The King of the Westford was a hunted man. He fled through the forest on the back of a lame horse, pushing the animal past its endurance, to escape the band of outlaws that had slain his retinue. When the horse collapsed, he left the path and continued on foot through the brush. The outlaws' horses couldn't follow him through the press of briars and vine, but the men dismounted and tracked him still. It was deep in the shadowy thicket of the valley that he began to see shapes beyond the trees, just out of sight. It was not only the outlaws who hunted him now.
He came to a ravine, carved deep by centuries of work by the river below. He collapsed against a tree and stared down the rocky cliffs. It was a high, lonely place, and he could see all the way to the sea, to the coast that would have led him home. He drew his sword and waited.
The outlaws came, but not as he expected. Three men ran screaming into the clearing, and stopped short of the ravine. They turned, and cast him barely a glance. Their eyes were on the restless forest. The shadows moved. A bear burst from the trees, an enormous creature of fangs, claws and rage. Its face and chest were stained with blood. The bear charged. It ducked one man's sword and knocked the weapon aside with a casual swipe of his paw. The man's arm erupted in...