LotS/The Story/Puny Human Birthdays/NiflungBoar

Niflung Boar
Niflung Boar
The boy slipped through the undergrowth. Leaves tickled against his skin. Branches scratched at it. But he ignored them. He was a Niflung, and there was no softness about him.

His keen eyes scoured the ground for signs of his quarry. His ears clasped at any sound which might betray its movements among the trees and bushes. There was a spear in his hands, its barbed steel head ready to taste blood.

The animal he sought was dangerous. He knew he could become the hunted instead of the hunter in an instant, be gored and torn by the boar's savage tusks. But such thoughts didn't trouble him any more than the scratching of the branches. He had no fear of death. And besides, the greatest hunter in the universe was close at hand to aid him.

"Look, Ragnar," his mother whispered.

He followed her pointing finger. The tracks of hooves, partly hidden by fallen leaves and the tangled roots of nearby trees. The boy would never have spotted them on his own. His mother was a remarkable woman.

They crept onwards, following the trail. The woman took the lead now. Her body was swift and agile in spite of the powerful warrior muscle it bore. Her long, silent strides ate the ground. He hurried to keep up with her.

A sharp orange edge gleamed in the light that fell between the branches. Her axe was ready in her hands, hungry for the taste of blood.

She came to a sudden stop. The boy halted as well.

"The tracks..." she said. "They..."

A terrible growl tore through the forest and echoed down Ragnar's spine. Something large and terrible burst from the bushes and hurtled at his mother.

---

Ragnar cried out. It wasn't the cry of a frightened child that left his lips. Not a terrified scream, as any boy might have been expected to issue when he saw a huge, vicious boar's tusks thrusting forth to tear his mother's flesh.

It was a war cry. And the boy himself wasn't far behind it.

His barbed spearhead flashed once, before it found its berth in the boar's hide -- driven into its thick muscles by Ragnar's impossible, desperate strength.

The animal screeched. Rage and pain blended together in a half-squeal, half-roar. Its mighty body snapped round, tearing the spear from the boy's hands. Its wild, angry eyes fastened on him with promises of brutal vengeance and gruesome destruction.

A second war cry echoed through the forest. This one too was the harbinger of a weapon. The orange-edged axe descended.

The boar turned, its hooves digging furrows in the ground. It wasn't fast enough.

Another squeal. But only for a moment. Then it flopped onto its side with a heavy thud. Four hooves scrabbled at the air as though they could find purchase there.

The axe rose and fell once more. Blood splashed across the axe, across the woman, and across the boy. Then the creature lay still.

His mother smiled.

"Your kill, Ragnar."

"I only wounded it."

"Before it could take me. That makes the kill yours."

His eyes gleamed.

He moved to the carcass, that mass of dark flesh which seemed terrible and dangerous even in death, and reached out for his spear.

"No," his mother said. "You deserve a better weapon in your hands."

She held out her axe.

"Happy birthday, Ragnar."