The Boar’s Bane

Yohan awoke with a violent jolt, breath tearing into his lungs like fire. For a long, dizzy moment, he couldn’t tell which way was up—until the pounding in his skull told him that down was toward his head.

He was hanging upside down, a thick rope biting mercilessly into his leg. His body swayed slightly, pendulum-like, from a sturdy branch high above. Blood rushed to his head, filling his ears with a dull roar that drowned out all else.

The forest around him was serene, maddeningly so. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in lazy gold shafts, dappling the mossy ground far below. Leaves rustled softly in the wind, a bird trilled somewhere nearby, and a distant woodpecker’s rhythmic drumming echoed like mocking laughter.

How he had ended up here, Yohan couldn’t recall. His last memory was of the road beyond the valley—a flicker of movement among the trees, a sudden snap—and then darkness.

Now this.

He gritted his teeth and twisted, muscles straining against the rope. His body protested the unnatural angle, pain lancing through his joints as he writhed. His hand brushed the cold steel of his axe—familiar, comforting—but his inverted position made it nearly impossible to draw. He managed a desperate, clumsy swing, the heavy blade scraping harmlessly against bark.

The rope didn’t even tremble.

A guttural growl of frustration escaped his throat. The snare held fast, each movement digging it deeper into his leg. Sweat beaded on his brow, his arms trembling from the effort. He tried again, pulling himself upward, fingers brushing the coarse rope. But gravity won easily. His body sagged back down, leaving him once again dangling—breathless and furious.

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Then came the sound.

A rustle.

Not the wind. Not a bird. He froze, listening.

The undergrowth shivered, branches cracking under something large. From the shadows, two yellow eyes emerged—feral, unblinking.

A monstrous boar stepped into view, its massive bulk cloaked in matted fur and dried mud. Its tusks gleamed pale as ivory, sharp enough to split bone. It snorted once, pawing at the ground, its gaze fixed squarely on Yohan’s helpless, inverted form.

“Oh, gods,” Yohan muttered, twisting again in vain.

The boar lowered its head.

It charged.

Yohan roared, thrashing with every ounce of strength he had. He swung violently, body whipping through the air as the beast thundered beneath him. Tusks slashed upward—missed him by inches—but their force rocked him so hard that the rope creaked and frayed.

He used that moment.

Grabbing a low branch, he hauled himself upward, every muscle in his back and arms screaming. The rope stretched, groaned—but held. He swung again, higher this time, and his hand found bark. For one blessed second, he wasn’t just dangling.

He climbed.

Yohan’s fingers reached the haft of his axe, still wedged into the tree above. With a savage pull, he tore it free. The sudden release sent him dropping through the air—

—but he twisted, landing hard on one knee, axe clutched tight. The rope snapped and fell beside him, limp and useless.

He was free.

The boar turned, eyes blazing. It had been cheated of its easy prey, and now fury drove it. It pawed at the ground again, snorting clouds of steam into the cool air. The earth trembled beneath its hooves.

Yohan rose to his full height, breathing hard, legs quivering but steady. The blood still pounded in his ears, but his focus was sharp now.

Steel gleamed in his hands.

“Come on, then,” he growled, voice low and cold.