Thornbear (Book 1)

by Michael G. Manning

  “You insulted me,” insisted Gram.

  “I called ye someone’s doltish get. That ain’t an insult boy, it’s colorful language, an’ what’s more—it’s true,” Chad informed him with a mocking smile.

  Gram gritted his teeth, “And what if I said you were a spotted whoreson?”

  “I’d say you need to learn to cuss. Even if’n ye knew how, it wouldn’t bother me none. A man’s got to learn to control his temper. Yer own dear father knew that. He never let words provoke him to a fight, somethin’ you’d do well to learn.”

  A surge of anger made Gram step forward. He wanted to throttle the arrogant hunter, “Don’t you dare bring my father into this!”

  Grayson leapt back and rolled, pulling his bow up from the ground. Gram felt a light breeze beside his cheek and found himself staring down the shaft of a nocked and drawn arrow. “I done warned ye boy. Threaten me again an’ I’ll have ta find a new place to live.”

  Gram stopped and tried again to calm himself. “I won’t forget this, villain. That’s twice you’ve threatened to kill me.”

  Chad relaxed the bow and un-nocked his arrow, putting it back in his quiver. He bent to gather the rest of his kit from the ground and started to leave. “I don’t give a damn, boy.”

  Turning to leave as well, Gram spotted an arrow imbedded in the trunk of a small sapling that had been behind and slightly to the right of his head, causing his eyes to go wide. He hadn’t noticed the shot when the hunter had first reclaimed his bow a moment before.

  “Keep it boy. Let it be a lesson to ye,” came the woodsman’s voice, already hidden by the thick forest. “Learn some sense an’ mebbe one o’ these days we can talk.”

  Leading Pebble back the way they had come, Gram returned home. By the time he got there, his anger had disappeared, to be replaced by an uneasy feeling of embarrassment and shame.

  I’m not fit to bear the Thornbear name. Maybe mother is right, he thought to himself.

  Chapter 2

  From atop one of the statues that decorated the entryway into the main keep, came a voice, “Where are you going?” Glancing up, Gram spotted a small cloth bear, stuffed with rags and patched so many times that the toy’s original cloth was impossible to determine. It was one of Moira’s oldest and most intelligent magical companions.

  “None of your business,” he answered in a surly tone. Anything he told the bear would be relayed to her creator. He had nothing against Matthew’s sister, indeed she was one of his close friends, but he wasn’t interested in making his embarrassment known to anyone.

  Moira Illeniel was Matthew Illeniel’s twin sister, as far as most knew, but in reality she was adopted. Most thought that she and Matthew shared the same birthday, but she had actually been born over a thousand years before her brother. Her mother had been the last Centyr archmage, and her father, ironically, had been named Mordecai Illeniel, just as her adopted father was. Technically, Moira was her brother’s many times removed great aunt.

  Matthew didn’t like being reminded of that.

  Being a child of the Centyr lineage, she had inherited the same gifts her mother had possessed; namely, the ability to create intelligent magical minds, or anima as they were more properly called. Grace had been the first she had created, having given her teddy bear life as a not-quite-so-imaginary friend.

  A soft thump heralded the bear’s drop from the statue to land on the flagstones behind him. “It isn’t like you to be so unsociable,” said Grace, ambling along slightly behind him.

  Gram clenched his jaw and picked up his pace, moving along the corridor and deeper into the castle. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone and the bear was struggling to keep up now. Rounding a corner, he deftly avoided two servers carrying a large tureen of hot soup.

  He realized almost instantly that an accident was about to ensue. Turning and ducking, he caught the small bear, lifting her as she followed him around the corner and neatly whisking her out of the way of the servers’ feet.

  “Whoo!” cried Grace in alarm as he snatched her up.

  “How do you manage to make so much noise without having proper lungs?” he questioned aloud.

  Grace’s head turned toward his face, and somehow he could tell her button eyes were focusing on his. “You saved me!” she announced. “How gallant.”

  Embarrassed, he tried to shush her, “Don’t be so loud. I only saved you a bath in hot soup. I doubt it would have done more than make you smell bad.”

  The servers were watching them curiously, but as soon as he met their eyes they ducked their heads respectfully and continued on their way. Like everyone else in Cameron Castle they were well familiar with Moira’s small companions. Talking bears were no novelty for them.

  “The triviality of the consequence in no way diminishes the chivalry of your rescue,” replied the bear. Although she had no eyelashes, Gram could almost feel her batting them at him as she spoke.

  Tucking her into the crook of his arm, he gave up on leaving her behind and resumed his course. “Shouldn’t you be watching Irene or something similar?” he questioned.

  “Irene is nine now, so she doesn’t need as much minding anymore. Besides, why do you think I wander so much? Whenever I stay at home, Penny or Lilly put me to watching the children. I love them, but even a bear needs adult conversation now and then,” she complained.

  “What about Moira?”

  “She stays pretty busy…” noted Grace, letting the sentence trail off.

  It was obvious she felt she wasn’t getting the attention she deserved, but at the same time she didn’t want to speak ill of her creator in front of someone else. Gram decided to change the subject, “Are you implying that mine is ‘adult’ conversation?”

  “You are much older than I am,” pointed out the bear.

  “Point taken, milady,” admitted Gram. He hadn’t really thought about that fact. Grace had been created only a few years past, sometime after Moira had begun to develop her abilities. It was easy to forget since the stuffed animal seemed to have a very mature personality. “I fear that not many consider my conversation worth seeking.”

  She patted his arm lightly. “I think I can sympathize with your problem.”

  His dark mood lightened a bit as a hint of a smile crept onto his lips. He caught it before it became a laugh. “I never realized how much I had in common with a stuffed bear, but it makes sense now,” he observed. “I’m dressed and groomed, taken out to be viewed, but not allowed to make decisions for myself or take any real action.”

  Grace nodded, “At least you get some attention, many hardly notice me at all—and then there’s my other limitation.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I can only go a day or two before she has to refresh my energy; any longer and I’ll simply cease to exist.”

  “I have to eat to live,” countered Gram.

  “But you can eat a great variety of things, from a great variety of places. I can receive my sustenance from only one source,” explained Grace.

  Gram frowned, “Couldn’t Matthew or another wizard renew you?”

  The little bear shook her head, “Only a Centyr wizard can do it, and only the one who created the animus, otherwise my personality would be distorted.”

  “I never knew,” admitted the teen. “If you ran out though, couldn’t Moira just bring you back?” He mimed an imaginary display of magic by waving his hands.

  The bear gave him a hard look. “If you died and Gareth Gaelyn made a new ‘Gram’, and somehow they brought it to life, would it be you?”

  “No,” said Gram immediately. “It would be a different body, but Moira could reanimate your body.”

  Grace clucked at him reproachfully, “This isn’t really my body, Gram.” She gestured with her short arms to indicate her plump cloth body as she continued, “I just wear it because it’s what Moira likes, just like you wear clothes. My real form is pure aythar, and if it fades I’m gone forever.”

  Gram st
ared at her for a moment, mildly shocked. He hadn’t really given the nature of her existence much thought. In fact, he had never really considered her at all, or any of Moira’s other small retinue of magical creations. Some came and went quickly, temporary and barely intelligent. Others lasted a few months before she let them lapse, but only Grace had remained. She had been the first of Moira’s intelligent magical companions and the only one whom she had never allowed to fade.

  What must it be like to live completely at the whim of another, with the potential to die not from malice, but just from simple forgetfulness? It made Gram’s own situation seem far better by comparison. His mind went still for a moment considering the implications before he realized he had been staring at her awkwardly for some time.

  “It isn’t polite to stare at a lady so, young lord,” remonstrated Grace in a coquettish voice to break the clumsy silence.

  He coughed, “I’m sorry. I was just wondering…” He let the sentence falter, unsure what to say next, he was no expert at dissembling; a quality he had been told he inherited from his father. He didn’t want to admit that he had been pitying her the nature of her existence.

  “Wondering…?” she prompted.

  Given enough time, his brain eventually produced an acceptable response, “About your true form, what you look like underneath the cloth and buttons.”

  Grace covered the line of yarn that served to indicate her mouth with one stuffed paw, “Master Gram, how bold of you! Are you asking to see me without my clothes?”

  “What?” blurted Gram, already turning red. “No!”

  ***

  That evening Chad Grayson was at the Muddy Pig, sitting in a corner of the main room, nursing a dram of whiskey. He was there most evenings, the huntsman was fond of his drink, but unlike most evenings his expression was dour and uninviting.

  During the daytime many mistook his sharp tongue and quick reprimands to mean that he was unsociable. His given vocation did keep him in the woods for long periods of time after all. ‘They’ couldn’t be more wrong however, for once the sun went down and the tavern filled with people his more colorful side came to the fore.

  He drank perhaps too much, though it varied considerably with his mood. Tonight he drank with the air of a man who had found his proper vocation, with seriousness and a distinct lack of small talk. The waitresses and other patrons avoided him. They had seen his darker moods on occasion in the past and knew better than to disturb him on such an evening.

  Cyhan had never been one to exercise such caution. Entering the room he spent a long pause scanning the crowd before selecting his table. He sat across from Chad in the dark corner, signaling to the barmaid with one hand that he’d have a pint of brown ale.

  “Piss off,” ordered Chad before the massive warrior had even fully settled into his seat.

  Cyhan ignored the remark as he watched one of the hostesses bringing his pint over. He accepted the heavy wooden mug from her, nodding to indicate his thanks. He had never been overly expressive.

  Chad lifted his own mug, his arm swaying as he called to the server, “Hey! Darlin’, I’m out.”

  The young woman, Danae, gave him a concerned look. “Haven’t you had enough for a while?”

  “Not yet, lass, not yet,” answered the woodsman. He glanced over at Cyhan as he sat back down, “Stop givin’ me that look. Ye can keep yer opinions to yerself.”

  Cyhan took a long swallow from his mug, giving the hunter only a quick glance over the rim. He said nothing.

  “Ahhh, ’m just tryin’ to make up for a spectacularly shitty day,” explained Chad.

  Danae returned and filled his mug, pouring brown ale from a clay pitcher.

  “That ain’t what I was drinkin’ lass, an’ ye know it,” noted the hunter.

  “You’ve had enough of McDaniel’s whiskey,” she told him. “You really shouldn’t be drinking beer either.”

  Joe McDaniel was the owner of the Muddy Pig and the first man to introduce distilled spirits to Cameron and Lancaster. The whiskey he produced was still ‘rough’ by his own estimation, but it was quite popular with the locals.

  “Beer just sobers me up,” complained the hunter.

  The statement might have been a boast coming from someone else, but Cyhan had seen the proof of it before. It took wine or strong spirits to overcome the master huntsman’s tolerance for alcohol. More than once he had watched the man grow sober after an hour or two of beer. Chad and the tavern owner, Joe, were much alike in that regard. Few men were fool enough to engage either of them in a drinking contest.

  “Well it’s all you’ll be getting for a while,” said Danae.

  Chad glared at her as she walked away, swearing under his breath. Drunk and angry as Chad was, Cyhan noted that the hunter’s eyes never left the gentle sway of her hips. Not until she had rounded the bar and passed from sight.

  Cyhan snorted quietly.

  The hunter looked at him, “You can jus’ shut up. I’ll stop lookin’ when I’m dead.” After a moment he added, “She ain’t that much younger’n me, anyway.”

  The knight gave him a solid stare, then lifted his mug for a long pull.

  “Go fuck yerself,” stated Chad quietly in response, lifting his own mug. Out of habit he used his right hand to grab the handle and winced automatically when his bruised bones sent shivers of pain through the alcohol induced haze. He switched the mug to his left hand.

  The big warrior’s raised eyebrow was question enough.

  “Ah…,” sighed the hunter. “I hurt it today. Got in a pissin’ match with young Master Gram. The lil’ prick took a swing at me, an’ I made the mistake o’ trying to catch his staff.”

  Cyhan put his mug down, furrowing his brows.

  “Nah, the boy started it,” said Chad. “Came out and stomped all over a spot I’d been layin’ at, waiting for a fat doe. Not that he knew that, but the boy’s got no sense o’ proper manners!”

  The warrior waited as the hunter paused in his story.

  “Well, I’ll admit, I was pretty irritated, and a little hung-over, but the boy’s got an awful short temper; nothing like his dad at all. Dorian was practically docile when he was a lad. He never even got in fights with the other boys, and he damn sure never took a swing at someone without good cause.” Chad looked over at Cyhan to gauge his companion’s reaction.

  “It wouldn’t ha’ come to that,” argued Chad, “if the lad had had the least bit o’ respect or the slightest bit of patience. The boy was awful damn tetchy.” He paused for a moment, taking another sip of his ale. “An’ he sure don’t know how to take a joke—or cuss worth a damn.”

  Cyhan raised both eyebrows.

  “I called him ‘Rose’s doltish get’,” related the hunter, chuckling a little as he spoke. “What can I say? I was inspired. My da’ always said not to hide yer gifts.”

  The Knight of Stone brought his hand up to his face, passing it over his eyes, and then up to smooth his forehead before running it back through his hair. Then he lifted his hand and waved at Danae to bring them more ale. He could tell it would be a long tale.

  “I kinda wanted to forget about the whole thing,” said Chad, “but I guess if you insist, I’ll tell you about it. I almost bit off more’n I could chew. It was damn foolish really.”

  Cyhan nodded, and Chad launched into an abbreviated version of his encounter with Dorian’s son, leaving the story more or less unembellished. Chad wasn’t one to color his stories, whether to boast or to sugarcoat. At the end, he came close to admitting his embarrassment.

  “I never meant to let it get that far, but the boy’s damn strong, an’ he really does have a bad temper. Big as he is, ye expect him to be strong fer his age,” said Chad, slurring the words faintly. “But normally they ain’t that strong, or quick. He damn near broke my hand, and then he came close to pullin’ my arm outta its socket when I had him in a choke.”

  The old knight coughed, muttering something before taking another pull on his mug.


  “Yeah, I know,” said Chad, acknowledging the sentiment even though he hadn’t heard the words. “I shoulda’ expected it an’ jus’ left the boy alone. But by the time I got inta’ it, it was too late, an’ I’ll be damned if I take a beatin’ from some kid what ain’t even wet his sword yet, if ye take my meanin’. Shit, that boy was so mad he mighta’ killed me. He’d lost his head, and I ain’t exactly young anymore.”

  “You should stop being an asshole, then,” suggested Cyhan, speaking his first clear words since taking his seat. “Sounds like your body can’t afford to pay the tab for your mouth any longer.”

  The hunter stared at him without expression before laughing. “You should know!”

  “If Rose would listen to reason, it probably wouldn’t have been a problem,” commented the quiet warrior. “He’d be training already, and you would have probably been more careful with your words.”

  “Sometimes I think ye only come in this place to try an’ piss me off,” responded Chad.

  The large warrior broke into a frightening smile, “Why do you think I usually sit next to you?”

  “I figured it was my good looks,” said the hunter with a chuckle.

  Cyhan glanced up, noting Danae’s eyes on Chad’s back from across the room. “Maybe I was wrong; the maid is definitely watching you closely. She might have an eye for you after all.”

  Chad looked over his shoulder, nodding at the younger woman before turning back. “Nah, she’s just worried about me.”

  “That usually indicates something,” said Cyhan.

  “She’s not my type anyway,” said the hunter already sobering up.

  Cyhan lifted an eyebrow once more.

  Chad grinned, “Girl’s got a mouth on her. Ye should hear her cuss.”

  The irony of that left Cyhan laughing for a long while.

  Chapter 3

  A few days later Moira encountered Gram in one of the halls not long after the morning meal. “Gram!” she called. “I wanted to catch you before you ran off somewhere or got busy.”

  Busy? he thought, as if I am ever really busy. Then another thought occurred to him, “Whatever Grace said, that is not what I meant!”