Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(32)

It’s a short-faced bear. His shoulder is as tall as the top of my head.

Terror stills my feet. I’m certain that he will soon smell my scent and turn on me. I draw a deep breath and prepare to run.

But then I see what the bear sees, and I know he won’t turn around. He is pursuing other prey. Right in front of him, at the end of the trail, a man stands with his back against the ledge of rock.

Kol.

He doesn’t see me. The bear is too big—so big he blocks Kol’s view, so big he blocks his escape.

The rock ledge pins him from behind—the drop over its side is too long and steep—and the path to his right is blocked by the bear. But there is another path to his left—a trail that follows the ledge of the rock wall. I see him throw a quick glance down that path before turning his full attention back to the bear.

He takes a slight step to the side, keeping the bear in front of him, but positioning himself so he has a route behind him. I watch him—his eyes darting from the bear to the trail and back again. My breath comes so quick, I feel as if I’m struggling not to drown. My heart kicks like legs treading water.

The wind blows in, and on the air is the scent of the bear and something else. Something like cold blood. The blood of all the prey the bear has killed. Though the wind is cold, sweat beads on my lip and my brow.

Kol’s back leans against the ledge, and he bends out as far as he can. His arm extends over his shoulder—the arm that holds his spear.

One spear. It looks so small beside the huge bear—too small to stop him, or even to make a difference. But what options does he have? He cocks his arm, bringing his hand behind his ear, and fires his spear into the bear’s side.

The bear’s growl is sharp and clear and cuts through all other sound. But he doesn’t drop. He doesn’t even sag. Kol’s spear sticks out from his side, a deep gash torn through him, but still he has strength. Sound pours from his open jaws. The sound itself seems to push me back. I dig my heels into the dirt beneath my feet, refusing to be moved. My spear slides in my hand as I ready my shot.

And then the bear rears.

All his weight moves, and the sight of him—dark, rippling with power—reminds me of the sound of thunder. His huge back legs straighten, and he lifts his massive frame upward. He teeters, the only sign that a spear has been planted in his flesh, and brings a huge paw forward, landing a blow to Kol’s head. Kol ducks, but the bear’s claws scrape across the back of his scalp.

He falls, landing at the bear’s feet, but he doesn’t stay down. He isn’t giving up. He crawls away, trying to reach the path behind him.

I focus on the hole in the bear’s side, torn open by Kol’s spear. I have just one shot. Then we will both be unarmed. I need to make this strike count.

But before I can throw the spear, Kol pulls himself up. Blood leaks from the gashes in his scalp and runs down his hair, beading and dripping onto his shoulders. He moves so slowly, like a small child putting weight on his feet for the first time, unsure if he can trust his legs to hold him. But they do hold him, and as I watch, he turns his back to the bear and stumbles forward, almost falling.

But he doesn’t fall. He catches himself. And then he runs.

The path behind him hugs the cliff as it descends, and he stumbles more than runs, falling forward with every step. The bear stays right behind him, not giving up.

But I won’t give up either.

I follow, hoping for the trail to open on the perfect vantage point—for the Divine to reveal to me the perfect chance to take the perfect shot. Only the perfect shot could bring him down. I hurry to stay close, but then Kol stops in the middle of the trail.

In front of him and to his right, a face of smooth rock rises straight and unbroken, towering over his head. To his left, the path drops off to the ground below, too high a drop to jump. Kol reaches up, feeling for a ledge. From where I stand, slightly uphill of him, I see that just above his hands, the rock levels off. A flat terrace, wide and grass covered, is only a small space above the reach of his searching hands.

The bear growls again, a guttural sound full of fatigue and pain. The wound Kol gave him is taking a toll, yet he doesn’t withdraw. He doesn’t turn and look back the way he came, wondering if there might be an easier way to feed himself today. Maybe he knows his wound is bad—maybe he knows he’s dying. Whatever his reasons, his focus stays on Kol. Still, the bear doesn’t move in. Not yet. He’s waiting, gathering his remaining strength for a final assault.

My choices are few. I could strike with my spear, or I could try to get above Kol—to the terrace that’s just beyond his reach—to try to pull him up. My eyes scan the deep gash under the bear’s ribs. Blood pools in his coat. Could I land a second strike in the same place? Would it be enough to drop him? If not, what will he do? Will he kill Kol before I can move to help him?

I can’t be sure, but I also can’t stand to wait and do nothing any longer. I creep as close to the bear as I can and throw my spear.

It pierces the bear’s hide, lodging no more than the width of a hand below Kol’s. The bear turns and looks back in my direction. His head dips but he does not fall. Instead, he swings back around to face Kol.

I have to climb. I have to try to pull Kol up.

I shrug off my pack and run my hands over the cliff wall. It’s steep, its surface pitted and ridged, and my fingers dig into narrow crevices above my head. With this tenuous grip, I pull one foot up—one small step—and wedge my toes in place. Then another step—just as small, just as difficult.