The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [23]
“With his own life and the power of his kingdom,” said the hound firmly. “He will do all he can.” She would have sworn it if there were words for such a thing in the language of the hounds. But it was a human thing.
Sharla asked, in the language of humans, “He has the magic himself?”
The hound nodded.
“How do we know he will not be murdered and all the rest of us with him?” asked Frant.
The hound did not know how to answer that. Hounds expected death. Humans found it a surprise, as if life could exist without death alongside it, as if all death were the death of unmagic.
“If we wish to have a home, we must take a risk,” said Sharla. “Why not with this man, at this time?”
“Risk our children?” asked Frant.
“They are at risk in any case. The only difference is that with the prince the reward is greater.”
Frant thought a long time, then nodded.
“Thank you,” said Sharla, tears in her eyes, and for the first time speaking in the language of the hounds. “And thank him as well.” She gestured to the sleeping bear.
When the bear awoke at last, the family was long gone, along with all traces of their presence.
The hound waited for him to stretch and find a morning drink before she tried to tell him where the family had gone. She noticed that the bear seemed unusually quiet and his expression was dark and distant. She thought it was only that the family was gone, and he was lonely again for human company.
But when she turned at the sound of his approaching, he was a great blur of movement rushing at her face. She had no chance to cry out, or to think at all, before he slammed into her side with his head.
In the long moment of her falling, she searched for some explanation, and knew that was a human thing. A hound needed no reason for violence in the forest.
Then she felt the pain, the lack of breath, the ground driving into her chest. She was a hound again. In a battle with a bear.
She slowly pulled herself up, her legs running cold with sweat, but she did not try to escape. A hound would never turn away from a battle.
The bear snarled at her, then came running once more. This time he did not charge into her and send her flying. He let his claws slash into her belly.
She threw herself at the bear and fought for her life. She bit and clawed and kicked and tore, and then stopped suddenly as the pain reached her with a sharp burning sensation. It was too much. Her eyes glazed over and her body slowed. She waited for death, as any hound would wait, panting, gasping, wheezing.
And saw the bear’s face over hers, grief and disgust in his eyes.
And she remembered moments together with him, in the cave, in the forest, with the cat man.
She reached out a paw to offer him comfort.
And the bear lifted her into the air and threw her backward. She could feel the bite of the wound in her side. Then the tree behind her struck like a sword.
She could see nothing.
But she could smell the bear near her, hovering again.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say one last thing to the bear, but then she remembered that he could not understand her.
He would never understand her.
She woke in the dark, sprawled on the forest floor, her mouth filled with blood and leaves, and the bear nowhere in sight—or smell.
A sensible hound would lie there until recovered. Or bark softly, hoping for other hounds of her pack to hear. Or drag herself away from the site of the battle.
She did none of those things.
She thought of the bear’s disgusted expression before he had thrown her away from him.
It only made sense to her when she took the time to puzzle it out, as a human would.
She knew the bear was afraid of seeing the wild man again. She thought that he must be protecting her in his strange, human way.
Stupid man.
Did he not see that there was strength in pack, no matter how small it was?
She tested her legs separately before she tried to put any weight on them. Her lame leg, the left hind leg, had taken the worst