Kaczmarek stared ahead into the forest for what felt like a very long time, leaning this way and that looking from different angles. Now she had pointed it out, it was quite clear what she meant: deep prints crossed the mud at the road’s side, and the bark of one of the trees was gashed and torn – at a height above my head.

She dismounted, slowly walking forwards to the tracks, where she crouched and stared again for a while. Finally she straightened and walked back, a little more relaxed.

“I think it’s been a while since it went past,” she said. “Don’t know for sure, though.”

I relaxed, loosening my grip on my scimitar. I’d grabbed it by reflex when the jäger had first given warning. Now, she sniggered at me. “If you’re gonna fight bears with a sword, can you wait until we get to Tolkirch? I want to sell tickets.” The prince stifled a laugh next to me.

I sighed and shook my head. “Better than fighting it bare handed, but I’d rather not fight one at all.” I paused. “Hah, ‘bear handed’.”

Kaczmarek groaned as she swung back up into her saddle. “Did you have a tutor in dumb puns at the academy or something?” She kicked her mount, spurring the mare up to a trot. We followed suit. I guessed she was eager to be away from the bear’s range, and the horses were fairly well rested.

“It’s a natural gift, jäger,” I said. “Only one of my many talents.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you never got that commission. The men would riot,” she replied drily. The riposte was a little weakened by the halting cadence induced by the trotting gait – Kaczmarek was not a very experienced rider, and it often showed. We dismounted to walk as much for her benefit as for the prince’s, though we at least didn’t need to do it more often.

I clutched my chest in mock dismay, comfortably riding through Munter’s jolting pace. “You wound me, jäger. I always thought my wit was like a rapier.”

“Easily broken and not much use in a real fight?”

I broke out laughing, Kaczmarek and His Highness joining me.

“It’s not his fault your dullness presents an impenetrable shield, jäger,” the prince said merrily. “Officers are trained in fencing, not in axe work.”

“Well, I’m sorry for being such a lowly serf, your Highness, your Lordship,” she replied, ducking her head and pulling at the sides of her jacket in a bizarre imitation of a curtsy. She slammed back into the saddle with a wince, prompting a rueful chuckle. “I do ride like a sack of potatoes, to be fair.”

“We can’t all grow up on the northern plains,” the prince commiserated. “Some days I wonder why Schreiner is even in the infantry. Other days I wonder what his legs are made of, with how long he can stay in the saddle.”

I thought of Otto with an odd twinge of homesickness and worry. I still hoped the palace was secure. The fortifications were good, but were they good enough? I banished the thought.

“Myself and what horse, your Highness?” I brought out my old response. “Gefreiter Otto in the 2nd Company used to say he should have been a hussar at least twice a month, sir. Usually right after a marching drill.”

Kaczmarek grinned, and then winced again. “Yeah, I’ll keep to marching, thanks.” She scanned what little horizon there was for a moment, nodding. “The good news for those of us that don’t like horses is that the road is in better condition than I expected and we’re going quite fast. We should be able to make Tolkirch before full dark.”

***

Kaczmarek and His Highness had been walking on foot for a bit when he gave a low cry, cutting it off when the jäger glared and pressed a hand to her lips. I followed his gaze and stifled a curse.

“What devil is that?” He asked. “It looks like a giant deformed wolf!”

I had to agree; the creature did not look wholly right. It seemed like it ought to be long-limbed, when it raised a leg to step over a branch, but it had a mighty hunch to its shoulders that brought its head and chest down. That head looked indeed a bit like a wolf that had been left half-finished. Flatter muzzle, rounded ears, no discernible neck. Matted brown fur shrouded the beast’s bulk. No tail could be seen. Standing nearly as tall as Kaczmarek at the shoulder and much longer than that despite its humped back, it looked like an artist had set out to depict brutality. The highest of carnivores.

But I had also to agree with Kazmarek.

“It’s a bear, your Highness,” she said, quietly, with forced calm. Her face was harder than I’d seen it yet, even when facing the brigands – there was no wild passion here. Everything was locked away tight. “The biggest, leanest Ostwald bear I’ve ever seen.”

I fingered the grip of my scimitar, knowing it was likely worthless but hating the feeling of helplessness. We stood unmoving, hardly daring to breathe. I – still in the saddle – ran my hand down Munter’s neck, willing him not to get restive and paw or stomp.

The beast was in the woods off to our right, and a little way behind. It had come into view from behind a dense patch of brambles and undergrowth, ambling through the forest with a rolling gait. Despite its size it made very little noise as it moved.

Letting my impatience get the better of me, I leaned over Munter’s neck to whisper to Kaczmarek. “What do we do?”

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“Pray?” She whispered back.

I had been doing that already. I was devoutly wishing for a boar spear or even a half pike.

“Anything else?”

She shrugged. “If it attacks, run. Maybe the horses can outrun it for long enough for it to get bored.”

With those comforting words, I sat back up in the saddle, hand clenched on sword hilt. The beast sniffed the air, looking around. I could feel sweat beading at the back of my neck and armpits. I always have the strangest thoughts right before a fight, the wry observation passed through the back of my mind. This time it was that the sweat was making my armpits itch like fury, but dignity quite aside it didn’t seem like the time to be scratching.

Bringing everything back into sharp clarity, the bear swung its ponderous head around to stare at us. My knuckles tightened on my scimitar until I heard the leather squeak. Then long lumbering strides were bringing the bear closer, and Kaczmarek was shouting.

“In the saddle, quickly! Try to look threatening!” She made good on her words, vaulting up and lifting her elbows to look bigger – although her stature did her no favours. “If Braun here doesn’t back off, run on my mark.”

The bear was moving deceptively quickly, its odd gallop eating up the ground. My focus was torn between it and the prince – His Highness missed his footing in the stirrup for a moment, but found it again and got up.

I drew my sword, feeling better about having a weapon in hand than not. I took Kaczmarek’s point, though. Up close – closer all the time – the beast was huge. The horses were acting up, now, battle training or no. Bears were not in the regimen. Munter tossed his head and snorted. “Easy, lad,” I murmured. “Just like a big dog.”

Prompted by some instinct, I nudged him forward, and to my slight surprise he obeyed, pushing a few steps ahead of the prince and the jäger. Towards the bear.

I could hear its ragged breathing, now, and chuffing and growling. Hear the splash as its great paws hit the mud, see the flecks thrown up by its claws – Heavens, they’re like daggers, I thought – I fancied I could smell its breath. It slowed, head lowered.

Then, like a titan spirit of the ancient woods, the bear reared up, and up. Taller than I was, mount and all. Shaggy hair and loose skin flapped, like a shaman’s wild fur cloak flapping behind him. Panic hit me like a river in flood, a wash of white over my thoughts, until the prince made a muted noise of fear behind me. Half unsure of what I was doing or why, I tugged back on Munter’s reins.

The terrified, fiery-spirited horse reared, and I rose to my feet in the stirrups, brandishing my scimitar. “Come on, then, devil!” I roared at the top of my lungs.

For what felt like a long moment, we hung there, poised. The bear, claws like knives and a snarling tooth-filled maw large enough to fit my whole head; myself, atop a panicked horse, with a sword that felt about as useful as a toothpick. The icy fingers of terror started to pluck my strings away from me again, and I barely controlled my drop back into the saddle as Munter came down to his front hooves again, snorting and pawing.

The bear dropped to its own front paws, tipping forward with the implacable momentum of a calving glacier. I felt as though my heart would stop.

Then it chuffed again, shook its head, and lumbered off again. My grip loosened so abruptly I nearly dropped my sword, and I slumped in the saddle.

“Let’s go,” Kaczmarek said. Her voice was completely level. So devoid of tremors it might as well have been shaking like a leaf. I nudged Munter’s flanks and then had to rein him in, as the gelding tried to pull away into a gallop in his haste to get away from the predator. I let him have enough rein to canter.

Only after we’d gone a hundred metres did I sheathe my sword and loosen my grip on the reins. I let out a ragged breath.

“I swear, I would rather run another Torrean encirclement than do that again.”

“I’d rather do neither,” the prince said in a voice as shaky as I felt. “Is– is that sort of thing common, jäger?”

“Nope,” she replied, voice still even. “Never seen one that big before, never seen one approach a group with horses before. And I’ve spent a lot of time in the woods.” She worried at her lip. “Probably just our poor luck. Big guy like that, every winter is probably a hungry winter.”

“I imagined them as being… rounder, softer. Maybe friendlier, more curious. Not like– that.”

Kaczmarek giggled, the sound hitching slightly. “Maybe in autumn he would be, sir. People think of bears as fat and sleepy. Probably he was curious about us, too. But a bear’ll eat anything, really, so ‘curious’ isn’t that great either.”

I pushed some loose strands of hair behind my ear, feeling the sweat coating my brow. “First the wyvern, now this. I’m starting to think poor luck isn’t the half of it. But surely there shouldn’t be anything worse in these woods?” I asked, seeing the bear towering above us again in my mind’s eye.

Kaczmarek didn’t answer.

“Jäger?”

She shot me a look out the corner of her eye. “Well. There are baumgeisten, I’ve heard. But they’re just stories.”

I sighed heavily and rubbed my temples. “What under the Heavens is a baumgeist, jäger?”

“Alright, so it’s just a story,” she began, utterly failing to reassure me, “But they’re the angry spirits of fallen or felled ancient trees, roaming the forest lashing out at trespassers. It’s only really drunk loggers that talk about them.”

“And you think this is a possibility.” My voice was flat. The ebbing adrenaline had left me drained and tired, leaching away my patience in fits and starts.

“It’d be worse than a bear,” the jäger snapped at me. “Might exist, might not, but like you say, your luck hasn’t been good.”

“I have– read about them,” His Highness said, still haltingly, and my eyebrows shot up. “Though the stories describe them as protectors of the forest and the natural order, and not a danger unless you anger them. Only stories, though.” He finished quietly.

“Thank you, your Highness,” I said. “What do we do if we run into one and it’s angry?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t remember, if there was anything, gefreiter.”

“Jäger?”

“Falling mountains, man, how would I know? It’s a bleeding mad tree. Use an axe or something, I don’t know!”

I took a deep breath. “Fair enough,” I conceded with an effort. Then I started opening one of Munter’s saddlebags.

“And now?” The anger in Kaczmarek’s voice had been replaced with genuine bafflement.

“Hatchet,” I answered simply.