“At first he scarcely heard the hunting horns. They seemed echoes of a battle fought the night he was born, a call to the bloody hunt on Hunter’s Field. He ran into a past that shaped itself around him into something living. All the memories of the siege were no longer shadows, ghosts, tales. The ghosts had names; they had feverish, bloodshot eyes; they had torn cloaks and worn boots and broken pieces of armor. They raised a tattered banner: the boar of Pelucir, tusks rampant, swords crossed abo...ve its head, a crown above the swords. His father rode among the ghosts. Burne rode beside him, and so did his uncles, his young cousins. Ravens followed them, and the Shadow of the Wolf. He opened the gate, the survivors said, and we rode out behind him into the winter night to meet Riven of Kardeth. To rout him, or die in the field like warriors, not like starving rats hiding behind the walls. He was tall, your father, like you. Dark-haired, like you.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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