“That won’t be necessary, Merel,” Barak said.
“I would not neglect any of my duties,” she said.
“Leave it alone, Merel,” Barak said. “You’ve made your point.”
“Have I my Lord’s permission then to withdraw?” she asked.
“You have,” he said shortly.
“Perhaps you ladies would like to join me,” Queen Islena said. “We’ll cast auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt.”
Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes upward in resignation.
Queen Silar smiled at her.
“Let’s go then,” Barak said. “The boars are waiting.”
“Sharpening their tusks, no doubt,” Silk said.
Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with metal plates sewn on it.
“This is Torvik,” Barak introduced the grizzled man, “Anheg’s chief huntsman. He knows every boar in the forest by his first name.”
“My Lord Barak is overkind,” Torvik said, bowing.
“How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?” Durnik asked politely. “I’ve never done it before.”
“It’s a simple thing,” Torvik explained. “I take my huntsmen into the forest and we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for them with these.” He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears. “When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear.”
“I see,” Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. “It doesn’t sound very complicated.”
“We wear mail shirts, Durnik,” Barak said. “Our hunters are hardly ever injured seriously.”
” `Hardly ever’ has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak,” Silk said, fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door.
“No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk.” Barak shrugged, hefting a boar spear.
“Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?” Silk asked.
“Not with your dice, my friend.” Barak laughed.
They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik’s huntsmen carried several armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the palace.
Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate.
They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the horses steamed in the icy air as they rode.
The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed in the bright morning sun. “Hail, Lord Barak,” she croaked. “Thy Doom is at hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day’s sun finds its bed.”
Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with deadly accuracy full at the old woman.
With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear aside in midair. “It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje.” She laughed scornfully. “Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou, Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee.” And then she turned toward the sleigh in which Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. “Hail, Lord of Lords,” she intoned. “Thy peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak.” And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on another spear.
“What was that about, Garion?” Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised.
“Barak says she’s a crazy old blind woman,” Garion said. “She stopped us when we arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed.”
“What was all that talk about Doom?” Durnik asked with a shudder.
“I don’t know,” Garion said. “Barak wouldn’t explain it.”
“It’s a bad omen so early in the day,” Durnik said. “These Chereks are a strange people.”
Garion nodded in agreement.
Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind their racing sleighs.
Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs.
“These people seem to be indifferent to danger,” Durnik said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to live in a wooden house – what with the possibility of fire and all.”
“It’s a different country, after all,” Garion said. “We can’t expect the whole world to live the way we do in Sendaria.”
“I suppose not,” Durnik sighed, “but I’ll tell you, Garion, I’m not very comfortable here. Some people just aren’t meant for travel. Sometimes I wish we’d never left Faldor’s farm.”
“I do too, sometimes,” Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. “Someday it will be over, though, and we’ll be able to go home again.”
Durnik nodded and sighed once more.
By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened. He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the narrow sleigh track.
“This is a good place,” he said. “There’s a game trail here, and the boars may use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes, brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don’t see very well, and he’ll run full into your spear before he even knows it’s there. After that it’s probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear makes them very angry.”
“What if I miss?” Garion asked.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Barak advised. “It’s not a very good idea.”
“I didn’t mean that I was going to do it on purpose,” Garion said. “Will he try to get away from me or what?”
“Sometimes they’ll try to run,” Barak said, “but I wouldn’t count on it. More likely he’ll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it’s usually a good idea to climb a tree.”
“I’ll remember that,” Garion said.
“I won’t be far away if you have trouble,” Barak promised, handing Garion a pair of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off, leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree.
It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die than hide in a tree like a frightened child.
The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn’t do any good anyway?
The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang, and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of unfamiliar spears for company?
What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn’t even particularly like the taste of pork.
He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited.
He didn’t realize how long he had been listening to the sound when he became fully aware of it. It was not the stamping, squealing rush of a wild boar he had been expecting but was, rather, the measured pace of several horses moving slowly along the snow-carpeted floor of the forest, and it was coming from behind him. Cautiously he eased his face around the tree.