now-vanished line. Named for a centaur friend of his eccentricfather, Agion was. Your grandfather’s best friend, and a great brawler, and many was the time that the two of them came to blows, scuffled cleanly, and parted friends. Like his namesake, Agion seemed half horse, a big man in the saddle, charging like the south wind over the slopes and inclines of the Wings.
“We had caught the trail right after dawn, the thick-necked alan dogs, our best hunting beasts, caterwauling at the mere smell of Grim and racing through the rocks like water rushing uphill, fanning wide and converging, pouring through a narrow pass into a stand of scrubby aeterna where the boar was waiting. It was all the huntsmen could do to restrain the pack. They bayed and bellowed and swirled around that narrow copse of evergreen. Grim was in there, everybody knew, but each of us was … reluctant to go in and greet him first.”
Sturm nodded and shuddered, having survived his first boar hunt back in the fall.
“Finally four of us dismounted and entered the copse on foot: Agion and Emelin and your father and I. Angriff and I were along as squires, more or less. We were supposed to hold the spears, stand our ground and be silent. But Angriff wasn’t the sort. When Agion crashed through the brush and chased the boar from cover, your father was on it like a panther, quick and menacing, striking the beast once, twice, a third time with spears. Grim was old and thick of hide, and your father’s casts were those of a youth—swift and accurate, but lacking the muscle to pierce through gristle and bone.”
“So it simply enraged the boar,” Sturm observed, and Boniface nodded.
“Grim charged at Agion, who turned, ran, and scrambled out of the way through a thick aeterna, the boar skidding and stirring gravel just a step behind him. Meanwhile, your grandfather circled about the creature and waited for the chance at the delivering cast.
“That chance did not come, because Angriff was impatient.Through the brush he rousted old Grim, and time and again I lost him in the mist and the thicket. Finally I heard a shuffling, a cough, and I stumbled around a thick latticework of branches … and found myself face-to-face with old Grim himself.”
Boniface paused. He stood and began to pace the room as Sturm held his breath, listening.
“He was as shaggy as the bison of Kiri-Jolith, dripping with dew and mud and half-hidden in mist and evergreen. He looked like something from the legends, out of the Age of Dreams and the bardic tales. I remember thinking, right before he charged, that if Nature were to take on flesh and form, it would be this beast before me, in its unruliness and terror and its strange hideous indifference.”
Again the Knight paused, his hands clenching, grasping the air as though he were trying to clutch something or push something away.
“He … charged you, Lord Boniface?” Sturm asked finally. “The great boar charged you?”
Boniface nodded. “Had my sword out in a flash. But I never used it.”
A strange shadow passed over the Knight’s face. Sturm waited expectantly, sure that the man was remembering that moment, the horrible charge of the boar.
“I never used it,” Boniface repeated. “Angriff’s spear passed neatly between Grim’s shoulder blades, and the boar staggered and rose and staggered again. Believe me, I was well out of the way by the second stagger, but I saw it all unfold—your grandfather and Agion burst into the clearing, and Lord Emelin’s sword flashed silver in the winter sunlight as the blade rose and came slashing home.
“For a while, we all stood there above the boar. The alans were baying somewhere outside the circle of trees, so distant in our thoughts that it sounded like we were only remembering them.
“Then Lord Agion spoke. ‘A fitting end to our adversary,’ he said. To Lord Grim, whose trophy shall grace the hall ofLord Emelin Brightblade, his slayer.’
“Your
“We had caught the trail right after dawn, the thick-necked alan dogs, our best hunting beasts, caterwauling at the mere smell of Grim and racing through the rocks like water rushing uphill, fanning wide and converging, pouring through a narrow pass into a stand of scrubby aeterna where the boar was waiting. It was all the huntsmen could do to restrain the pack. They bayed and bellowed and swirled around that narrow copse of evergreen. Grim was in there, everybody knew, but each of us was … reluctant to go in and greet him first.”
Sturm nodded and shuddered, having survived his first boar hunt back in the fall.
“Finally four of us dismounted and entered the copse on foot: Agion and Emelin and your father and I. Angriff and I were along as squires, more or less. We were supposed to hold the spears, stand our ground and be silent. But Angriff wasn’t the sort. When Agion crashed through the brush and chased the boar from cover, your father was on it like a panther, quick and menacing, striking the beast once, twice, a third time with spears. Grim was old and thick of hide, and your father’s casts were those of a youth—swift and accurate, but lacking the muscle to pierce through gristle and bone.”
“So it simply enraged the boar,” Sturm observed, and Boniface nodded.
“Grim charged at Agion, who turned, ran, and scrambled out of the way through a thick aeterna, the boar skidding and stirring gravel just a step behind him. Meanwhile, your grandfather circled about the creature and waited for the chance at the delivering cast.
“That chance did not come, because Angriff was impatient.Through the brush he rousted old Grim, and time and again I lost him in the mist and the thicket. Finally I heard a shuffling, a cough, and I stumbled around a thick latticework of branches … and found myself face-to-face with old Grim himself.”
Boniface paused. He stood and began to pace the room as Sturm held his breath, listening.
“He was as shaggy as the bison of Kiri-Jolith, dripping with dew and mud and half-hidden in mist and evergreen. He looked like something from the legends, out of the Age of Dreams and the bardic tales. I remember thinking, right before he charged, that if Nature were to take on flesh and form, it would be this beast before me, in its unruliness and terror and its strange hideous indifference.”
Again the Knight paused, his hands clenching, grasping the air as though he were trying to clutch something or push something away.
“He … charged you, Lord Boniface?” Sturm asked finally. “The great boar charged you?”
Boniface nodded. “Had my sword out in a flash. But I never used it.”
A strange shadow passed over the Knight’s face. Sturm waited expectantly, sure that the man was remembering that moment, the horrible charge of the boar.
“I never used it,” Boniface repeated. “Angriff’s spear passed neatly between Grim’s shoulder blades, and the boar staggered and rose and staggered again. Believe me, I was well out of the way by the second stagger, but I saw it all unfold—your grandfather and Agion burst into the clearing, and Lord Emelin’s sword flashed silver in the winter sunlight as the blade rose and came slashing home.
“For a while, we all stood there above the boar. The alans were baying somewhere outside the circle of trees, so distant in our thoughts that it sounded like we were only remembering them.
“Then Lord Agion spoke. ‘A fitting end to our adversary,’ he said. To Lord Grim, whose trophy shall grace the hall ofLord Emelin Brightblade, his slayer.’
“Your
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