As it lay at his feet, the spent wolf meekly growled at the big youth that stood over it, the animal puffing and panting a thick foam from its billowing cheeks. It still tried to snip at Asbjorn’s toes with what little strength it had left, crawling along the ground just to get at him. With a strong leg, he put his boot firmly on the squirming beast to keep it from moving around, raising the axe and then bringing it down yet again to finally put an end to it.
This was far too easy, Asbjorn thought as he stood over the fallen animal, yanking the blade free from where it had cleaved into its body. The young man took no pride in putting the wolf down as he had, finding not the least bit of satisfaction in its death. Not only was this not the creature that he had come here to find, but it had also failed to put up any kind of a fight to speak of, leaving a bitter taste in the Northman’s mouth. The fierce wolves that roamed the northern forests were typically tenacious predators, more than capable of killing a grown man should they be forced into a confrontation. But this one had proved to be too weak from the lack of food, the consequences of man’s overhunting taking a harsh toll on the pitiful thing.
Asbjorn let out a long sigh as he stood alone in the quiet glade, staring down at the dead animal and then glancing back to the strung-up deer. With a quick motion, he planted his axe in an old tree stump that jutted from the ground nearby, cracking his thick neck to ease his tensions.
“No sense in letting anything go to waste I suppose,” he grumbled to himself, pulling his sharp knife from his belt. “Might as well get something out of this.”
By the time Asbjorn finished skinning the wolf and deer, it was far too late to begin his lengthy trek back to Brekka, the sun already speedily heading toward the western horizon. The big youth preferred to not be stumbling through the darkened woods with fresh pelts and his bow and quiver strapped to his back, wary of catching his foot or twisting an ankle of the uneven forest floor. He made it back to his small campsite just after dusk, staking out the skins fur side down so that they could dry out a bit overnight. He then set about building himself a small fire to help chase away the chill, resigning to ride out the rest of the night after another disappointing day.
He found that he did not rest well under the stars of the northern sky on this night, the memories of his father running rampantly through his thoughts, especially out here. In fact, it was not far from this very spot that the two of them had been set upon by the massive devil bear some eight years ago, his father’s final cries still coming to his ears on the worst of nights. Gradually, the tired Northman drifted off to an uneasy sleep, the taste of the day’s failure still fresh on his tongue.
Asbjorn arose early the next morning to begin his journey back to the village, breaking camp just before the first rays of dawn shown in the east. He moved swiftly through the littered forest even with being laden down by the two pelts and his other equipment, sweeping through the wooded landscape to reach Brekka just as the other villagers were setting about their daily routines. Most paid the big man little attention as he passed amongst them, being too preoccupied with the drudgery of their usual tasks to show him much notice. There were others, however, that watched him move along with a cautious eye, wary of the quiet man that often kept the people of the tightknit community at arm’s length.
Asbjorn’s first stop, once he had returned to Brekka, was the village tanner’s, offloading the hides from yesterday’s outing to earn himself what little coin he could for the skins. The young Asbjorn had never really thought much of the old leather worker that ran the tannery, finding that the surly man was always quick with a biting comment or an insensitive dig. When the big Northerner reached the shop, he found the elderly gentleman out back and busy at work, stretching a fresh hide across a sturdy wooden frame to place it off to the side along with several others.
“Oh, it’s just you,” the wrinkled fellow grumbled, glancing up from his work when he heard Asbjorn approaching. “What have you brought in with you this time?”
“Nothing much really,” answered Asbjorn, unstrapping the furs from over his shoulder. “Only two. A small deer and a scraggly wolf.”
“That’s it, eh?” snorted the old tanner. “I’ve seen children bring in a better lot than that. You know your father was one of the best hunters this village has ever seen back in his day, don’t know what went wrong with you.”
“So you’ve told me before,” Asbjorn quietly sighed. “Just have a look at them, will you?”
The big Northman unrolled the fresh pelts, spreading them out in front of the old tanner who hardly bothered to show the things any interest.
“Neither of those look very bearish to me,” the gruff man mockingly noted, his creased face giving a snide smile. “When are you actually going to bring me the big one?”
“Eventually,” Asbjorn answered in a deflated tone. “But what about these?”
The old tanner eyed the furs that Asbjorn had put before him, his gaze going from the skins, up to the youth, and then back down again.
“Three bits for the scraps,” he finally said, “take it or leave it.”
“That’s all?” the big man responded. “That’s not even half of last year.”
“They’ve been bringing these to me in droves this season, boy,” the old tanner replied, going back to his work. “I’ve got plenty of wolf and deer inside, you’re just lucky that I’m feeling generous enough to offer you that much. Like I said before, bring me something bigger. If you can ever find it, that is.”
“Just give me the coin,” said an annoyed Asbjorn, “and spare me the lip.”
The old man grunted under his breath as he dug into a small purse that hung from his belt, plucking out three thin pieces of pounded silver. Asbjorn begrudgingly accepted the small payout, honestly surprised that it was even that much. He turned to leave without saying another word, the surly tanner just shaking his head as he watched the big youth go.
“You keep chasing ghosts like this and you’re gonna lose that place of you and your father’s out there,” the tanner hollered after him. “That or starve to death, whichever comes first.”
As the old man’s comments faded in his ears, Asbjorn found himself slipping further into a brooding mood, the mouthy shopkeep only reinforcing the reasons the big man preferred to keep his own company. That was certainly not the first time that the local merchants or his fellow villagers had treated him in such a manner, and sadly, he knew that it wouldn’t be the last. The youth was well aware that most of the people in Brekka looked at him as if he were some kind of a deluded fool at best, or possibly at worst an obsessed madman with a death wish. He had spent the last eight years fixated on finding what he believed to be the great devil bear of the northern forests, a hellish creature of folk and legend that was said to stalk the woods for warm flesh and the blood of men. Most believed that the beast was nothing more than a myth, a frightening tale to scare and excite as they gathered and told stories around a roaring fire. But Asbjorn thought much differently than that, believing that he had encountered the demon up close, and all too personally.
The big Northerner knew that he had seen the creature with his own eyes when he was only a boy, the monstrous thing having set upon him in a bloodthirsty frenzy. They had all tried to say that it was only a large brown bear that had wandered down from the lands farther up towards the mountains, seen through the eyes of a terrified child that was about to die, but Asbjorn knew better than such things. It had been no natural creature that had taken his father from him on that day, and he would not relent in his pursuit until he had found the beast once again, and it lay broken before him. But for the time being, all that Asbjorn could do was meander through the roads of Brekka, wondering how he would find the means to pay for what he needed to make it through the coming winter.
In past years, Asbjorn had always managed to bring in enough skins to at least meagerly support himself when not engaged in his hunt for the elusive bear, but this season had proved to be a particularly diffi
cult time, the forest game too thinned to provide much of a bounty. Thanks to the other hunters, Asbjorn knew that he had to come up with something soon, or it was going to be a long few months once the snows finally arrived. But right now, he suddenly realized that he had not taken breakfast before heading back home this morning, and no good idea ever came from anyone with an empty stomach.
The lone Northerner was typically a rare sight at Brekka’s only tavern, often preferring his own solitude over the disparaging looks and offhanded remarks of the other men of the village, none of them someone that he would really consider a friend. But his belly protested and rumbled out in hunger, and he also remembered how horribly empty his own cupboards were back at home. The few bits of silver he earned this morning were just enough to buy himself some meat and drink, with a little bit left over to ensure that he would not leave with empty pockets. With a heavy sigh, the big youth hung his head and made his way inside, hoping that for once he might actually have a decent meal here in peace.
The tavern was not crowded at this time of day as Asbjorn slipped in, the few men that did sit at the tables too absorbed in their drinks and own conversations to notice his stealthy entrance. He found a quiet corner at the far end of the large drinking hall to settle into, away from the sideways glances and annoying chatter of the other patrons. Asbjorn asked for a simple meal of blood sausage with spiced cabbage and crusty bread, some of the cheaper offerings that were prepared at the tavern. The food tasted good enough to the big man who had not had a hot meal for himself in quite some time, the bites washed down with a pint of clove mead. Asbjorn was just halfway through his breakfast and in deep thought when the front door of the place suddenly swung open, trouble walking in to once again find him here.
The group of four young men strode in out of the chill morning air, all of them boisterously carrying on with one another. They were led by a cocky youth named Dorn, the dark haired, loud mouthed son of Brekka’s most successful woodsman. The bothersome brat was never shy when it came flaunting his status thanks to his father’s pull with the village elders, using it whenever possible to get what he wanted and have his way. Asbjorn and Dorn had never been ones to have the warmest of feelings towards each other, the woodsman’s son always being terribly jealous of the big Northman. The dark headed youth deeply resented the more than apparent physical superiority of the other, particularly despising all the attention that Asbjorn received from Jarl Manus’s young daughter, Magdalena. To his credit, the big man did his best to remain inconspicuous in his secluded corner and hope that the four would not take notice of him, but unfortunately, they spotted him nearly straight away, one of them pointing the other three in his direction. He let out a long sigh as the youths turned and began to walk his direction, taking a swallow of his mead as they drew closer. With the lingering disappointment of yesterday’s hunt still heavy on his shoulders, this was the last thing that he wanted to deal with right now, but deal with it he would.
“Well, well, boys,” said Dorn, strutting up to stand at the edge of Asbjorn’s table. “Look who’s here. Where you been keeping yourself, As?” he asked. “We were beginning to think that you didn’t like us anymore.”
“I’ve been busy, Dorn,” Asbjorn responded flatly.
“Still a man of few words I see,” Dorn said, resting his hands on his hips. “After not talking to us all summer long and that’s all you have to say for yourself, ‘I’ve been busy.’ I’m beginning to think more and more that you’re not happy to see us.”
“I bet he’s been out looking for that big bad bear again,” one of the young men with Dorn put in, throwing up his hands to resemble mock claws. “I wonder how he did this time?”
“Oh, that’s right,” said a derisive Dorn. “How’s that been going for you anyway, any luck yet?”
“Like I said before,” Asbjorn answered again, “I stay busy.”
“Ah don’t be like that now,” remarked Dorn. “Come on, what’d ya find this time? I bet it was something really terrifying like a man-eating chipmunk, or maybe something even more ferocious like a giant squirrel.”
Dorn and his three friends all burst out laughing at the last comment, the entire group of them taking a juvenile satisfaction in the cutting quip. Asbjorn simply sat in his chair unmoving and quiet, clenching his fists under the table to bulge the veins in his sinewy forearms. He wanted nothing more than to fling his chair aside and teach Dorn a lesson that he felt was far overdue, but he had promised the jarl that there would be no more incidents after last time. Dorn, however, continued to push it further, not relenting despite the other’s silence.
“Well, maybe it’s a good thing that you didn’t come across that old bear, As,” he managed to say in between grating laughs. “It might have wanted to see if you tasted just as good as your father did.”
The next few moments were a near total blank for the big youth. He could still see them laughing to be sure, but the sound had been drowned out by his own pounding heartbeat. He slowly slid the small table in front of him aside, raising himself from his seat to come up to his full height. He glared down at Dorn as their amusement gradually began to taper off, the spiteful braggart still smirking up at the demeaned Northman, everyone in the tavern now looking in their direction.
“Now come on, Asbjorn,” Dorn said in a dismissive tone. “You’re not gonna let a friendly little jab like that get you all upset, are you? I thought you had thicker skin than that.”
“I think he might actually be a little angry with us this time, Dorn,” said one of the youths that had come in with the woodsman’s son. “Maybe we should just get our drinks and sit down.”
“If you’re itchin to do something take it outside, boys,” called the old tavern keeper from where he stood behind the bar. “I don’t need blood stainin my floors or you breakin my tables and chairs again.”
“Shut up, old man,” Dorn yelled back at the tavern keeper as he continued to smirk up at Asbjorn. “He’s not gonna do a damn thing, not after what my father said he’d bring on him. Are ya, big guy?”
Dorn had hardly finished his sentence when bits of wood went flying into the street, Asbjorn picking him up to drive him through the front door of the tavern, his muscled shoulder planted square into the other’s midsection. The powerful Northerner slammed the unfortunate fool back first to the hard ground outside, Dorn nearly broken in half as Asbjorn brought his full weight down on top of him. The big man came up to rain down blow after hammering blow, Dorn’s friends and the other men that were in the tavern flooding out behind the pair. The boys frantically tried to pull the furious Asbjorn off the hapless youth, but the three of them were simply no match for his raw strength. He threw them aside like they were nothing at all, the anger inside of him reaching a point that was far beyond anything that he had ever felt before.
Asbjorn found that he had lost all control of himself in that blinding moment, the frustration of the constant mocking and the mention of his father pushing him well past what he could take right now. He unleashed all of his pent-up wrath on the poor soul that was pinned under him, not caring if Dorn were to live or die, and everyone that stood watching the horrific beating could see it.
The other men that had been inside the tavern came rushing over to Dorn’s aid now, grabbing and pulling to stay the torrent of Asbjorn’s pummeling fists. He shrugged them off just as easily as he had with Dorn’s friends, lost in the frenzy that had overtaken his mind. At last, they all came surging back at him at once, piling their combined mass on top of his large frame. Asbjorn struggled with everything that he had as the heap of humanity crushed in to weigh him down, trying to pry his arms free to get a hold back on Dorn. He made one final lunge as the battered youth desperately tried to drag himself away, his grasping hand closing around the other’s ankle. He yanked the panicked Dorn back towards him before hearing a rise of voices and even more rushing footfalls, and then, all suddenly went black for the enraged Northman.
IV
Asbjo
rn awoke to the sound of dripping water echoing between the stone walls, the pungent smell of moldy refuse and who knows what else clinging in his nose. His eyes fluttered open to find himself in an all too familiar cell, the groggy youth having spent more than his fair share of days and nights here. He pulled his aching body up to sit on the edge of the wooden cot that he had been tossed on, the uncomfortable thing lined with dirty straw and tattered furs not fit for dogs. The big man let out a long breath as he wrung his sore hands together, his chestnut eyes tracing along the lines of filth that were caked between the stones of the floor and up the walls. They stopped at the small barred window that let in just enough fresh air to make the cell tolerable, the bars casting a depressing shadow over the opposite side of the room. He knew very well that things had gotten far out of hand at the tavern this time around, having completely lost his senses in the seething fire that he usually managed to keep in check. Asbjorn had nearly beaten Dorn to death after their exchange earlier today, and while there was certainly no love lost between the two, the big man definitely did not wish the spoiled oaf dead. For now, all that he could do was sit and await the inevitable repercussions of his actions, staring into the sky on the opposite side of the bars.
In a way, Asbjorn usually took an odd comfort in always finding himself in the same cell, the four walls greeting him almost like old friends. He had counted the stones here many times before, a few even bearing an odd sketch or two that he had scratched upon their surfaces during his more extended stays. But it was becoming a more regular occurrence for him to find himself in their presence as of late, and he was beginning to grow weary of their repeated company. After what felt like hours, he finally heard the clicking of a heavy lock, followed by the unmistakable squeaking of a door swinging open, the jailor letting in the same person that always came for him when he was thrown in here.
The Bear is Born Page 3