The Boar’s Bane

Yohan slowed as Reynard’s old clearing came into view.

The firelight was wrong.

A faint glow flickered where there should have been only moon-shadow and moss. With it came the scrape of metal on stone and the dull rhythm of shovels biting soil. Yohan raised a hand and eased Theron back into cover. Pulling his ghillie hood low, he slipped to the edge of the trees, every step placed with care.

Then a root cracked beneath his heel.

The sounds stopped at once.

A harsh voice cut through the hush. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Two men stepped into the firelight, rough leather hanging from their frames, short swords naked in their hands. Between them lay a shallow pit torn into the earth—Reynard’s rest disturbed. Shovels, scattered tools, and scraps of familiar gear lay strewn about. Yohan’s gaze fixed on a leather satchel he recognized at once.

And then he saw the locket.

One of the men held it up, letting the fire catch the tarnished silver. The chain dangled loose from his fingers.

Yohan stepped forward into the edge of the light.

“That locket,” he said, voice low and hard, “was left with the Lady of the Hall in Oakhaven. Where did you get it?”

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The man with the locket grinned, yellowed teeth flashing. “Lady or no, things change hands when folk stop complainin’. Question is—are you here to take it back, or to mind your own business?”

The second man shifted, blade lifting a fraction higher. His eyes flicked past Yohan, searching the dark.

Yohan’s jaw tightened. “Knowing the Lady,” he said, “she would not have parted with that willingly.”

Steel came free in one smooth motion—axe in his right, shortsword in his left.

“Foe, then,” he said, and raised his voice just enough. “Theron—watch my back.”

He moved before they could answer.

The shortsword drove in tight and fast, punching beneath the first man’s ribs. The breath left him in a wet grunt as he staggered back, clutching his belly. The second man roared and swung a crude club in a wild arc meant to crush skull and thought alike.

Yohan ducked under it, stepped inside the swing, and struck with the flat of the axe. Bone rang beneath iron. The man collapsed without a sound.

The first robber tried to retreat. Yohan wrenched the blade free and swept his leg out from under him. The man hit the ground hard, air gone, fight gone with it.

The clearing fell silent again.

Yohan bound them swiftly with hammock cord, hands and feet secured, movements practiced and economical. A quick check showed neither would die from the encounter—bruised, bloodied, but alive.

He retrieved the locket from the dirt where it had fallen.

The silver was scratched, the clasp bent, but it was intact. He closed his fingers around it for a moment longer than necessary, then tucked it away with care.

Theron stepped forward at last, pale but composed, eyes fixed on the desecrated ground.

“They robbed a grave,” the scholar said quietly. “And stole from the Hall.”

“Yes,” Yohan replied, looking down at Reynard’s disturbed rest. “And someone showed them where to look.”

The fire guttered. The forest closed in once more.

Reynard had not been left in peace—and neither, it seemed, would those tied to his work be allowed to rest.