The Bear of Ostrava

Ostrava

A black-robed priest stood on a small wooden platform erected in the center of the village, delivering sermons.

Below, villagers gathered to listen to the gospel.

Several young farmers and their wives furtively flirted behind the crowd, their playful antics and subtle gestures ceaseless.

Henry and Hafdan, the two brothers, lay on the grassy slope below the blacksmith’s forge.

They each chewed on a green wheat stalk, their gaze fixed on the sermon unfolding below.

He could easily spot the couples hidden amongst the crowd.

He remarked, “Didn’t Noren say adultery was forbidden? Look at them—”

Hafdan, with one leg crossed over the other, gazed up at the sky.

He clarified, “Noren spoke of ‘adultery’.

As long as they don’t produce any illegitimate children, or if they do, they honestly pay taxes and marry, it’s fine.

However, freemen are strictly forbidden from any illicit relations with slaves; if discovered, both parties, regardless of gender, will be demoted to slavery.”

Henry could not help but grumble, “Our village doesn’t have nearly as many rules.”

After his complaint, he spat out the wheat stalk from his mouth.

He then rolled over to face Hafdan, inquiring, “I’ve been here for a month already; why hasn’t the caravan departed yet?”

Hafdan scoffed, “With your current amateurish skills… hmph! Come talk to me when you’ve mastered the shield and spear!”

****

Clang, clang~~~

Svein swung his hammer, painstakingly reshaping the dented dome helmet, piece by piece.

Meanwhile, Frey spun the grindstone, polishing the rust from a spear.

In the backyard, the Hafdan brothers wrestled bare-chested on the grass.

Nearby, Henry lay silently, his face bruised and swollen.

“Henry? Henry!”

Frey’s shout echoed from inside the forge.

Yet, Henry remained prone on the ground, defeated and mute, seemingly unable to comprehend why, despite his robust build, he couldn’t defeat two scrawny lads.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Frey emerged from the sweltering forge and stepped into the backyard.

He crouched down and patted Henry’s face, but the man was deep in slumber; even with considerable effort, Frey couldn’t rouse him.

Frey gently pried open Henry’s eyelids, then pinched his philtrum, exclaiming in surprise, “How did he faint?”

His gaze then shifted to the two Norse youths nearby, who were happily exchanging blows with fists and feet.

He seemed to realize who was responsible for Henry’s unconsciousness.

Frey roared at Hafdan and Wiz, the two brothers who were still grappling vigorously: “You two rascals! Henry has fainted again!

If he dies, just wait until Noren gets her hands on you!”

“What? He fainted *again*? He’s so fragile!

Damn it! Don’t, don’t stop, I surrender!'”

Distracted by Frey’s shout, Hafdan was caught off guard and tripped by his brother’s low sweep kick.

A flurry of combination punches followed, forcing Hafdan to beg for mercy repeatedly.

Upon hearing his brother say ‘don’t stop,’ the younger sibling’s shoulder blades rose high, like wings on his back.

His fists gathered immense power, and he unleashed a barrage of punches, left and right, so swift that Hafdan could barely track their movements.

After a dozen more blows, Hafdan’s head was driven into the soft, muddy grass, and he too fell unconscious.

Frey cursed, “Damn Norse madmen!”

He then clamped Henry’s feet under his armpits and slowly dragged him into the blacksmith’s forge.

He intended to test if the repaired helmet fit.

Frey placed the dome helmet onto the unconscious Henry’s head.

He tugged at Henry’s neck and shook it; the helmet felt a bit loose.

He then grabbed a hammer, preparing to use Henry’s head as a mold to hammer it into shape.

Fortunately, Svein occasionally cast a glance at Frey, for his son was truly unreliable, a fact that was now undeniably proven.

A twitch appeared in the corner of Svein’s eye.

He promptly delivered a resounding slap to Frey’s ear, making his brains feel as if they were rattling against his skull.

“Is that how you resize things! Add padding!”

Frey, rubbing his stinging cheek and pouting, obediently retrieved a white padded coif from the inner room of the forge.

He placed it on Henry’s head, then covered it with the helmet, which now fit perfectly.

At that moment, Henry groggily awoke.

His last memory was of a pair of startlingly close blue eyes during the wrestling match.

“Catch.”

Svein tossed a shield and a spear to Henry.

Having just managed to stand up, Henry fumbled to catch the weapons.

Henry stood bare-chested, a spear in his right hand and a shield in his left.

The legs of his faded trousers were rolled up to his knees, and the ‘iron bowl’ on his head gave him the distinct air of a common foot soldier.

Svein stroked his beard, scrutinizing the burly man from head to toe.

He asked, “How old are you?”

The burly man sucked in his stomach, puffed out his chest, and lifted his head, proudly displaying his well-developed pectoral muscles to Svein.

He replied, “To answer the lord, I am twenty-five this year!”

Svein did not pursue further questions.

Instead, he merely appraised Henry’s muscular physique, shaking his head after a moment.

He turned back to the charcoal forge, pumping the bellows to fan the flames.

With iron tongs, he picked up a strip of iron, placing it over the coals to heat.

Once the iron glowed red, he set it on the anvil and began hammering it with rhythmic clangs.

Henry was utterly bewildered.

He opened his mouth to speak but swallowed his words as a villager came stumbling, running towards them.

The villager, breathless, pointed a hand towards the village below the slope.

He gasped, “Lord! Terrible news! There’s a bear! A bear has come!”

Svein’s brow furrowed.

It wasn’t even the season for sturgeon migration yet, so why would a brown bear wander into Ostrava?

“Frey, help me with my armor.”

“Yes, Father!”

The bearded man, now clad in armor and armed with a shield and spear, rushed down the slope.

He didn’t forget to call back to Henry, “You come along too!”

****

The brown bear lay motionless by the river.

Having just emerged from winter, it was not as plump, its back rising in a prominent hump, resembling a small hill.

It was a large male bear, its fur matted and dripping wet from the river.

Several long, thin white strands trailed behind its hindquarters, somewhat akin to a bird tucking twigs into its feathers.

However, these were parasites embedded near its anus.

Villagers observed from a distance, while several children climbed onto thatched rooftops, eagerly watching how Svein would slay the bear.

Svein, Tolruk, Frey, and Henry, clad in armor and armed with axes and bows, stood about ten yards from the brown bear.

The brown bear rose, letting out a tentative growl.

Seeing that the ‘two-legged beasts’ made no move, it soon lowered its eyelids and resumed its prone position.

‘A rather listless bear.’

Svein mused inwardly, having initially believed a whole bear pack was treating Ostrava as a hunting ground for sturgeon migration.

Realizing it was merely a solitary male bear, he felt a wave of relief.

He joined his index and middle fingers, waving them towards the large male bear.

Behind him, Tolruk received the signal, drew his bow, aimed for the bear’s eye socket, and released an arrow.

Two arrows whistled through the air, striking the bear’s face and ear cavity.

The bear roared in pain and fury.

It rose on its stout limbs, its elongated, dog-like snout snarled, revealing sharp canines.

Svein turned to Tolruk, his expression impassive.

The latter chuckled nervously, saying, “I was injured last time; my aim might be a bit off.”

The bear lowered its neck, gathering all its strength—a savage bear charge!

Svein remained calm.

He twisted his waist, his taut latissimus dorsi muscles suddenly relaxing—a spear throw!

The brown bear stumbled, taking the thrown spear with the hide of its flank.

The spearhead pierced its flesh, and blood welled from the wound.

It threw its head back and roared, its ferocity unleashed!

It turned, charging towards the bare-chested Henry.

His tender, pale muscles made the bear salivate; it wouldn’t mind a hearty meal before its sturgeon feast.

“Oh dear, is this bear hungry? It’s so fierce,” Tolruk muttered, retreating while firing arrows.

However, none struck vital points, merely embedding themselves shallowly in the bear’s hide.

Frey also hurled his javelin.

Lacking sufficient force, the spearhead failed to penetrate deeply, and a mere shake of the bear’s body dislodged the javelin during its next charge.

“Beast!!!”

Henry roared in defiance.

In that moment of life or death, his Slavic warrior blood awakened, and he surprisingly charged the brown bear.

The spear tip, seemingly wreathed in angry flames, plunged fiercely into the bear’s chest.

The massive male bear, however, swatted Henry down, shield and all.

The shield shattered, leaving only half, and its iron rim was utterly deformed by the bear’s paw.

Three bloody claw marks were imprinted upon Henry’s well-developed pectoral muscles, and he slipped into unconsciousness once more…