The Bear and His Daughter: A Tale from the Canon of Tarn

And once again, little Narmos charged. Bleeding and wounded, the little bear had managed to get back on all fours and now ran slowly at the giant bear and its rider—hobbling—but charging all the same, still trying to get in front of Liz, still trying to protect her. Evil blossomed in Modró’s eyes and he adjusted his aim, the carbine’s barrel dropping toward Narmos, his old white bear looking down at the charging cub, red eyes sad with knowledge. Liz cast around, looked to the arrows buried behind her in the snow. There was one left, half buried, unbroken . . . .