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 snow—but 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. "Oh," she said softly, "it finally happened, I see."
"I couldn’t control it, Polgara," Barak said in misery.
"It’ll be all right, Barak," she said, gently touching his bowed head.
"It’ll never be all right again," Barak said.
"Get some sleep," she told him. "It won’t seem so bad in the morning."
The huge man turned and quietly left the room.
Garion knew they were talking about the strange thing he had seen when Barak had rescued him from the boar, and he wanted to ask Aunt Pol about it; but the bitter drink she had given him pulled him down into a deep and dreamless sleep before he could put the words together to ask the question.
16
The next day Garion was too stiff and sore to even think about getting out of bed. A stream of visitors, however, kept him too occupied to think about his aches and pains. The visits from the Alorn Kings in their splendid robes were particularly flattering, and each of them praised his courage. Then the queens came and made a great fuss over his injuries, offering warm sympathy and gentle, stroking touches to his forehead. The combination of praise, sympathy and the certain knowledge that he was the absolute center of attention was overwhelming, and his heart was full.
The last visitor of the day, however, was Mister Wolf, who came when evening was creeping through the snowy streets of Val Alorn. The old man wore his usual tunic and cloak, and his hood was turned up as if he had been outside.
"Have you seen my boar, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked proudly.
"An excellent animal," Wolf said, though without much enthusiasm, "but didn’t anyone tell you it’s customary to jump out of the way after the boar has been speared?"
"I didn’t really think about it," Garion admitted, "but wouldn’t that seem—well—cowardly?"
"Were you that concerned about what a pig might think of you?"
"Well," Garion faltered, "not really, I guess."
"You’re developing an amazing lack of good sense for one so young," Wolf observed. "It normally takes years and years to reach the point you seem to have arrived at overnight." He turned to Aunt Pol, who sat nearby. "Polgara, are you quite certain that there’s no hint of Arendish blood in our Garion’s background? He’s been behaving most Arendish lately. First he rides the Great Maelstrom like a rocking horse, and then he tries to break a wild boar’s tusks with his ribs. Are you sure you didn’t drop him on his head when he was a baby?"
Aunt Pol smiled, but said nothing.
"I hope you recover soon, boy," Wolf said, "and try to give some thought to what I’ve said."
Garion sulked, mortally offended by Mister Wolf’s words. Tears welled up in his eyes despite all his efforts to control them.
"Thank you for stopping by, Father," Aunt Pol said.
"It’s always a pleasure to call on you, my daughter," Wolf said and quietly left the room.
"Why did he have to talk to me like that?" Garion burst out, wiping his nose. "Now he’s gone and spoiled it all."
"Spoiled what, dear?" Aunt Pol asked, smoothing the front of her gray dress.
"All of it," Garion complained. "The kings all said I was very brave."
"Kings say things like that," Aunt Pol said. "I wouldn’t pay too much attention, if I were you."
"I was brave, wasn’t I?"
"I’m sure you were, dear," she said. "And I’m sure the pig was very impressed."
"You’re as bad as Mister Wolf is," Garion accused.
"Yes, dear," she said, "I suppose I probably am, but that’s only natural. Now, what would you like for supper?"
"I’m not hungry," Garion said defiantly.
"Really? You probably need a tonic then. I’ll fix you one."
"I think I’ve changed my mind," Garion said quickly.
"I rather thought you might," Aunt Pol said. And then, without explanation, she suddenly put her arms around him and held him close to her for a long time. "What am I going to do with you?" she said finally.
"I’m all right, Aunt Pol," he assured her.
"This time perhaps," she said, taking his face between her hands. "It’s a splendid thing to be brave, my Garion, but try once in a while to think a little bit first. Promise me."