Chapter 42: Victory

Bjorn emerged from the wooded hillside and gazed upon the ravaged valley strewn with the corpses of boarfolk. In his heart, he gave his verdict: this was a flawless ambush.

The battle had erupted with astonishing speed and ferocity. From the moment the boarfolk charged into the valley to their panicked retreat, less than fifteen minutes had passed. The fifty wild hunter archers had nearly emptied their quivers, unleashing at least a thousand arrows upon the heads of the boarfolk.

Had more of them survived, Bjorn would have had to lead the wildfolk in a charge. To avoid melee combat was a promise made only to Leo; once overwhelming advantage was secured, the wildfolk were always eager to slay as many boarfolk as possible. In truth, the wild hunters were even more formidable in close combat than the militia.

The wildfolk now strode from the trees, brandishing longbows and bone spears, their cheers of victory echoing in the air. Leo noticed keenly that among the wild archers were many old men with graying hair and wrinkled faces, as well as young girls with tender, unlined cheeks.

Evidently, when Bjorn mentioned "fifty archers," he did not mean fifty hunter specialists. Among the wildfolk, everyone was a warrior; all practiced archery. Even teenage girls ventured out to hunt with their elders, able to draw hundred-pound longbows and strike unerringly within a hundred meters. As for the veteran hunters whose hair had turned white, their stamina might have flagged, but their skill and composure were unmatched.

Bjorn joined Leo and pointed to a hulking boarfolk carcass. "This was their chieftain."

The chieftain stood at least two meters tall and weighed at least three times as much as Leo. It lay facedown some seven or eight meters from the militia's formation, its face obscured. Six or seven long arrows jutted from its back, but the thick hide armor—and a patch of rusted chainmail, likely donated by some adventurer—had prevented the shafts from penetrating deeply, sinking less than ten centimeters.

For such a burly creature, this was not enough to pierce the muscles of its back, and so not fatal. Leo rolled the body over, revealing three short spears embedded in its chest—broken after it fell, their wooden hafts snapped but the remnants deeply lodged in its flesh.

Because of its conspicuous size, the chieftain had been the prime target of both wild archers and the militia. Before it could reach their line, it fell, defeated and humiliated.

As Leo examined the chieftain’s body, he remarked idly, "Why do you suppose these boarfolk never think to carry shields?"

Bjorn replied with some exasperation, "Who brings a shield when hunting?"

"When you hunt, you should bring a shield!" Leo declared, proudly patting the round shield on his back.

Militiaman Vicky approached, troubled. "What should we do about those tusk boars?"

A dozen or so one-horned tusk boars were still struggling in the pit, collapsing its walls in their attempts to escape, nearly burying themselves.

"Figure it out. Capture them alive if you can; if not, slaughter them for meat."

"Alright," Vicky said, scratching his head as he walked off.

Only about a dozen boarfolk had managed to engage the militia in close combat—each an elite among their kind. Even with superior numbers and coordination, the militia had struggled to bring down these formidable foes. Two militiamen lay gravely wounded, their fate uncertain, while more than a dozen others nursed lighter wounds, sitting on the ground to bandage themselves.

The remaining militiamen joined the wildfolk in scouring the battlefield for spoils. The gathered loot was piled together. Leo and Bjorn quickly divided it: all crossbows and bolts went to Riverbend, armor to the wildfolk.

The wildfolk, never short of meat, declined even a single tusk boar. As for the kobolds, they received the heavy weapons that neither Leo nor the wildfolk wanted. Leo didn’t dare ask what use they had for these Stone Age relics—stone hammers and axes weighing ten or twenty pounds.

Regardless, the kobolds were the happiest of the three parties, their tails wagging as they walked away.

Feeling a twinge of guilt, Leo generously gave all the remaining tusk boars running about the valley to the kobolds. "Catch them, and they’re yours!"

Bjorn led his people in severing the heads of slain boarfolk to bring back as trophies. The chieftain’s head, he cut off and presented to Leo.

"This is your due."

In full view of both the militia and the wildfolk, Leo accepted the head without hesitation—a sign of recognition from the wildfolk.

During a brief respite, Leo looked around and spotted Marmot sitting alone on a hillside, far from the battlefield. She gazed listlessly at the corpse-strewn ground and the people searching the dead for loot, showing none of the joy he had expected.

When Leo approached, she did not greet him with her usual excitement or boast of her deeds. Instead, she drooped her ears and turned her back to him.

"I miss my teacher," she confessed.

Leo felt a surge of guilt. This formidable beast before him was, inside, just a soul younger than a mouse. And as an elven druid, her mindset and values were worlds apart from those of humans. The elves of this world were a peaceful, life-loving race, even more averse to war than he had imagined.

Thousands of years ago, elves had lived across the continent, but as other races grew stronger and war became more frequent, they retreated to their ancestral homeland—the high plateau within the Great Barrier. Their first response to any threat was flight.

While humans reveled in the violence of war and the thrill of victory, elves saw only blood-soaked fields, spreading death, and the withering of life.

He recalled Freya mentioning that in her homeland, the most common way to resolve disputes was to compete at sleeping—whoever slept sounder and longer prevailed. The first to wake up would have to yield. Many elves devoted themselves to mastering shapeshifting magic, becoming animals famed for their drowsiness to gain an upper hand in these contests. Freya’s teacher, for instance, could sleep for three or five months at a stretch without effort, ensuring no one ever quarreled with him.

Leo gently stroked Freya’s furry back, coaxing and comforting her, promising her the camp’s entire store of food for the third time. Only then did Marmot regain a bit of her spirit.

With the battlefield cleared, Leo led his forces toward the boarfolk lair. They were met by a hail of arrows.

Though their main fighting force had been destroyed, over a hundred boarfolk still remained within the lair, bristling with crossbows and manning their fortifications, prepared to resist to the death.

"Fisa, do you speak the boarfolk tongue?" Leo asked desperately. "Help me negotiate a surrender—or failing that, demand tribute. You can keep half of whatever we gain."

Fisa shook her head. "I don’t."

"So what now?" Leo and Bjorn exchanged glances.

"Retreat!"