Pawn of Prophecy

shouted challenge and could scarcely accept the fact that it came from his own throat. He suddenly realized that he was stepping into the middle of the trail and crouching with his spear braced and leveled at the massive beast.
    The boar charged. Red-eyed and frothing from the mouth, with a deep-throated squeal of fury, he plunged at the waiting Garion. The powdery snow sprayed up from his churning hooves like foam from the prow of a ship.The snow crystals seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in a single ray of sunlight that chanced just there to reach the forest floor.
    The shock as the boar hit the spear was frightful, but Garion's aim was good. The broad-bladed spearhead penetrated the coarsely haired chest, and the white froth dripping from the boar's tusks suddenly became bloody foam. Garion felt himself driven back by the impact, his feet slipping out from under him, and then the shaft of his spear snapped like a dry twig and the boar was on him.
    The first slashing, upward-ripping blow of the boar's tusks took Garion full in the stomach, and he felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The second slash caught his hip as he tried to roll, gasping, out of the way. His chain-mail shirt deflected the tusks, saving him from being wounded, but the blows were stunning. The boar's third slash caught him in the back, and he was flung through the air and crashed into a tree. His eyes filled with shimmering light as his head banged against the rough bark.
    And then Barak was there, roaring and charging through the snowbut somehow it seemed not to be Barak. Garion's eyes, glazed from the shock of the blow to his head, looked uncomprehendingly at something that could not be true. It was Barak, there could be no doubt of that, but it was also something else. Oddly, as if somehow occupying the same space as Barak, there was also a huge, hideous bear. The images of the two figures crashing through the snow were superimposed, their movements identical as if in sharing the same space they also shared the same thoughts.
    Huge arms grasped up the wriggling, mortally wounded boar and crushed in upon it. Bright blood fountained from the boar's mouth, and the shaggy, half man thing that seemed to be Barak and something else at the same time raised the dying pig and smashed it brutally to the ground. The man-thing lifted its awful face and roared in earthshaking triumph as the light slid away from Garion's eyes and he felt himself drifting down into the gray well of unconsciousness.
    There was no way of knowing how much time passed until he came to in the sleigh. Silk was applying a cloth filled with snow to the back of his neck as they flew across the glaring white fields toward Val Alorn.
    "I see you've decided to live." Silk grinned at him.
    "Where's Barak?" Garion mumbled groggily.
    "In the sleigh behind us," Silk said, glancing back.
    "Is he-all right?"
    "What could hurt Barak?" Silk asked.
    "I mean -,does he seem like himself?"
    "He seems like Barak to me." Silk shrugged. "No, boy, lie still. That wild pig may have cracked your ribs." He placed his hands on Garion's chest and gently held him down.
    "My boar?" Garion demanded weakly. "Where is it?"
    "The huntsmen are bringing it," Silk said. "You'll get your triumphal entry. If I might suggest it, however, you should give some thought to the virtue of constructive cowardice. These instincts of yours could shorten your life."
    But Garion had already slipped back into unconsciousness.
    And then they were in the palace, and Barak was carrying him, and Aunt Pol was there, white-faced at the sight of all the blood.
    "It's not his," Barak assured her quickly. "He speared a boar, and it bled on him while they were tussling. I think the boy's all right - a little rap on the head is all."
    "Bring him," Aunt Pol said curtly and led the way up the stairs toward Garion's room.
    Later, with his head and chest wrapped and a foul-tasting cup of Aunt Pol's brewing making him light-headed and sleepy, Garion lay in his bed listening as Aunt Pol finally turned on Barak.
    "You great overgrown dolt," she raged. "Do you see what all your foolishness has done?"
    "The lad is very brave," Barak said, his voice low and sunk in a kind of bleak melancholy.
    "Brave doesn't interest me," Aunt Pol snapped. Then she stopped. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. She reached out suddenly and put her hands on the sides of the huge man's head. She looked for a moment into his eyes and then slowly released him.