Chapter 46: The Shovel

Finn had spent most of the morning taking his embarrassment out on the wheat.

A full day had passed since he lost to the sheep inside the dungeon and left his grandfather’s sword behind. Thankfully, no one in the family had made much of it.

His father had only sighed when Finn explained what happened, while his mother had immediately asked whether he was hurt.

Rowan had laughed once. But only once.

While that was kinder than he expected, it didn’t make the loss feel any better.

He drove the tool into another thick patch of earth and pulled hard enough to send dirt scattering around his boots. Sweat ran down the side of his face, but his attention had wandered away from the field again.

He was thinking about the sheep. He had replayed the fight so many times since yesterday that every mistake felt obvious now.

He had rushed in without knowing how it moved. Stayed too close after missing. And somehow ended up directly behind it more than once. That part now felt especially stupid.

Finn struck the ground harder. Throwing the sword had also seemed much smarter in the moment.

"If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the wheat personally hurt you somehow," Rowan called from several rows away.

Finn blinked and looked over.

His brother had stopped working and was leaning against the handle of his tool with one hand, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Finn followed his gaze toward the ground around him.

Several clumps of wheat had been flattened, the dirt was torn up far more than necessary, and one section looked as though he had started digging a trench through the field.

His shoulders lowered.

"Oh."

Rowan let out an audible laugh.

"I was thinking," Finn said. He rubbed the back of his neck before bending down to push some of the loose dirt back into place with his boot.

At least if he looked busy, Rowan might stop staring at the mess.

"I noticed."

"I almost had it."

"The wheat?" Rowan asked, lifting one eyebrow.

Finn glanced up at him. "The sheep."

The smile on Rowan’s face widened.

"You said you weren’t going to make fun of me," Finn complained. He pointed the tool toward him, though the warmth already spreading across his cheeks made the threat considerably less convincing.

"I’m not," Rowan said.

"You’re smiling."

"I smile all the time."

Finn stared at him for a moment. "No, you don’t."

Rowan shook his head and went back to work, though Finn could still see the amusement lingering around his mouth.

For a while, Finn tried to focus on the field properly. He made it almost a full minute before the sheep returned to his thoughts.

The biggest problem was distance. His grandfather’s sword gave him some reach, but not enough to keep the sheep from getting close. Every time Finn tried to swing, he had to step within kicking range.

If he had something longer, he could keep it in front of him.

"You’re planning on going back, aren’t you?" Rowan asked.

Finn looked toward him again. His brother had slowed his work and was watching him from the corner of his eye now. There was less amusement in his face this time.

"Eventually," Finn said.

"Eventually?"

Finn bent down and focused his attention on the wheat in front of him.

"I don’t have a weapon."

The truth was that he did not want Rowan to see his face.

Losing the sword bothered him more than he had admitted the night before, especially now that the embarrassment of the fight itself had started fading.

Even the cheapest replacement would cost money the family did not have to waste on him fighting sheep.

Rowan was quiet for a moment before his gaze shifted toward the tools resting near the edge of the field.

"You don’t necessarily need a sword."

Finn straightened and followed his gaze. There was a small pile of rusted farm tools leaning against the small wooden shed. A rake, a hoe, a hatchet and two shovels.

Then he looked back at Rowan. "What do you mean?"

Rowan lifted one shoulder and returned to pulling weeds from between the rows. "You’re fighting a sheep."

Finn frowned. "That sheep is stronger than it looks."

"I believe you," Rowan said, though the corner of his mouth twitched again.

"You don’t sound like you believe me."

"I heard it kick you down a hill twice."

Finn immediately looked away.

Rowan laughed under his breath before nodding toward the tools. "I’m just saying, half the things we use out here have more reach than that sword did. That and you’ve spent half your life holding one of those."

Finn looked toward them again. That was true.

A hoe might work. The pitchfork definitely had reach.

The shovel—

"Whatever you take, bring it back," Rowan added, pointing one dirt-covered finger toward him.

"I know," Finn said. He bent down and focused on the pile of wheat in front of him, mostly because his cheeks had started warming again.

"I mean it. We need those."

"I know."

"We can’t afford to replace one because you decide to throw it at another sheep."

Finn stopped what he was doing and slowly looked over. "That happened once."

"It still happened."

Finn’s mouth tightened. He had no answer to that.

Rowan went back to work, but when he spoke again, his voice had lost most of the teasing.

"If you want to go, go. Just don’t be stupid about it."

Finn stayed quiet for a moment, running one thumb along the worn wood of the handle in his hands. He had already planned to return.

He just didn’t want to walk back into the dungeon with the exact same plan that had failed the first time.

But now, thanks to Rowan’s suggestion, going back felt less like repeating a mistake and more like trying again properly.

They finished the rest of the work together.

Finn helped Rowan carry everything back toward the house, then waited until their father disappeared around the side of the barn before glancing at his brother.

Rowan caught the look immediately.

"You’re going now?" he asked.

Finn nodded.

"What about Mom?"

Finn grimaced and glanced toward the house. If his mother knew he planned to return to the dungeon one day after getting thrown out by a sheep, there was a very good chance he would never make it past the front door.

Rowan followed his gaze and sighed.

"Go. I’ll cover for you."

Finn turned back so quickly that Rowan nearly laughed again. "Really?"

"Go before I change my mind," Rowan said, waving him away.

Finn grabbed him around the shoulders before he could move.

"Thank you! You’re my favorite brother!"

"Get off me," Rowan complained, trying to shove him away with one arm. Then he rolled his eyes. "Also, I’m your only brother, so I better be your favorite."

Finn released him with a grin and hurried toward the tools. "Even if you weren’t, you’d still be my favorite!"

He arrived in front of the wooden shed. The pitchfork was the obvious choice, but they used it constantly. The hoe was just as important.

Then he noticed the old shovel leaning behind the others. Its wooden handle had been worn smooth from years of use, and the metal blade was dented along one edge but it was still sturdy.

More importantly, it was the only spare tool they owned.

Finn grabbed it.

Rowan noticed immediately. "If you lose that, don’t come home."

Finn stopped halfway through lifting it onto his shoulder and looked back at him.

"You don’t mean that."

"No," Rowan admitted. He crossed his arms over his chest. "But I will make you explain to Dad why we don’t have a spare shovel anymore."

Finn thought about it for a moment. "That’s worse."

"Exactly."

Finn tightened his grip around the handle and started running toward the forest.

"Still bring it back!" Rowan shouted after him.

"I will!"

By the time Finn reached the dungeon entrance, his breathing was heavier and sweat had gathered beneath his collar again.

The area outside looked almost exactly as it had the day before.

Groups of adventurers rested near the entrance, though fewer seemed interested in going inside this late in the day. Most were cleaning equipment, comparing injuries, or getting ready to head back toward town. Only a handful still waited to enter.

Finn slowed as he approached. Once again, he was the only one standing there alone but that didn’t bother him as much this time.

His goal was not to clear the dungeon. He wasn’t even thinking about the Horned Ram.

All he wanted was one sheep. That was enough.

A few adventurers glanced toward him as he joined the others, only for their eyes to drop almost immediately toward the shovel resting against his shoulder. Finn adjusted his grip and looked toward the dungeon entrance as though he hadn’t noticed.

A nearby swordsman continued staring for several seconds before finally turning away.

While he waited, a conversation from another group caught his attention.

"I heard someone pulled a decent pair of leather boots yesterday," an archer said while tightening the strap around his wrist. "Brand new too."

The man beside him stopped inspecting the edge of his sword and looked over.

"From the boss?"

"Supposedly. Heard they were good enough to sell for a decent amount."

Finn’s head turned slightly.

Leather boots?

A good pair could sell for a decent amount at the market. Maybe not enough to change anything for the family, but enough for a few extra coins. Enough that Rowan could put some aside.

Finn pictured his brother’s face if he came home and dropped the money into his hand.

His grip tightened around the shovel. Maybe the dungeon really could help.

Not today. Probably not today.

But eventually.

First, he needed to stop losing to livestock.

Another party disappeared through the entrance. Finn waited. He learned that much at least.

Entering too closely behind another group could put him in the same instance, and he had no interest in accidentally joining strangers who would immediately ask why he had brought a shovel into a dungeon.

He counted the minutes quietly before stepping inside.

Warm daylight surrounded him almost immediately. The pasture opened ahead beneath the same bright sky he remembered from yesterday.

Grass shifted over the hills, fences divided sections of the field, and sheep wandered wherever they pleased as though none of them had personally ruined Finn’s evening.

His eyes moved toward the slope.

There.

Near the top of the hill, a sheep stood with its head lowered, calmly eating grass.

Finn recognized it immediately. At least, he thought he did. It looked exactly like the one from yesterday.

His fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the shovel.

Yesterday, he walked in with his grandfather’s sword and had no idea what he was doing. Today, he had a shovel which sounded arguably worse.

Finn lowered his stance slightly.

"All right," he murmured, shifting one foot back and adjusting his grip the way he had imagined doing all morning.

The sheep continued chewing.

Finn narrowed his eyes at it.

"This time, I have a plan."