Ealhstan watched as Woodrow sparred with Claude, leaning against the wall of his forge. Claude’s sword rang as it clashed against Woodrow’s steel. Ryne had mentioned how they once trained with wooden swords, but that felt like a distant memory. In two months, Claude had learned to take down direwolves and corvus.
Woodrow feinted and sidestepped, but Claude met every strike. He parried and countered, his focus locked on Woodrow’s red hair and movements. Finally, Woodrow stepped back and clapped his hands once.
“I have nothing more to teach you,” Woodrow said. “You’re fast. You’re growing stronger. You can dodge, parry, and strike with ease.”
Claude blushed at the praise, a grin spreading across his face.
Ealhstan knew it wasn’t true. Woodrow still had tricks up his sleeve, saving his best techniques for when Claude was older. Ealhstan approached them in the grange, drawing their attention.
In a low, gruff voice meant only for Claude, he said, “Maybe I have something to teach you—if you don’t mind switching teachers.” Claude’s eyes widened.
From the church steps, Ryne watched as Ealhstan showed Claude a new way to hold his sword. Ealhstan explained how to combine different techniques, warning that some monsters attacked in unpredictable ways.
Ealhstan’s technique forced Claude to rely on his shield more often. Though Ealhstan was holding back and moving slowly, he used his arm like a battering ram, slamming into Claude’s shield repeatedly. Each strike made the ground around Claude tremble and sent dust scattering.
As he hammered the shield, Ealhstan instructed Claude to time his counters, aiming for the heart or torso. He also emphasized putting full strength into the shield to block.
“Now, I wonder what you’ll do… when I do this,” Ealhstan muttered. Without warning, he grabbed Claude by the waist and launched him into the air. Claude yelped, and Ryne gasped as Claude flew like a tossed pebble. Below, Ealhstan stood calmly, arms crossed, waiting.
Woodrow sucked in a breath. “Uh… Brother…?”
But Ealhstan’s focus remained on Claude. As Claude hurtled downward, he quickly gathered his senses. Locking eyes with Ealhstan, he gritted his teeth, furrowed his brow, and braced himself behind his shield, angling his descent.
Ealhstan smiled, raising his arms to catch him. “Well done!” he barked, then tossed Claude lightly into the air again. “Keep your wits about you. Use your weight to bring bigger enemies down. Use gravity. Use anything that gives you the advantage.”
Ryne exhaled, making a mental note on how to defeat larger creatures. The key was unbalancing them, and he resolved to adjust his kindflame to achieve just that.
Later, in the crypts, he practiced with Ember, refining a sweeping motion with his flame designed to catch legs on fire if his opponents failed to dodge or move away. The simplicity of the offensive motion made it easy to master. Though his skill with shieldflame was improving, he knew it still lacked the duration needed to withstand prolonged attacks.
----------------------------------------
Woodrow led his thieves into the meadows, cloaked and armed. They waited for the darkness to stir. Though the thieves had sharp senses and keen sight, they were still only human, so Woodrow stood in the middle of the clearing as bait, ensuring they knew where to throw their daggers and strike. He carried a torch, his red hair gleaming in the light, making him easy to spot. He directed the group toward the new type of monsters that gathered to corrupt the land—fast, spider-like, slimy creatures. Weak but numerous, they were a perfect match for the thieves' precision and speed.
The thieves moved as a swarm, protecting one another—a stark contrast to their usual self-serving ways. They had always looked out for their own survival, cooperating only when necessity demanded it. But Woodrow hoped they might find a sense of community here. Their daggers glinted in the torchlight as he taught them where to aim and how to strike. They slid under the spiders' scuttling legs, slicing them cleanly so the creatures toppled and rolled away clumsily. As the spiders realized they were being driven back, they retreated, raising their limbs in an almost petulant display of anger.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Back at the granges, Woodrow served them warm soup with hearty chunks of meat and eggs. He watched, amused, as they devoured the meal with bread. "Not used to earning your keep, are you?" he remarked, before leaving them to their fire. With a quiet smile, he headed off to report back to Ryne.
----------------------------------------
The children of Kent played with the new settlers, learning to share as they chased each other around. Belle and the sheep bounded about, either chasing the children or letting their soft fur be petted. With Wilbur having treated the latest wave of sickness, the air now carried the sound of little, tinkling laughter, bringing smiles to the faces of mothers and soldiers alike. Jerome, ever the dutiful scout, kept watch over them from the tower Ealhstan had built.
But there was a problem: food for the growing community. Some nights, under the communal fire, Jerome's eyes lingered on mothers passing their food to their children. Some shared a single bowl of stew. Meanwhile, Ryne went to Claude’s goat, squeezed the milk, and offered it to the grateful children.
He needed to collect prayers. So, on a Saintsday evening, he instructed Wilbur to decorate the pews with some of his more common flowers and make incense from the yellowtongues. He wanted a warm atmosphere that night. The villagers filed in as Woodrow played a gentle melody, the space filled with comforting scents and sounds. The sermon he chose was one of warmth and belonging, and he saw the people close their eyes, feeling the weight of his words. He gathered their prayers and offerings—like wind in a basket—and let it settle in his heart.
That night, Gaelmar appeared in his dreams, the long-forgotten Saint pointing to a part of the dark forest where wildlife once flourished.
Woodrow joined Ryne in the woods that night, farther beyond the arched pathway of Rothfield. He was ready to awaken another part of the forest. After the Saintsday mass, Ryne showed them the prayers he had gathered: soft, glowing orbs that hovered in the air like little globes of flame. The voices of the people filled the space, not distinct but a mix of ramblings, intertwining and merging together. Ryne absorbed them all, and as the prayers lifted him up, he began to levitate just a touch.
He went into the forest to pray to Saint Gaelmar, with Woodrow watching over him, dagger in hand, ready for any monsters that might emerge. Ryne knelt, glowing softly, and pressed his palms into the earth. The land around him stirred. Wildflowers bloomed where his fingers touched, and the trees began to regain their vibrant hues. Half of each tree remained withered and dark, while the other half burst into the green of spring, their leaves bright and fresh. Ryne took a deep breath. It was a small clearing, but it stretched beyond the visible, as if the darkness of the forest was beginning to recede.
Green vines erupted from the ground, shifting with fluid motion, guiding Ryne and Woodrow through underground tunnels that led back to the welcoming archway of Rothfield. The vines seemed to nod in acknowledgment before they slithered back into the earth. Ryne yawned, weary from the effort. Woodrow placed a steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him back toward the crypts where he would rest.
"You’re doing good here, Woodrow. Thank you," Ryne murmured, his eyes closing. After a moment, he added, more softly, "Thank you."
Scurrying paws and soft squeaks echoed through the dark forest, now teeming with life in the areas where green had begun to return. Woodrow and Wilbur were tasked with checking these newly revived sections. Wilbur delighted in the sight of squirrels, foxes, and pheasants wandering through the underbrush. Meanwhile, Woodrow carefully examined the tracks, noting the presence of waterfowl—ducks, geese, and sandpipers. He made a mental note to remind his thieves' den not to poach or hunt these creatures unless Ryne specifically instructed them to. They swore they wouldn’t, their promises hanging in the cool air.
Ryne led Claude to one of the newly greened areas one midday. A curious squirrel, bold and unafraid, scurried up to Claude's thick hair and settled there. Both boys laughed as the squirrel nestled in, but their amusement quickly faded when they heard a rustling and a wild boar emerged from the bushes.
“Don’t move,” Claude murmured, but the boar was already charging. Without hesitation, Claude stepped forward, positioning himself between the beast and Ryne. One tusk grazed his leg as the boar charged past him. Claude collapsed to the ground as the creature squealed and disappeared back into the forest.
Ryne knelt beside him, quickly bandaging the wound under the shade of a nearby tree. His fingers gently brushed over Claude’s smooth skin, a softness in his touch. As he worked, Ryne noticed the faint beginning of hair on Claude’s legs and felt a warm blush creep up his neck. Beneath the bandage, he whispered a prayer for healing, a wave of warmth flowing from him to ease the pain.
Claude shivered contentedly. “Did you apply some ointment? I didn’t even notice.” He stood, testing his leg. “Huh. Doesn’t hurt at all. You be careful, all right? Boars can fell kings just like swords can. Though I don’t blame the fellow. He’s scared and protective of his own, just like the rest of us.”
Several nights later, the people of Rothfield enjoyed rabbit in their stew—along with fish, fresh crops, and plenty of good company. Ryne sat back, eyes closed in quiet contentment, as the newcomers joined the growing communal fire in Kent. New children played at its edge, and several newly built huts welcomed villagers who had forged friendships with Kent's people, further spreading the warmth of community.