by David Estes
He roared, and the sound seemed to cut through the cold like thunder.
The man’s eyes widened like full moons, and Henry could see the fear in them. It didn’t come naturally to this man’s face, the way it always had to Henry’s. No, this was a new emotion for this man, who was used to being feared, not the other way around.
He skidded to a stop, dropping his sword, but it was too late.
It was too late for all of them.
Henry leapt forward, raking a clawed paw across his foe’s face. It wasn’t a punch, not exactly, and yet the man’s face split open, lines of blood appearing. Henry didn’t think about what he was, what he’d become, the entirety of his being narrowed to a single emotion: bloodlust.
He crushed the tall man beneath his feet, tore into the other two downed men with his teeth, ravaging their flesh, tearing it open. Human blood dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t care, wasn’t disgusted by it. He was the apex predator, and this man was his prey.
With a snarl, he planted his feet and threw himself up the slope, where the remaining ten raiders were already in full retreat, led by their red-scarfed leader.
He closed the gap between them in mere seconds, swiping his hands across backs and chests and faces, clamping his teeth on unprotected throats.
He killed them all until only one remained.
The leader’s back was to the wall, his weapons cast aside. He held his hands out in front of him in surrender. A plea for mercy.
Henry wasn’t in a forgiving mood.
When it was finished, blood marred the whiteness of the mountain slopes, crimson pools and rivers.
Henry was in denial. Not about the killing—no, he’d definitely done that—but about what he’d become. He refused to accept the sharp white claws flashing on either side, the thick dark shadows of fur brushing past. He refused to believe the sharp fangs brushing against the edges of his lips.
Awkwardly, he pulled a pair of black boots off the largest of the dead raiders, balancing them between paws without the luxury of opposable thumbs. He draped another man’s blood-soaked trousers and shirt over his broad shoulders. The tall man’s.
He walked and walked and walked, northward bound.
Eventually he was Henry again.
A man grown. A man with something dark inside him.
He traded his own too-small, tattered clothes for the ones he’d stolen, not even bothering to clean off the blood. He pulled on the black boots, which barely fit, pressing tight against his toes. Then he kept walking.
Three months later
The adrenaline and bloodlust had faded long ago, leaving Henry empty, cold and alone. Surviving was easy for him now. The icy wind didn’t seem to touch him, never breaching his thick skin and hair. Hunting was second nature, and he never hungered, despite his voracious appetite. When there was no water, he simply crunched down on the snow, letting it melt on his tongue.
Thus far, to his relief, he hadn’t encountered another human, neither friend nor foe. It is better this way, Henry thought, lumbering along in the snow, which was knee-deep now.
For three months he’d remained in human form. Did I imagine the change before? he wondered from time to time.
He couldn’t deny the truth, however, just as he couldn’t deny that his mother had finally, at long last, abandoned him for good. He spoke to her often, in the dark throes of night, but he received no answer.
Have I disappointed you, Mother? Henry asked.
He didn’t need her to respond to know that he had. Even as his mother was condemned by her own people, her own king, she’d preached peace.
I’m a murderer. Nothing about that is peaceful.
I defended myself. I saved myself and rid the world of bad men. How can that be wrong?
It was an argument he had often, one that neither side had yet won.
He froze, his instincts flaring. A hearty aroma breached his nostrils. Smoke, with the hint of something roasting, quail or pigeon perhaps. His ability to discern scents with exactness had long ago ceased to amaze him.
He paused, considering what to do. If he stumbled upon another group of bandits, there could be more violence, and then…
He didn’t want to think about it.
On the other hand, they could be a peaceful camp, and he might make friends. I won’t have to be alone anymore.
He gritted his teeth and set his jaw and moved in the direction of the smoke.
After a while, he could see the smoke as well as smell it, the tendrils of gray and black curling over the crest of a snowy hill. Eager now, he lengthened his strides and covered the remaining distance.
He stopped, surprised by what he saw. There was no small camp, no bandits, no caravan of northern merchants. But there was a castle, its gray walls and ramparts rising above a broad sprawl of tightly packed houses and structures, most of which had chimneys spouting smoke.
Where am I? he wondered, trying to recall whether he’d ever seen a map of the northern kingdom. Of course, everyone who lived in Knight’s End knew that Blackstone was the westernmost northern city, nestled on the opposite side of the Bay of Bounty. Gearhärt was a possibility, the border castle that was the last line of defense before Raider’s Pass. But that seemed unlikely; he’d been travelling for months, certainly he’d gone further than that. The northern capital, Castle Hill, on the other hand, was more toward the center of the realm, on the edge of the enormous Frozen Lake. Henry scanned the landscape, but didn’t see any lake. Of course not. I haven’t travelled nearly far enough to reach Castle Hill.
Then where? Did it even matter? Henry knew he didn’t belong here, with these people. Did he? He was a foreigner, for one. Secondly, he was…dangerous.
I don’t want to hurt anyone. Never again.
Not even to protect yourself? Not even to protect someone else?
Wrath. He was tired of arguing with himself. Before his mother was executed, he’d never had to make decisions like this on his own. She was truth. She was the answer. Mother, why won’t you answer me?
I’m here, child.
His heart flipped. Why did you leave me?
I did not. I was only away for a while.
Away where? Where are you?
In a better place. I can see everything more clearly now. The truth of my prophecies. How the fatemarked will arise, how they will move like pieces on a chessboard, changing everything. You have a role to play, too, son.
What if I don’t want it? What if I just want to be Henry? What if I just want to be normal?
That is your choice, sweetness. I will love you the same. But son, you will never be normal, and you shouldn’t want that.
Henry thought about it. He knew she was right. How could he be like everyone else after what he’d done? What did you do to me?
I protected you.
It was true. Without the spell she’d cast on him, he would never have survived the cold, nor the raiders who’d attacked him through the pass. And if he’d stayed in Knight’s End…
They would’ve killed you, son. Because of me. I’m sorry.
Mother?
Yes, child.
He knew he was a man grown, but it didn’t bother him that she still referred to him as ‘child.’ He would always be her child, he knew. Mother, I don’t want to hurt anyone else.
Then don’t.
He flinched, taken aback by the simplicity of her response. No, it was more than that. It was like he’d been slapped. All this time he’d assumed that the things he’d done were some kind of natural instinct he had now. Not a choice. Not something he could help. Because if it had been a choice…
I killed them.
They would’ve killed you.
It was true, but he could’ve let some of them escape. They were trying to escape.
They were bad men. They would’ve killed again. They deserved to die.
But what if I lose control again?
Don’t.
He sighed. I wish you were here. I need you t
o tell me what to do.
No.The wind dusted his face, as if she’d echoed his sigh.You do not. Look how far you’ve come. You do not need me. Not anymore.
Her words gave him strength, and though Henry realized she’d left him once more, he didn’t feel scared. He started down the hill toward the castle village.
Unlike the cities in the west, which were surrounded by impenetrable walls, the northern village was unprotected. Only the gray castle had fortifications. In the event of an invasion, the commoners were apparently left to fend for themselves.
Henry literally walked into town, unquestioned, unnoticed. As if it was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. The villagers continued going about their business. A washerwoman hauled a cart laden with heaping mounds of dirty clothes. Her arms were thick and muscled, and she used no beast of burden to pull the load. Breath misted from her lips as she grunted from the strain. Henry passed a man with stacked cages full of white, brown, and red chickens. The man opened one, grabbing the fowl by the neck as it flapped and scratched. With a quick wrenching motion, he snapped its neck and the bird went limp.
Hunger gnawed at Henry’s stomach, though he’d eaten not long ago.
A loud, booming voice called from up ahead, shouting to the passersby. A soldier, his dull armor gray and bearing the cracked-but-not-broken shield sigil of the north. Beside him sat a scribe at a wooden table, with a long roll of curling parchment on which he was writing with a feathered quill. A crooked line of men extended outward from the table. They were a miserable lot, wearing raggedy clothing and unkempt beards. Several of them smoked ragweed pipes. None of them spoke, their eyes downcast, as if fixated on their time-worn boots.
They’re becoming soldiers, Henry realized, just as the message from the caller clarified in his ears. “War ’as been declared ’cross the Four Kingdoms! Join the King’s Army and earn two Shields a day and a hot meal! None shall be turned away!”
Two Shields a day didn’t sound like a lot to Henry, but clearly these men were desperate for it, their eyes seeming to light up whenever the caller announced that part.
“Ho! You there!” the soldier called, pointing in Henry’s direction. “Yer a brawny fella. Wat’s yer name?”
Henry turned to look behind him to see who the soldier was speaking to. There was no one there. He turned back and said, “Me?”
The soldier laughed. “Aye. You.”
“I’m—” He almost said Henry, but his true name seemed to get caught in his throat. He coughed. “I’m…”
Who am I? Was he a loner, destined to tramp through the icy tundra of the north, surviving off the land? Or could he live here, or in another village? His mother was right—he didn’t need her. Not anymore. He could control what he was. Who he was.
I don’t need to change again. I don’t. I can just be me. Not Henry, no, he died with my mother, but this other person. Strong. Capable. A survivor.
He thought of the bloody footprints he’d left in the snow through Raider’s Pass: broad, clawed, deep. And then he thought of the dead man’s boots he now wore: slightly too small, oily black, warm.
“My name is Bear Blackboots,” he said. “And I am no fighter. Good luck with your recruiting.”
He walked on, ignoring the soldier’s calls.
Three years later (circa 355)
Bear Blackboots was happy in the northern city he’d learned was called Walburg. Situated well east of Castle Hill, nearly halfway to the border castle of Darrin, Walburg was a peaceful city with hardworking folk who preferred to keep their heads down and their backs bent.
Although, just as his mother had prophesied, war and violence had broken out across the Four Kingdoms, in this small castle village Bear felt safe. He’d built a life here. Year after year, he made a living as a hunter, traipsing through the woods and using his unique set of skills to take down elk and moose, and even the occasional ice bear—though killing the latter sometimes felt so awful Bear would sleep for days after, refusing to come outside.
The meat and pelts sold for enough Shields to keep Bear sheltered and clothed.
After the first year Bear had even saved enough coin to purchase a companion, a trusty old wolfhound he named Sir. Sir had gray and white speckled fur, one black ear and one white, and four paws that looked as if they were wearing white socks. Bear had no need of a hunting dog, but Sir did his best to help him chase down prey on their daily jaunts, seeming to relish the thrill of pursuit.
They went everywhere together, until people almost began to identify them as a single entity.
Now Sir nuzzled against the back of Bear’s hand as he approached Kirby Soup, a tavern owner famous for the various rich, aromatic soups he concocted. “They’ll warm you from head to toe!” he regularly proclaimed.
“Watcha have fer me stew today?” Soup asked.
Sir barked and bounded up to Soup, his tail wagging faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Soup chuckled and scratched the hound under the chin. At first, Soup had been aloof to Sir’s antics, but, as the hound did, he eventually wore the man down. Now they were best friends.
“Half a quail and half a stone of moose meat,” Bear said.
The round-bellied man narrowed his eyes. “What happened to the other half?”
Bear rubbed his stomach.
Soup’s eyes, which were as rich and brown as the stews he created, widened. “You ate all of it?”
Bear gestured to Sir. “With help.”
Soup shook his head in amazement. “Never seen an appetite the likes of yers.”
“Well now you have,” Bear said, smiling broadly.
“What price?”
“You have to ask?”
“It’s robbery, I tell you,” Soup said, but he quickly counted out the required coins and passed them over.
“You’re lucky you get the friend’s discount.”
“Robbery,” Soup muttered again, accepting the package of wrapped meat. His complaints were all for show, Bear knew, as his friend had confided in him a long time ago. Soup didn’t want his other vendors to get the idea that he was soft.
Jingling the coins around in his pocket, Bear said, “Hope today’s soup has them lining up. Sir!”
Obediently, the hound gave Soup a final lick before following behind, nearly tripping Bear as he trotted around his feet.
Bear’s next stop was the cobbler, a squinty-eyed fella who never seemed to look anyone in the eye. He went by Cobb, just as most people in town used their occupation as a title of sorts. Except for Bear, of course, whose name was unique enough that everyone just called him Bear. “Morning, Cobb,” Bear said, letting in a gust of icy wind as he opened the door to the shop.
“Shut the damn door!” Cobb said, staring at Bear’s left temple.
Bear had already closed the door, but he didn’t try to point that out to the cobbler. Nor did he point out that every customer had to open the door to enter the shop. Cobb had never been particularly rationale.
“What?” Cobb growled. It was a relatively nice growl, for him anyway. “What’s that?” He gestured to Sir, squinting in the hound’s general direction.
“My dog.”
“Mangy mutt,” the cobbler muttered, though Sir was anything but mangy, his fur thick and well-groomed. “Should wait outside where he belongs.”
Bear ignored him. The man was all bluster, as cold as a northern winter. “Need a new pair of boots,” Bear said instead.
“Again?” The cobbler pretended to sound annoyed, though Bear had gotten good at discerning the greedy gleam in the man’s narrow eyes. Bear was one of his best customers, on account of all the walking he did.
“Same size. Same make.”
“Color?”
Bear played along, as he always did. “Hmm, perhaps brown this time. Or blue, aye, blue! No, no, wait, I’ve got it! Black. Yes, black will do.”
“Are you pissing around with me?” Cobb asked.
Yes. “Never.”
“Fine. Black it is. Take off your
boots and lemme measure your feet.”
Measuring was also unnecessary, as Bear’s feet had stopped growing the same time the rest of him had. Even still, he was the largest man in town, both by height and weight. Every time a recruiting party came through Walburg he was forced to hide in the woods for fear of being made to join the army. Thus far it was by volunteer only, but Bear suspected that would eventually change as the war dragged on.
Lord Briar, the possessor of the large gray castle from which Walburg got its name, was a known lackey of King Gäric, and would almost certainly uphold any laws passed at Castle Hill.
Bear let the thought slip away, and, grudgingly, shucked off his boots, peeled off his socks, and sat on a rustic, termite-gnawed bench. Sir stayed by the door, his tail between his legs. Once Cobb had tried to smack him with his cane, and the dog had a long memory.
“I’ll give you a trade-in value of half a new pair,” Cobb announced, hobbling over. It was the same thing he always said. The cobbler would harvest the leather and soles from the old pair.
“Sounds fair,” Bear said.
“Course it is!” The gray-haired man squatted and inspected one of Bear’s enormous feet, which were coated in a dark layer of hair. Cobb cringed, like he always did. Then, using a piece of leather marked with various measurements, he calculated the size, width, length, and height, shaking his head and muttering with each one. “A damn giant, you are.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Bear said.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Then shut your trap!”
At the door, Sir whined loudly.
“You too, mutt!” Cobb growled.
Sir sat on his haunches and went quiet.
The man went back to measuring, triple-checking everything, though nothing had changed since the last time. “You heard about them Southron savages?” he asked suddenly, squinting up at Bear. “You know, the ones with the strange marks?”
Bear flinched like he’d been hit in the face.
“You stupid or something?” Cobb said.