Asbjorn stared silently into the bottom of his near empty mug for a long moment, wondering to himself if trusting the old woman would be akin to making his own deal with the devil. His heart wanted revenge just as much as Heggra’s wanted hers, but was a chance at it worth dealing with a witch such as the old crone was said to be. At last, he swallowed down what little stale mead was left in his cup, looking Heggra dead in her squinted eyes.
“Tell me how to summon the thing,” Asbjorn said, “and I’ll take its head for the both of us.”
The old woman smiled another almost toothless grin at the big youth after hearing his determined words, shuffling over to gaze into the flames that danced and popped in the fire pit. The light fell on her wrinkled flesh even harsher than before this time, showing the ancient woman’s age now more than ever. The flames reflected in her cloudy eyes, her shaking fingers working in the air as if she were knitting or sewing at something that only existed in her own mind. The old witch seemed half lost in a long dead memory, her body here but her far off stare lost in the blaze.
“Three nights from now,” she responded at last, “there will be a red moon, a blood moon, that’s when you can call it to you. Venture out to the beast’s lair in the Iron Throng Hills to the northwest of here, finding the opening dug within the rocks and surrounded by a grove of black trees. Dwelling nearby on the flats of those rugged hills are the grey stags, their ashen pelts as soft as fine smoke. Slay one of them, Asbjorn, spill its lifeblood and hang its carcass in the demon’s den, and when the moon turns red it will come to you. But be ready, Northman, for the devil bear’s rage is bottomless and its strength from another world. To face it is to face a thing of pure power the likes of which you have not felt before. Topple the creature or not, boy, our paths will not cross again. I wish you good fortune in your hunt, Asbjorn, for all it’s worth to you.”
At her last words, the old witch turned and made to take her leave, her feet scraping over the floor with the same awkward gait as when Asbjorn had first laid eyes on her. She offered nothing further as she left his home to pass into the night, the woman not pausing to look back as she went.
“Wait!” he called out before Heggra was out of sight. “I have to know more than that. I’ve seen how strong this monster is. What can I possibly do to fight such a thing?”
“Your own rage and fury must be greater than that of the beast you face,” the old woman answered back, “or you will soon find yourself following behind your father, and so many others that went before him. Beyond that, you are on your own, boy.”
And with that said, the old witch was gone, Asbjorn left staring out into the night as his door softly swung back and forth on its hinges. He slowly walked over to pull the squeaking thing closed, leaning heavily on the stained wood as he thumped his fist against the timber.
Three nights, he thought, three nights is all.
The big Northman rested his forehead on the doorframe as his mind drifted off, his long sandy hair spilling down his broad back and over his shoulders. He had waited so long for this time to finally come, a nearly eight-year quest that had consumed his thoughts night and day since he was a boy. The question in his mind now, was not how he would fight the bear, but instead if he would reap the satisfaction that he had been seeking, or simply meet his own death at the claws of the beast, just as his father had?
In an instant, the expression of trepidation fled from Asbjorn’s face as quickly as it had come, replaced instead by one of grim resolve. He marched across the room to fling a dusty deer skin aside, cracking open the old chest that had sat covered beneath it. From within, he carefully lifted it out, unfolding the soft cloth that was wrapped around the head and handle. It was quite a bit lighter in hands these days, ever so much more than when he was younger. He rarely removed it from the chest anymore, however, honing and oiling the heavy blade every year only on the eve of his father’s death.
The axe gleamed in his hands as he turned and examined it in the flickering firelight, his eyes following the curves of its hard contours. Compared to this weapon, the blade that he had used to fell the wolf was but a toy, the dull thing still lying where he had left it when he arrived home to find Heggra here. It was a sharp edge that the axe held, keen and deadly enough to slice through the flesh of the devil if it had to, and with what the big youth was planning on doing, it just might. He swung the weapon with his muscular arms, the heft of it feeling so at home in his grasp as it cut through the air. Asbjorn once again looked into the forged steel of the etched blade, almost seeing the reflection of his father’s face looking back at him for an instant, and then it was gone. Alone in his home, the big Northman let out a long, deep breath.
“It’s time,” Asbjorn said, almost as if he were addressing the weapon itself. “Three nights, and it’s time.”
VI
After Heggra had gone, Asbjorn wasted precious few moments in preparing for his journey to the Iron Throngs, taking only a scant amount of provisions and his bow and father’s axe along with him. He bothered not to tell a single resident of Brekka where he was headed, let alone mention a word of it to Magdalena. He knew that the lovely girl would only try to talk him out of his grave endeavor, perhaps even having her father intervene to prevent his going, neither of them able to understand what he was about to do. As he took his leave, the big man thought that it was best this way, sweeping out of the village without so much as a mention of his passing. If he returned then so be it, but if not, then they could all believe whatever they wished should the worst occur.
It was an arduous journey for Asbjorn over the rugged countryside that lay between him and his destination, one that was marked by dense woodlands, rocky ridges, and sudden, sloping valleys. He had traveled east many times before in the past, but this was as far to the northwest that he had ever dared to venture, the deserted lands of this region holding nothing that the people of his village or their closest neighbors cared to think of. The place was a jagged and harsh landscape, with no crops able to take to the soil and nowhere for livestock to graze. He did manage to catch a glimpse of the turbulent northern sea from time to time as he went, however, a sight that he had only ever heard about and one that did not leave the best of impressions. He arrived at the distant hills a little before the sun hit its height on the day of the second night, wishing that he could take a bit of time to rest and recover, but realizing that the hours were fleeting. He pushed his body through aching muscles and the weight of his own weariness, his thoughts firmly set on the task ahead, putting the taxing toll the trek had taken on him out of his mind for now.
It did not take him long to locate the black grove once he had arrived at the rocky mounts, seemingly drawn to where it lay on their eastern edge almost as if by instinct. He did not venture to within the tangled trees when first reaching them, though, instead choosing to make camp a short distance off before heading into the rough stretch of hills. He hoped to find the dwelling place of the grey stags as quickly as possible, bringing one of them down before all the light had faded from the sky.
As Asbjorn carefully crept through the jagged rocks and narrow passes, he again doubted how any creature could begin to make this place its home. The Iron Throngs were a hostile, barren terrain, with little in the way of eatable vegetation or freshwater. The sprawling woodlands that surrounded the small range mostly consisted of leafless, bark-stripped trees, the rivers and brooks that crisscrossed the majority of the land replaced here by muddy streams and fetid marshes. There were more than enough tales passed between the people of Brekka that told of the perils of visiting this remote place, ones that spoke of more experienced hillmen than he who had lost their lives in the twisting ravines, or to gods only knew what else that dwelt here. But the big Northman cared not about any of those things today; this is where he had to go, so this is where he went.
To Asbjorn’s surprise, he began to see small patches of moss and bits of hanging greenery as he cautiously moved deeper into the hills, having to suck i
n his muscled chest and midsection to squeeze through the tighter rock formations. At one point, his booted foot got stuck between two large stones, the big man having to work for quite some time to wiggle it free with the help of his axe handle. Once loose, he continued to follow the trail of the sparse plant life, noticing that much of it had been torn away from where it clung to the gorge walls. As he went, he also began to find wisps of a dusky hair stuck between the coarse rocks, pulling his bow from his shoulder and lightly nocking an arrow as the way gradually began to widen. He finally came to a steep incline that led upwards to escape the confines of the suffocating passes, slinking up as quietly as he could to just poke his head over the edge.
What he saw on the top of the small plateau was a strange sight for a low land youth. They were small, sleek animals, built narrow and long in body, with a silky coat and multi-pointed antlers that perfectly followed the curve of their head and back. They licked and gnawed at the grassy tufts that were strewn in the dark crevices between the stones, the tiny herd completely unaware of his presence as of yet.
Surely these aren’t the great animals that the old witch told me about, thought Asbjorn. They’re no bigger than a pony, nowhere near the size of the stags near Brekka. But then he looked closer at their ashen pelts, noticing that the fine fur made them look as if they were wrapped in moving smoke. These must be the grey stags that Heggra had spoken of, his mind said, they have to be.
Slowly, Asbjorn brought up his bow, inching back the arrow that rested on the string. With all his nerves steeled, he took the steadiest aim he had ever taken in his life, knowing that should he miss the mark he would not get a second chance at this.
As his hand reached his cheek and the bowstring went taut, the tiniest of groans sounded out from the stretched fibers, the stag’s ears perking as their heads raised and they scattered in all directions. With all the urgency he could muster, Asbjorn sprung from his hiding place in the dip in the stones, sending the arrow straight towards the closest of the animals. For a brief instant, he thought that the streaking projectile would just miss its mark, looking as if to sail just wide of his fleeing quarry. But then, as if by fate, the stag leapt right into the path of the arrow’s sharp tip, the shaft finding its way into the animal’s flesh to bring it down almost where it stood.
The other animals were gone by the time this one hit the ground, its body still twitching as a small smearing of crimson spread across the plateau top. Asbjorn walked over to stand above it as the last bit of life seeped from its black eyes, leaving the arrow in the deep wound to avoid losing any more of the blood than was necessary. Heaving the dead beast over his shoulders, the tired Northman carried the carcass back through the narrow passes, his mind now solely focused on felling a much larger prey.
The last bit of light faded beneath the horizon as Asbjorn crouched in the darkened cave, the minerally aroma of the stag’s blood heavy in his nostrils. He was almost thankful for the clinginess of the metallic smell, the odor helping to mask the stink of decay from the assortment of dead things that were rotting all around him. It had already been nightfall by the time he made it back to his campsite the evening before, the half exhausted young man stringing up the slain animal before allowing his body to rest and recuperate in front of the fire. Asbjorn had slept much later than he planned to the following morning, however, waking with a start to work out his stiff muscles as the sun steadily moved across the sky. After limbering his extremities and eating a quick meal, he had swiftly set to work, hastily collecting his things and shouldering the dead stag before venturing into the denseness of the black grove.
Struggling through the twisted trees, it had not taken long for Asbjorn to decide that this was not a place that he ever wished to visit again, the big youth imagining that once was more than enough for anybody. Gnarled branches reached out in all directions like clawed hands, while screaming faces seemed to appear and then quickly vanish on the rough trunks. He had wondered how something the size of the great bear could make it through this interwoven mess without leaving the slightest trace of its passing, but then he had thought it best not to question the comings and goings of demons.
As he pressed on, the sharp twigs that stuck out scrapped at his exposed skin, leaving dozens of tiny cuts and scratches down his arms. His feet had quickly become slogged down in the thick mud by the weight of the lifeless stag that he carried, the young man finding it increasingly more difficult than expected to keep his sense of direction in the hazy bog. But at last, he had managed to push through the ashen web of limbs that surrounded him, emerging into a marshy clearing that spread out before a jagged mouth in the rock face.
The cave entrance was like a screaming maw of stone, opening wide to dare any fool that was brave enough to venture inside and test their nerve. There was a draft of air from within that spilled out into the world, carrying with it the stench of a hundred dead and their silent urgings to turn and flee. Without hesitation, Asbjorn had trudged through the arched rock way, plunging into the shadows that awaited him on the other side. As he made his way into the bowels of the earth, his eyes gradually started to adjust to the dim interior, the darkness around him broken only by a few shafts of light that managed to sneak through the surrounding stone. He had followed the dank passage back and downward, finally coming to a wide cavern at the end of the lonely tunnel. The high chamber was ringed by a small ledge above, with droplets of water falling to land on the scattered and crushed bones of all manner of creature. He saw deer, wolf, man, and even other bear skulls strewn about, some with decomposing strips of flesh that still clung to them. Asbjorn could not help but wonder if his father’s remains might be here as well, buried somewhere beneath the countless skeletons.
That doesn’t matter now, he had thought, throwing the dead stag to the cave floor. All that’s important is the kill. And I will kill the bear, father, for you, for me, and for everyone.
From his waist, Asbjorn had snatched his hunting knife from where it hung in its sheath, the big Northman setting about to do what the old woman had instructed. With the sharp blade, he split the ashen coated stag down the middle, flinging the animal’s cold blood over the cavern walls and the scattered remains that lay at his feet. He next impaled the carcass on one of the pointed stalagmites that rose from near the center of the floor, climbing up to take a hidden perch on the narrow ledge overhead once his work was done, anxiously waiting for it to come.
Asbjorn had been sitting here for most of the day and well into the night by now, the rays of the sun that filtered through the rocks long ago being replaced by shafts of silvery moonlight. His backside throbbed and his muscles cramped from being hunched over for so long on the stone ledge, the big man shifting every so often to try and relieve the stiffness in his spine. He had been thinking about what the witch had said to him before she departed his home, carefully considering what she had mentioned about his own feelings towards the beast and wondering if the moon would really turn the bleak scarlet as she had told him it would. His spirit yearned for the creature to come, another part of him questioning if he could actually take the monster should it arrive. Wanting this for so long, Asbjorn could practically taste it on his tongue, but would the strength of a man from Brekka be enough to fell the infernal thing. That’s when he felt a tremor vibrant through the rocks, followed shortly by another, and then more as bits of stone began falling from the ceiling.
Asbjorn’s heart pounded in his chest as his eyes affixed themselves to the tunnel opening, his breaths quickening as the sweat started to bead down his face. Around him, the silvery streams of light that illuminated the interior faded away, replaced instead by shafts of deep red. As he stared wide-eyed, a crimson glow grew from the cave entrance, the walls quaking as a massive form was silhouetted by the light. And then he saw the thing step into the cavernous space from the mouth of the tunnel, the great devil bear, with eyes burning like two perfect pearls of fire just as they had been when he was a boy. Its muscular girth lurched acr
oss the cave to where the remains of the grey stag hung upon the stone spike, the earth continuing to shake with each of its footfalls. It sniffed at the dead thing for just an instant, Asbjorn hoping that his scent did not linger on the pelt of the slaughtered animal. And then, with the snapping of bone, the beast gnashed its teeth into the dangling carcass, nearly devouring the entire thing with a single bite of its colossal jaws.
The big youth watched frozen in place as the hellish creature voraciously fed upon the dead stag, the terror that he had felt so many years ago suddenly rushing to the front of his mind. For a moment, he was a boy again and could do nothing but tremble and look on, but then he saw his father’s face before him. He heard the man’s dying screams in his ears, remembered what Heggra’s final words had been, and at last he understood. There could be no apprehension or hesitation for him tonight, the anger that dwelled inside having to be his fuel to push him through and overcome, lest there be one more set of nameless bones to join the rest. The rage came to Asbjorn at that moment, the fury of a young boy turned into a man who had seen his only family be torn away from him. The feeling was greater than his dread now, greater than the paralyzing fear that held him firm, and greater than that of the bear’s below. This creature was a blight upon the land and its people, and Asbjorn would purge its presence from the world, once and for all.
He rose from his hiding place atop the narrow ledge with his bow in hand, raining down a hail of sharp iron and wooden shafts upon the beast. Arrow after arrow found their way into the devil bear’s thick flesh, the monstrous thing retaliating with a deafening roar that rattled the entire hillside, nearly blasting the Northman’s eardrums to bits. Despite the splitting pain, he did not waiver to clap his hands to sides of his head, instead bellowing back with a savage cry all his own. The great bear came up on its hind legs as the big man continued to unleash the piercing projectiles, the enraged creature slamming its giant claws down upon the stone rim. Bits of rock went flying everywhere as Asbjorn narrowly managed to avoid the blow, the spot where he had just been pulverized to dust less than a second after he leapt aside. He landed hard on his belly more than several lengths down the ledge, a loud snap sounding as he thudded down. His desperate dive out of the bear’s way had saved his life for the time being, but the haphazard act had cost him the use of his bow.
The Bear is Born Page 5