We marched for nearly four hours before the Sergeant finally called a halt. From this point forward, roasting meat was forbidden. We were now in the outer fringe of the Untamed Forest, where every mile deeper raised the stakes. Even the faintest scent of blood or roasting meat could draw higher-tier predators. Although the mission was to eliminate as many threats as possible, in the wild, there were no fixed boundaries. And if the smell of food attracted a Tier 3 or higher predator, it could wipe out the entire squad. We were prepared to face known Tier 3 beasts, but not the unknown predators. So rations and jarkey only.
I chewed the dry strips with little enthusiasm, washing them down with lukewarm water. Around us the trees pressed close, thick trunks gnarled with moss, branches weaving a canopy that dulled the light to a green haze.
Once we had eaten, the Sergeant gathered us for the briefing.
“Listen up. According to the report, we’re facing two Steelbeaks, mid-Tier 2. They stand six to seven feet tall, with beaks sharp enough to split a man and legs strong enough to kick through a shield. Treat them as worse than you’ve heard.
Walter, you’re anchor. You fix the first bird. Hold its and keep it grounded. Jack, you’ll work off him, strike when Walter pins it, don’t overextend.
Colin, Owen, you’re the line on the second bird. Owen, shield high, you hold the charge. Colin, break the joints when you get the chance.
As for you two…” His gaze slid past Michael and me like we were baggage. “You’ll run the birds in circles. Keep them off balance, force them to turn. Do not get in the way of the real fighters. If you draw its eyes for even a second, that’s enough.”
He let the silence hang, then sneered, “If there are more than two, I’ll send conscripts to stall them. You finish your bird, then join the conscripts to finish the rest.”
Wow. He didn’t even use my name. Being low-level was apparently a crime. At least his strategy was solid.
Two more hours of marching brought us to the nest. It sat in a shallow clearing, a ring fifteen feet across built of fallen branches, stripped bark, and woven reeds. Shards of broken antlers and cracked bones jutted from its rim, spoils from beasts the birds had feasted on. The smell hit first, sour rot mixed with a copper tang, heavy enough to sting the nose. Flies hummed in clouds over the remains.
Inside, two massive, flightless forms shifted. Steelbeaks. Their feathers were dark, mottled slate and rust, each quill ridged and edged like hammered plates. Their eyes, small but burning, locked on us the instant we stepped into view.
They didn’t flee. Instead, they rose, standing taller than a man, and loosed a piercing cry that rattled my teeth. The sound carried through the trees, a metallic screech like steel scraping stone. It was a warning.
“Form up!” the Sergeant barked.
The squad split along the plan. Walter strode forward two paces, planting his spear and bellowing a raw battle cry that echoed through the clearing. The sound was more than noise, it carried weight, it was a skill that pulled the attention of predators. Both Steelbeaks snapped their heads toward him, rage flaring in their shrieks.
The first bird launched straight at Walter, Jack stepping up on his flank and Michael circling wide to bait its strikes. The second bird angled to follow, but Owen and Colin moved fast, shields raised, cutting across its path to force it away. The Steelbeak screeched at their intrusion, and just like that, the flock split: one bird locked onto Walter’s group, the other wheeling toward ours.
I gripped my spear tighter, heart hammering.
“Edward, circle left!” Owen barked.
I obeyed, spear hovering, looking for an opening. The Steelbeak struck, beak glancing off Owen’s shield so hard sparks bursting off the rim. I could feel the shock through the ground. I exhaled and activated [Defensive Spearplay (C)].I jabbed from the side, catching its shoulder enough to make it shriek and whirl on me.
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My movements followed rhythm, parry, step, counter. I jabbed low, angling for its leg, but the beak turned toward me faster than I expected. I raised my shield and caught the strike. The force jarred my arm to the shoulder.
It’s fast, but it commits fully to each strike.
That thought crystallized under the instinctive guidance of [Applied Military Theory (UC)]. My mind traced patterns, the time between attacks, the way its footing dug deeper before a kick.
“Owen, it sets its left claw before every lunge!” I shouted. “Push when it does!”
He grunted acknowledgment and slammed his shield forward just as the Steelbeak lunged again. The move broke its stance.
Colin took the opening, spear punching through feathers into flesh. The bird shrieked, stumbling sideways. I joined in, stabbing into its flank, not deep, but enough to draw blood.
The Steelbeak adjusted faster than expected. It slammed its beak against Owen’s shield three times in quick succession. The third blow slipped under, tearing a groove across his pauldron. He grunted. Colin countered immediately, driving his spear through the bird’s wing joint again, forcing it back.
The bird shifted tactics, stomping forward with brutal kicks. One slammed into Owen’s shield, lifting him half off his feet. He crashed back, boots sliding in the dirt. The second kick followed, claws scything toward me. I barely twisted aside, the talons grazing my hip plate, the force sending me stumbling.
I reset, teeth clenched. My lungs burned.
Across the clearing, Walter finally roared, dragging his Steelbeak down. Jack rammed his spear straight into the bird’s eye, the shaft punching deep. The beast screamed, convulsed, then collapsed in a heap of thrashing wings. Walter staggered back, chest heaving, armor dented where the kick had struck him. Jack limped, blood dripping from his thigh, but their target was down.
The second Steelbeak shrieked at the fall of its mate, fury turning its strikes into a storm. It rammed Owen’s shield again and again, each blow rattling his frame. Colin stabbed desperately at its flank, drawing more blood, but the bird’s beak darted low this time. The razor point skimmed under Owen’s guard, clipping his shoulder and tearing through mail. He cried out, staggering, nearly dropping his shield.
I lunged, driving my spear into its chest with all my strength. The point bit deep, but the bird shrieked and twisted, wrenching the shaft from my hands. Its beak slashed at me in retaliation, a blur of silver death. I dropped and rolled, dirt filling my mouth, the strike whistling over my head.
Owen recovered enough to slam his shield into its side. “Edward, weapon!” he barked.
I scrambled, snatched my spear back, and thrust upward into the bird’s exposed belly. This time the point sank true, deep into soft tissue. The Steelbeak screeched, thrashing wildly. Colin jammed his spear into its wing joint again, pinning it.
He did. With a roar, he shoved forward, shield slamming into the beast’s chest. My spear tore deeper, ripping through muscle and bone. The Steelbeak staggered, shrieking, wings flailing. The bird convulsed once more, then collapsed in the dirt, feathers twitching, eyes dimming. The clearing fell silent save for the ragged sound of our breathing.
Blood soaked the earth, dark and steaming. Both birds lay dead, their metallic beaks glinting even in death. Around us, the nest loomed, bones and feathers, now joined by the corpses of their guardians.
Walter stood heaving, armor dented, chest bruised. Jack limped slightly, blood seeping from a shallow cut on his thigh. Colin flexed his forearm, wincing as blood slicked his grip. Owen rolled his shoulder, his mail torn where the beak had clipped him. Michael shook out his wrist, muttering under his breath.
I stood there, spear dripping with blood, chest rising and falling.
The Sergeant clapped his hands. “Fifteen minutes. Patch yourselves up. Garren, Varric, harvest the beaks. We leave this ground and march forward.”
I frowned. Did he not know I had training in first aid?
“Sergeant,” I said quickly, “I’ve trained as a field medic. If you allow it, I’ll treat their wounds. I drew supplies from the quartermaster before we left.”
He gave me a dismissive look. “Then stop standing around. Get to work.” ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⚑𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖⚑𝕟𝕖𝕥
My jaw tightened. Typical.
I activated my [Field Medic (C)] skill and knelt by my pack, pulling free a pouch of dried herbs and cloth strips. Mixing the herbs with water in a small tin, I ground them into a dark paste. Then I moved to Colin first, his arm was the worst.
“This will sting,” I muttered. He gritted his teeth but offered his arm. I rinsed the cut with water, wiping away blood and dirt, then spread the herbal paste thick across the wound. “Clean your wounds before binding. Use this paste unless the cut is deep, then I’ll stitch it before bandaging.” I said this aloud as I passed a second pouch to Owen.
Owen gave a sharp nod. I wrapped Colin’s arm in clean cloth, tying it firm. Around me, the others had already begun rinsing their scrapes with water, following my lead. I moved from one to the next, dabbing paste, binding cloth, tightening knots.
Colin’s arm was sealed with bandage, Owen’s shoulder bound tight, Jack’s leg wrapped, Michael’s wrist supported with a strip of cloth. Walter, predictably, refused the paste and only cleaned his bruises before strapping his armor back on.
When I finally straightened, my hands smelled of herbs and iron. Colin grinned. “Good to have a medic in the squad. Didn’t know you could do that, kid.”
I grinned back. “I’m a man of many talents. You don’t know half of them.”