The sword whipped across his face, gashing his cheek. All around him the Gondorians crowded him, sticking him as if he was a mean boar among a rabble of hunters.
He remembered his own wild pig hunt. The boar had turned his tusks upon him.
He brought his sword down upon the Gondorian swine
and it had gored some peasant boy.
and plunged it into the heart of one soldier, ripped it out and slashed the head off of another in the back swing.
Then what had the boar done? It was so long ago....he had been wounded, but he had fought with all his wild animal intinct.
A soldier swiped his dagger, gashing him on the cheek. Blood dribbled down his chin. (Just like when a brat baby tried to eat his first meal.) Distantly, he felt cold steel in his middle. With a roar, he gripped the sword in both hands and plunged it into their midst.
The first thing the boar lost was the roaring rage. It had sunk to a shrill squeak.
Wine. That was what he needed. A cool glass of Harad wine. His voice choked and died in the desert of his throat.
Then the boar had staggered to the ground. He had screamed. Then died. Blood pouring from his numerous wounds.
There was a crack. A scream ripped the air -- his scream -- his protest -- his terror ripping from him. Jinan toppled to the ground, his sword beside him. Why couldn't he feel his legs? Why couldn't he stagger to his feet?
Then the men had carved the boar up, dividing the meat, allotting each portion the hunters.
Except that the soldiers wouldn't carve him up and degut him. They weren't barbarians. Was this how it felt like to die? This great emptiness -- the sense that the ladder to fame had toppled under his wait? The sense that time had slowed? Jinan peered around the legs of the mulling Gondorians, and saw Frôzhal. Puppy Frôzhal.
The boar had no one to help him.
Surely Frôzhal had honour enough to help a fallen comrade? Surely that still remained in his measley heart?
He would not cry out. Honour demanded that such an action would be cowardly. But he could look. His eyes could cry out in wordless agony. So he looked at Frôzhal, and saw him walk away and Death walk to him.
Just as well. Who would want to be saved by a puppy?
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