The stillness of the predawn air, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, was brutally shattered by a guttural cry. “Up!” shouted Aindreas, his voice raw with urgent terror. “To yer weapons!”
Lamech stumbled out of his tent, eyes still heavy with sleep, only to curse inwardly. His flamboyant Laneutian clothes, which he’d foolishly strewn about, attempting to dry them overnight in the whipping wind, were now scattered across the muddy ground, soaked through and utterly useless. A cold dread, far deeper than the mountain chill, began to coalesce in his stomach.
Uilleam was already outside his own shelter, his sturdy axe gleaming ominously in the nascent light, a silent, granite sentinel. Sikstoffer and Sikstrian emerged from their tents, swords drawn even in their bedclothes, their faces grim. It was Aindreas, closest to Lamech, who darted away, a blur of motion as he ran to roust the notoriously heavy sleepers, Jib and Jab.
Keogh, Dauid, and Emem hung back, their hands already moving in the subtle gestures of spellcasting. Bryon, the monk, stood rooted, his fists automatically wrapping themselves in worn leather straps, but his eyes were wide with a dawning awe and shock as he took in the intruder to their camp.
Before them, looming impossibly large in the dim morning, stood a Megabjörn. It easily stood over five feet at the shoulder, its shaggy, dark hide a shifting mountain of muscle. It met Uilleam’s gaze with startling directness, its eyes ancient and cold. Lamech’s mind, despite the terror, fleetingly calculated its weight – easily two thousand pounds.
“Megabjörn,” Keogh breathed, the word a reverence mixed with fear as he fumbled for a spell to aid them. “It’s… beautiful.”
“I’ll blast it!” Dauid roared, already gathering raw arcane energy for a fireball.
“No!” Uilleam’s voice was a low snarl, filled with a primal protectiveness of the land. “I’ll not have ye damage the forest! He’s as much a right to be here as us, scare ’em off!”
As if in defiance, the Megabjörn rose up on its hind legs, a terrifying silhouette against the brightening sky, and let out a roar that vibrated through the very ground. The sound snapped Lamech from his shock, a jolt of pure adrenaline as over ten feet of bear muscle and hide loomed over them.
Keogh swiftly cast an Entangle spell, and thorny, grasping plants shot up from the damp earth, wrapping around the bear’s massive lower limbs. But with a flex of its immense power, the Megabjörn snapped the verdant bonds as if they were fragile twigs.
“Stay near me!” Emem shouted, his young halfling voice firm as he began a protective chant to Sikkar. The others stood awkwardly, weapons drawn, caught between trying to keep the colossal beast at bay and actually attacking it. Uilleam, ever the defiant dwarf, let out his own bellow, waving his axe as if to challenge the very mountain. In a flash of dark fur and blurring motion, he was gone. The bear’s paw, a blur of immense force, scooped him right off his feet. He flew backwards, a small, helpless figure arcing against the morning sky, disappearing without a sound over the nearby cliff edge.
Aindreas’s scream of horror ripped through the air. He turned, his eyes wide with the raw, gut-wrenching realization that his mentor, his guide, was beyond saving. With a primal roar of vengeance, he charged, his own axe raised, directly at the Megabjörn. Sikstoffer and Sikstrian, recovering from their shock, plunged their swords repeatedly into its thick hide, their blades seeming to find little purchase. Lamech, meanwhile, huddled instinctively behind Emem, chanting desperately to his deity. Magical missiles, conjured by Dauid, thudded into the beast, but its massive hide showed only the slightest, insignificant wounds. Stabbing it was like plunging a dagger into damp earth, and the Megabjörn, turning its terrifying attention to the charging dwarf, nearly smashed Aindreas’s head in with another swipe.
“Back!” shouted Keogh, his voice strained but clear. “I’ve got it!” He thrust out a hand, unleashing a powerful Gust of Wind spell. The invisible force slammed into the monstrous bear, pushing it back fifteen feet, causing it to stumble. “Push it back!” Keogh commanded, his voice strained.
The others, understanding, flanked its sides, keeping the Megabjörn in the continuous line of blasting air that extended from Keogh’s outstretched palm. The colossal beast teetered precariously on the very edge of the cliff near the camp, roaring in fury.
“I can’t keep this up!” Keogh cried, sweat beading on his brow as the spell began to falter, its invisible force wavering. The Megabjörn dug its massive claws into the earth, roaring its defiance, inching forward.
The Gust of Wind finally died, the magical force dissipating into the morning air. But Aindreas, fueled by grief and rage, charged in once more. “For Uilleam!” he bellowed, hacking viciously at the bear’s exposed hind legs. The colossal creature faltered, its massive weight shifting, its claws losing purchase on the slick ground. With a final, desperate roar, it slipped and slid off the cliff, bouncing off the unforgiving rocks below as it vanished from sight.
It was only then that Jib and Jab emerged from their tents, looking around groggily. “What’s with all the commotion?” Jib asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “And where’s Uilleam?” Jab added, his voice laced with confusion.
Aindreas, panting, a thin stream of blood running from a cut on his temple as Emem began to work a healing charm over his wounds, turned a furious glare on Lamech. “Someone didn’t hang all their smellables up,” he spat, the accusation stark.
Lamech looked askance at his discarded, soaking clothes, now lying pitifully on the muddy ground, the wind’s recent fury having scattered them from where he’d tried to dry them. Had he truly caused Uilleam’s death? The thought was a sickening, cold knot in his gut.
Keogh, sensing the bard’s crushing guilt, placed a comforting hand on Lamech’s shoulder. “It could have been any of us, Lamech,” the elf said softly, his voice full of empathy. “The wind, and the soaked clothes, carried all our scent far and wide. It was simply fate, or the mountain’s will.”
Lamech nodded, but the seed of doubt, a bitter ‘teazel,’ had already taken root. He wasn’t so sure.
Emem, his young face etched with sorrow, stepped to the very edge of the cliff where Uilleam had vanished. His eyes, usually bright with devotion, were now clouded with grief. “We must find him,” he murmured, taking a step forward. Unspoken was the fact that this was Emem’s quest and he felt responsible for Uilleam’s death.
But Aindreas, though clearly reeling from the loss of his mentor, put a hand on Emem’s arm. “No, Emem,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm. “He died as he lived. Part of the mountain now. Going down there would be dangerous, a needless risk, and take too much time we don’t have. He wouldn’t want that.”
Emem’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded slowly, accepting the harsh truth. He knelt at the precipice, his hands clasping the holy symbol of Sikkar. A solemn prayer, whispered into the thin mountain air, carried on the wind, a silent farewell. With a heavy heart, he then carved a small, rough symbol of Sikkar into a nearby rock at the cliff’s edge, a simple, enduring marker to honor their lost ranger, leaving Uilleam’s resting place to the embrace of the Kir Kurad.
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