's path changed.

'Now I'm running full tilt at a beast shaped to hate, that has just been reminded just how much I've pissed it off,' Jack's thought was one part wry, nine parts desperate. ‘Don’t know how to use a spear…pointy end in? That’s obvious, hasn’t worked so far. Time to improvise.’

Jack adjusted his grip on the spear and swung the butt forward mid-stride.

'If this doesn't work I'm dead.'

In a smooth motion, he let the spear-butt drop, striking the ground and digging in. All his momentum carried up into a vault, the shaft bent—but didn't break.

Vital Flow. Pivot.

He held onto the spear, raising the point over his head even as he pulled his body close to the shaft.

Pivot spun him forward, he could feel the momentum push the spear into his chest as it rotated with him until he halted his spin.

His head tilted up to look down, below him was the umbrar, crouching into a pounce that would see him disemboweled in a single pass.

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'Gotcha.'

His dash card now had a name, and triggering it sent him plunging down to the leaping umbrar, led by the spear-tip.

Jack had been loath to use the dash card again after the first use had nearly killed him, such had the acceleration strained his body. He moved faster this time.

It was over in an instant.

Jack's first glimmering of awareness was of being slumped upside down. Opening his eyes he came face to face with the snarling face of the umbrar.

'fuckfuckfuckfuck,' his mind sang in desperation.

He'd half scrambled away before the realization came to him; the ghastly visage was frozen in death. Plunged through its open jaw and back out its skull, piercing through to the ground, was the spear he carried with him.

His plan, his stupid impossible plan had worked.

Jam and the others arrived then, slowing to a halt at the sight before them.

The umbrar was on grotesque display, bent over itself in a rag-doll of death, limbs awry and bent. For all its danger, it seemed smaller in death.

There were no words at first.

"Wretched thing, made for hate," the older cook was speaking, his words delivered in melodic rhythm, "forgive us the nature of your release and, in death, know peace from such passions that were given to you unasked."

He made a curious gesture then, tapping the back of his neck with his right hand before falling silent. The others followed suit shortly after. Jack, not knowing the purpose but drawn in by ritual when little else seemed sufficient, joined as well.

The moment passed and the others were quick to approach and exult at the release of their fear.

"Never seen a spear technique like that before," Jam japed to the group, "if that's what you'll do to get another loaf of that bread, by the cards I think I need to try it!

Jack groaned internally, it had become a thing. Make the best of it.

"Hmm?" Jack tilted his head quizzically, "Oh that?" gestured in the general direction of the mounted corpse, "thought I saw some crumbs on the ground, wanted a closer look. Umbrar happened to be in the way."

That was enough to need tears wiped away when folks settled. The tension finally released from what had been an ambush in the night wherein they'd walked the edge of disaster from the first moments. Jack could see a singular expression on the faces of those around him. The day before, most had given him a weighing look, trying to assess this perhaps-too-bold figure who'd conned his way into their midst. Now he'd been measured and found up to standard.

The expression was of gratefulness.

It was still hours until sunrise and the set of shoulders spoke of growing weariness. A double watch was set, with another tasked to watch over the poisoned sleepers, still recovering from the anesthetic of the umbrar's spines. Sleeping mats were drawn within the perimeter of spears, but no one minded the tight quarters or the extra lanterns being lit. It was widely agreed that, if anything, the light was a necessity for rest.

Despite their efforts, for those still awake, sleep didn't come. Not after the night they'd faced.

Instead, Jack learned the names of the men and women with whom he'd fought.

Issaiah, the older cook, who held that all life was sacred, even that of the cruelest umbrar. He'd been with the caravan longer than Jam, working with his mother before she passed and left the enterprise in Jam's hands. His main trade was herb lore and he promised to show Jack how to find the forage that would keep a wound from festering.

Malek, the younger, who liked to whittle and had held a spear on the left flank when they harried the umbrar. His main trade was as one of the ambler handlers and he quietly mourned the death of one of his charges.

There was Isabelle who didn't fight, but had stayed by the fallen and tended them. She thanked Jack with tears in her eyes, grateful she hadn't had to offer mercy's touch to her patients. In answer to Jack's confusion, she showed him the honed blade she kept and merely said "mercy", and Jack knew she was no coward.

There were a pair of hunters, the twin opportunists. One taunted her brother endlessly that it had been her blow to wound the umbrar, and Jack felt a pang of homesickness.

Finally there were the prospectors, a polarized pair, taciturn and cheerful respectively. They disclosed having a knack for delving ruins more than mining.

Expectant looks were turned on Jack but when he hesitated, it was Jam who spoke up instead.

"To anyone who asks, Jack's just our clerk Maude's boy, heady for a chance at adventure. Perhaps a fondness for Wyli in the mix."

That received knowing nods, and more than a couple smirks. Jack was grateful that he wasn't forced to deceive anyone, and that Jam had the foresight to establish a story for him.

Conversation continued smoothly from there, with not-so-discreet inclusion of details about Maude's operation.

"Has your mother truly been in the business for twenty-seven years now, Jack? Must have been quite a time in those early years with you come along."

"Uhh yes, I suppose it was."

"What a forgetful lad! No wonder your dear mother is trying you at other trades!"

Not that Jack didn't get his revenge on occasion.

"So sad what happened to your father, passing before you were born."

"Well, I like to think that Jam stepped into that role in some ways."

Jam's eyes bugged out at that, and shook his head vociferously, "Nay! Nay, that's too far by half," a distant look and shudder, "too far by any stretch."

The dawn came without sleep for any there, and Issaiah filled a kettle with water and steeped brightbrew as a weak cure for the haggard faces cultivated by the sleepless night.

The smell of which was enough to wake the sleepers. Their last memories were of slipping into unconsciousness and the fear of death, so some effort was made to reassure them.

Conversation lingered for a time on the gristly corpse of the umbrar, still pinned to the ground as if a specimen for some giant collector.

The pair of hunter siblings—Rudy and Judy—offered to make Jack a pair of black-ivory blades from the longer fangs of the umbrar if they could claim the other teeth.

Jack tilted his head in confusion.

‘Why would they be asking me?’

But Jam realized the ignorance at hand and explained that for laying the final blow, and plotting the course to its demise, the division of the umbrar's value was his alone to determine.

"You could claim every piece if you like, but it won't win you any friends unless you know how to gain the best value from every piece of it." Jam's tone said 'doubtful'. "You might even end up with a loss compared to if you gave others leave to prep the leather, carve bone, or preserve whatever was in those needles in exchange for a cut."

That was how Jack acquired promises for enough of the leather for new nightblacks, a pair of bone-knives, and a tenth of what could be extracted from the anaesthetic in the tail-spines.

He knew that his offers were generous, but he was beginning to see the nature of the dealings within the caravan. Showing largess in his deals now would encourage others to do the same later. There were obviously complex accountings of obligation and mutual aid—the set of deals he'd made spun off into dozens of other sub-deals and friendly bartering over existing debts to be balanced or adjusted. It wasn't at all what he was used to in his experience of the usual management of expedition profit-sharing.

For most, if profit-sharing was even present, it would be a fixed percentage—determined by seniority with perhaps an acknowledgement of noteworthy contribution.

This approach was more chaotic, but Jack could see the ties it formed between people. The intimate understanding everyone had of each other’s skills and capacities. It was a tightly knit community and he hadn't truly been a part of it until he'd claimed a bounty within its elaborate structure.

It was into this happy scene that the nobles arrived.