The sand remembers those who fought with honor, long after their bones have turned to dust. It is the valor of the fallen that endures, etched eternally into the heart of Okkorim.
— General Tariq ibn Rashad, Commander of the Crescent Guard
***
Torrick fought to keep his hands from trembling and his teeth from chattering as he stole down the side of the dune.
The sand shifted precariously, and he feared that one wrong step would dump him onto his backside or worse… Pitch him face first into the dirt. It was all he could do to banish the nightmarish visions of himself tripping and tumbling, end over end, landing at the hooves of the massive boar. In his head he could see the unnatural beast rip him to shreds with its tusks or trample him to bloody pulp while the Son of Blood and Sand watched.
Although the blue man, Idwan, had offered vague reassurances that his new master wouldn’t let him die, Torrick felt no such certainty.
He knew little about the Peerless cultivator, other than the grim stories he’d heard, all passed around the campfire like cautionary tales. In some the man was a folk hero, but in most he was a genocidal maniac. A monster of pure death and destruction, clothed in the guise of a man. Those tales were likely exaggerated, but even discounting the conflicting myths, the Son of Blood and Sand did not seem to be a man who had a high regard for human life.
Still, Torrick couldn’t say no.
Not even if the blood cultivator abandoned him to a grisly fate. Torrick needed power and this man could give it to him. Better to die with a glimmer of hope and some semblance of honor than live the comfortable life of a coward, eaten each day by regret and shame.
Will hardened by resolve, Torrick clenched the spear more tightly and picked up his pace, moving forward with grim determination.
By the grace of all the gods above, the boar still hadn’t noticed him yet. There was a large boulder jutting up, its bluff face scoured smooth by the merciless beating of the wind and the ever-shifting sands. He didn’t have many advantages here. His prey was bigger, stronger, and inhumanly vicious.
If Torrick had any chance at success, no matter how slim, he couldn’t just wade into the fray, spear twirling through the air like some hero plucked from a Goshan’s song. Not if he wanted to walk away. Perhaps the outlaw cultivator could accomplish such noble feats, but Torrick was not the outlaw cultivator. He needed to be smart. Cunning.
Moving with what felt like glacial slowness, Torrick circled right, carefully positioning himself so that the huge rock was at his back. If this were a normal boar, he would’ve climbed the rock and attacked it from above, enraging the hog, then jabbing down with the spear until he hit something vital. That wouldn’t work here, though. This creature was covered in spikes and impenetrable stone plates, which served as natural armor.
Even if he were inhumanly strong and somehow managed to land a blow with the spear head, the blade would simply glance off without puncturing the flesh below. The outlaw cultivator had mentioned in passing that the beast’s belly would be vulnerable, which meant there was only one method that would work.
The most dangerous method.
He'd need to brace the weapon against the earth, angling the spear outward, then provoke a charge and meet it head on. The creature’s own momentum would do the bulk of the heavy lifting. This spear, like most, was lugged—a pair of metal wings protruding outward from beneath the blade. In battle, they could be used to parry an incoming strike or slash, but they also served a secondary function in the great hunt. In theory, the lugs prevented a charging beast from simply running up the shaft of the spear and goring the hunter on the other end.
In reality, the lugs failed almost as often as they succeeded. Many a good man had died while facing down a charge from an enraged hog. Unfortunately, Torrick could see no other way.
Great beads of sweat rolled down his face and nerves made his hands tremble and shake, the spear dancing in his grasp.
Torrick ignored his fear, shoving it away. Burying it, the same way he’d buried his father less than a day ago. He bared his teeth in a snarl, brought the spear up, then struck the smooth face of the boulder with the side of the blade. Steel hit stone with the resounding clang of a gong, the sound reverberating into the otherwise still night. He needed to bait the boar.
The beast wheeled around in a half circle at the sound and reared up, its front legs kicking at the air. In that moment the hulking razorback looked less like a hog and more like a wild horse—though no wild horse ever had such a build. It let loose an enraged screech of protest and fingers of power crackled around the beast like a lightning storm.
Torrick froze, eyes wide in shock, his muscles stiff as a board.
All the courage he’d mustered a moment before had abandoned him now when he needed it the most. This had been a mistake, he realized all at once. A terrible, horrible mistake. One brought about by a mixture of recklessness and rage. He’d somehow convinced himself that this beast was not so different from the feral hogs that occasionally migrated into their territory from the west.
He was wrong.
Here, from this vantage, with the creature rearing up before him, Torrick realized there was a vast world of difference. This thing was easily larger than a merchant cart. Its hooves were larger than his head, and its tusks were long and sharp enough to put the sword he’d looted from the scout to shame. Its eyes—six angry slits that glowed with malicious red light—were filled with otherworldly fury and it radiated the power of an earthquake given flesh.
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This thing truly was nightmare, and it was going to kill him.
He was certain of it.
Instead of charging as Torrick had anticipated, the razorback brought its front legs crashing back down and unseen power exploded outward. Torrick wasn’t sure how else to explain it, but it felt as though the very earth he was standing on had become his enemy. The strange paralysis vanished as his survival instinct kicked in. He dove to one side a split second before an earthen spike erupted from the spot he’d been occupying just moments before.
There was no beauty or skill in Torrick’s dive, but it did the trick.
Torrick landed flat on his face with a whoof that knocked the air from his lungs. He fumbled his spear in the process and wound up with a mouth full of sand for his troubles. Hastily, Torrick pushed himself up to his elbows and greedily gulped for air while he fruitlessly attempted to blink away the grit filling his eyes. Before he could get his bearings or regain his feet, the ground began to violently vibrate and quake beneath him.
He glanced up just in time to see the gargantuan boar charging toward him like a battering ram. Despite its tremendous bulk, the razorback moved with incredible speed, closing the distance in a matter of seconds. Instead of trying to gain his feet, Torrick pulled his arms in tightly against his body and rolled to the right, over and over again, narrowly avoiding the creature’s crushing hooves as it stormed by. Torrick’s heart thundered, and time seemed to lurch and slow, taking on an odd, almost surreal quality.
In all his years, Torrick had never felt so afraid.
Oddly, he’d also never felt more alive either.
They were two faces of the same coin.
It was as though he’d been sleepwalking for years and had only now woken up for the first time. A sudden surge of primal energy filled him with overwhelming purpose. Spurred on by adrenaline, the all-consuming need to survive, and some potent power he couldn’t quite understand, Torrick scrambled to his feet and snatched up his spear.
His hands were steady now.
Its charge momentarily arrested, the razorback wheeled around once again and whipped its head forward. A thundercrack followed as the two tusks protruding from the creature’s jaw broke free and flew toward Torrick like a pair of javelins. He sidestepped the first tusk, which missed by inches, then attempted to deflect the second projectile with his spear. He wasn’t quick enough, though, and the second tusk slashed along the outside of his arm, carving a bright line of agony into his skin.
A lightning flash of hurt raced through the limb and an arc of blood splattered the white sands. Instead of immobilizing him, however, the pain sharpened his senses and brought the reality of the situation crashing down around him like a hammer. His new Master was nowhere to be seen and surely if he were going to do something, he would’ve done it by now. The cultivator truly had abandoned him here to die. Torrick was alone in the world, and if he didn’t muster the strength and courage necessary to survive, he wouldn’t walk away from this encounter.
In that instant, every other thought fell away. Utterly unimportant.
This moment was the only one that mattered. The only one that existed. His galloping heart slowed and the uncertainty inside his mind dissipated like a heavy mist burning away with the rising sun. His fate was in his own hands.
Still bleeding, Torrick made his way over to the boulder again then dropped low and planted the butt of the spear. Wedging it between the ground and the rock, then angling the gleaming tip upward at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Come on, then!” Torrick taunted, his voice sounding small and pathetic compared to the bellow of the hog. “You’ve come looking for me? Here I am. Come take a bite!”
The huge creature faced him and Torrick was rather surprised to see that the boar had already regrown its tusks. That didn’t matter. It changed nothing.
The boar dropped its head and pawed at the ground with its front hoof, tusks gleaming in the starlight. It snorted, dual billows of white steam puffing out from each nostril, then it charged again. Its churning hooves kicked up a rooster tail of dust as it tore across the sands. It took everything in Torrick’s power to hold his ground. To keep the faith. Though he’d hunted feral hogs before, he’d never actually had the nerve to withstand a charge.
He’d seen his father do it once, many years ago when he’d still been a proper child.
“As in all of life,” his father had said after the beast had fallen, blood soaking into the thirsty dirt, “the secret to surviving a charge is unwavering resolve. This is as true of men on a battlefield as it is of an angry boar. If you flinch, if you falter for even a moment, you will surely die. Commit wholly or not at all.” His father had served as a spearman with the Auxillry during the Nawasi Uprising, and Torrick knew the advice was hard won.
Clinging to the words of his father, Torrick held fast, even as certain death rushed toward him like a crashing mountain boulder. The creature was so large that its bulky frame blocked out everything else, until the boar was all that remained. The creature lunged and the lower portion of its unprotected chest rammed straight into the spear. Torrick was certain that even with a clean strike, there was no way he could’ve driven the spear tip home.
Thankfully the creature’s weight and momentum did the work for him.
The spear vibrated in his grasp and the boar shrieked bloody murder as an unstoppable force met an immovable object. The spear head dug deeper, cutting through hide then muscle then fiber and sinew. Blessedly, the lugs caught and held, keeping the monster at bay. Sludgy golden blood poured from the wound and puddled on the ground.
Torrick felt a flash of pride and fierce joy, but the feeling quickly faded. When his father had pulled this same trick all those years ago, the boar hadn’t lasted long. The beast had toppled over to one side, dead in less than a minute. This thing was far more resilient. The creature roared again, spittle flying from its maw and spraying Torrick in the face. He’d wounded the beast, but instead of killing it, the spear only seemed to enrage it further.
The creature bucked and pressed, grunting and growling as it hurled every ounce of its considerable strength against the weapon lodged unceremoniously into its chest. The metal lugs still held, but the wooden shaft itself didn’t fare so well. It bowed, curving with a groan, then snapped all at once with a sharp crack. Splinters of wood flew out as the weapon’s strength gave way and the beast lurched forward, one of its tusks digging into Torrick’s left shoulder.
Before the monster could finish the job, however, something silver flashed in the corner of Torrick’s eye. Whatever it was glinted in the moonlight, here then gone in the space of a heartbeat. In an instant, the boar dropped straight down as though it were some giant puppet whose strings had been neatly snipped by an expert seamstress.
The beast hit the ground with a meaty thud and lay there, dead and unmoving.
Suddenly lifeless.
Protruding from the creature’s head was a simple hunting knife, driven to the hilt through the creature’s tremendously thick skull…