The Bear by Michael E. Shea (ink book reader TXT) 📕

war. He once led two hundred men against an equal number of southern barbarians and lost only six men. The Voth barbarians lost sixty. He served as commander of the watch for ten years. On his forty fifth birthday, Longhorn decided it was time to retire. When the message came that Relis needed a new sheriff, he jumped at the chance. Longhorn figured that keeping peace in a town of forty families was easier than leading an army against the hoards of the south.

Longhorn was right. Keeping the peace in Relis was easy. Surviving the sheer boredom was not. Every one of the few conversations Longhorn had with one of the townsfolk included mention of the previous sheriff. Everyone who entered his office gave him a critical look before a single word had yet passed. Every whisper he overheard as he walked down the town’s single dirt road spoke Greentree just loud enough for him to hear. All Longhorn could hope was that they could not mourn the hero of Relis forever. There were more important things than vanity, however. Longhorn had a job to do.

“Where is the body?” Longhorn fixed his brown eyes on Carson. Carson stepped back, seeing a fire there few in the town had ever seen.

“Out north. On the trail to Ralthorp’s farm about half a mile and then into the woods near the river.” Longhorn strapped on his wide leather belt hanging the longsword he carried low on his left hip. He pulled his blue cloak off of the wall peg and wrapped it around his shoulders. Longhorn put his hand on the boy’s shoulders.

“Show me.” 3

Longhorn had seen death before. Longhorn had seen a hoard of two hundred men torn to shreds by musket fire. He had watched angry survivors of a battle stab wounded children on the battle field with bayonets. In all of his years, however, Longhorn had never seen anything like this before. As determined has he was to show his worth to the town, Longhorn knew this situation was over his head.

Carson had exaggerated in his description of the wounds, but not by much. The boy’s head wasn’t smashed down into his chest, but it was torn almost completely off and twisted a full turn around. His intestines weren’t draped from the trees but about half of them were in a pile ten feet away and the rest of them were missing. His belly had been ripped open. His back was slashed down to the bone in four huge gashes. One of his legs was gone. Both of his arms were broken. In fifty years, Longhorn had never seen such a death. He could only hope the boy wasn’t awake for most of it.

Two of the village’s farmers were there. Lornhorn approached Rogard Greyfellow, a woodsman who lived next to the Ralthorp farm. He held a huge axe over one shoulder with his arm casually draped over its long wooden handle. He gave Longhorn that same critical look the sheriff grew used to receiving and then looked back at the ruined boy.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” The large man scratched his thick black beard. “Some sort of beast got to him, I suppose. A wolf most likely. Greentree used to talk about the danger of the wolves in the deep woods.” Longhorn let the statement slide but he knew it wasn’t a wolf. No wolf had claws that could make a wound like the one in the boy’s back. No wolf could break through the trees that hung like an archway leading to this spot. Longhorn just nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what to do but agitating the townsfolk wasn’t going to help. It was obvious from Rogard’s tone that the woodsman didn’t much believe his own theory.

Longhorn looked to the stamped path that led to this spot. It came from deeper into the woods. Trees, some large and alive, lay splintered to the side. Longhorn walked a little ways down this path and found one of the beast’s paw prints. It was almost ten inches across. The claws had dug holes in the earth so deep that Longhorn’s finger couldn’t find the bottom. Longhorn’s mind began reciting what he would tell the parents but beyond that he didn’t know what to do next. >>>> 4

Speaking to the Fickleson family was easier than Longhorn expected. Longhorn had experience giving bad news to families who lost sons in war. Jonse’s father had seen the boy before Longhorn had gotten there and that made it easier. Nothing Longhorn could say to Master Fickleson would be worse than finding his boy in that gruesome state. The boy’s mother sat in a chair looking out of one of the small house’s windows. Her face was gray.

“I am sorry for the loss of your boy, lady Fickleson.” The woman’s dead eyes met Longhorns. No tears fell down her cheeks. “I will do everything I can to catch and kill the beast responsible. You have my word.” Longhorn remembered the huge paw print and the wounds on the boy’s back and wasn’t sure if he believed his own words. He bowed to them and left.

On his walk back to town Longhorn came to the only conclusion he could. He needed help. Longhorn didn’t understand what was out there but he would not sit back and hope it went away. When he got back to the office he pulled a quill, an ink well, and a parchment out of his desk and began to write. When he finished the letter he stamped it with his crest and set it aside.

Each week riders from the King traveled to the villages to collect taxes and deliver news. The following morning the rider arrived and Longhorn gave him the note along with that week’s tax collections.

Longhorn felt relief when he saw the letter on its way in the message pouch of the royal messenger riding back to the King’s city. This relief left him when he saw the gathering outside of the town’s tavern.

There were eight of them. Longhorn recognized them as hunters, woodsmen, and some of the larger farmers of the area. Longhorn hesitated before approaching them. Putting on his most casual look, Longhorn stepped over to the tavern.

“Good day, friends,” All eight of the faces turned his way with grim expressions. They knew what he was going to say and they didn’t want to hear it.

“Longhorn.” Rogard Greyfellow was among them and tipped an imaginary hat towards him when he approached.

“It’s a bit early for the evening’s ale. What brings you all here? And why all of the equipment?” Longhorn nodded towards the axes, hammers, and picks that each one of the eight men held.

“One of our own is dead, Longhorn.” Longhorn winced at the implication. OUR own, the speaker could have said. Not yours. The rest of the group remained silent.

“Greyfellow, you saw what happened to the boy and I imagine one or two of you others have seen it too. I don’t know what did that but I am going to find out. I have no doubt that it’s very dangerous. I know you’re probably not going to listen to me but I’m going to say it anyway. Don’t go out there. Let me find out what I can. When I do I will let you know and let you help but right now we don’t know what did that.” It was the longest speech Longhorn had given to anyone since arriving in the village. The eight men at least seemed to consider his words but they looked to Greyfellow and the grizzly man just looked at the sheriff.

“We take care of our own, Longhorn. We’ll find what did it and we’ll bring it back on a spit.” Longhorn looked into the eyes of each of the eight men and saw nothing but anger in their eyes. He watched as the group headed into the woods with packs on their backs and weapons on their belts. He hoped they found nothing. He hoped nothing found them. 5

Longhorn’s hopes were met. For three days the hunters scoured the woods with no sign. Each day they left into the woods and each morning they returned empty handed. Longhorn continued to appeal to them but to no avail. Longhorn was watching them prepare for their forth night when he heard the squeeking wheels of a merchant’s cart rolling up the road from the King’s city.

Sitting next to the cart’s driver was a small man dressed in brown robes. His hood was pulled low over his face and a large book lay open on his lap. The jerking of the cart’s stop seemed to awaken him from what Longhorn could only assume was deep concentration or sleep. The robed fellow, a priest from the looks of him, spotted Longhorn. The priest handed a small package to the merchant, grabbed a large leather pack from behind his seat and stumbled down to the dirt road. He approached Longhorn without caution or self consciousness. He bowed deeply and almost lost the full contents of his large leather pack.

“Well met, sheriff. My name is Garity of the Dryphusorian Order. I’m here to help with your bear problem.” Longhorn took a long look at the man. He was a small man, slight of build but one who moved with the graces of a dancer. He pulled back his hood and looked up at the gray skies. His head was smooth and shaved bald.

“I thank you, Garity, but I am not so sure it’s a ‘bear problem’.” Longhorn smiled at the monk. He wasn’t sure what response he expected from his message. One of the more senior commanders of the watch would come, perhaps. A half dozen of the King’s professional hunters arriving would be more likely. Instead they sent him a priest. Longhorn tried his best to hide his disappointment.

“I was expecting someone else. Someone…”

“Bigger?”

Longhorn laughed. “I suppose so. Or at least more than one person. I don’t really know whats out there but it tore apart a young boy. I expected the King to send some soldiers or hunters.”

“If they sent a dozen or two dozen men and had them scour the lands every night for a month they would either return empty handed or dead. I don’t know for sure what you have here, but if I am right, I can be more help to you than the King’s guard. I spent my life studying these things. Let me help you out.” Longhorn looked at the man’s hard blue eyes.

“Alright.” Longhorn held out his hand and Garity met it with a grip like a blacksmith. “That’s quite a hand for a priest.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises.” Garity gave Longhorn a grin. “I’d like to take a look at the place where the boy died.” “Aye,” Longhorn said. “Let us find you a place to stay and we will travel out tomorrow morning.”

Garity’s sharp eyes turned to the tavern where that night’s hunting party gathered and prepared to head out. “Tell me those men aren’t heading out to hunt the beast.”

“I’m afraid they are.” Longhorn crossed his hands in front of his chest, expecting an accusation. Garity gave a single short burst of laughter.

“They’re all going to die.” 6

The village buried the boy two days earlier but the rest of the site had been left alone. Rain washed away the tracks but the trees lay where they fell. Garity, his brown robes dragging in the dirt, had thrown his hood back and was running his hand over his bald head. The more Longhorn talked to the monk, the more he liked him. For an officer of the court, Garity spoke clearly and directly. So often members of the court spoke volumes without saying a single truthful