The Lost Realm by J. D. Rinehart

bear!” He waited for Melchior to contradict him. To his amazement, the wizard grinned.
    â€œNeither am I.”
    They retraced their steps to the edge of the village. After checking they hadn’t been followed, Tarlan pursed his lips and whistled three times. Moments later a pair of shadows coalesced in the darkness, resolving themselves rapidly into two furry shapes.
    â€œGreythorn! Filos!” Tarlan whispered. “Stay quiet, now. You have a job to do.”
    The wolf and the tigron sat obediently before him, awaiting instructions. Tarlan held out his hands and allowed the animals to sniff them.
    â€œDo you smell the man?” he said.
    â€œYes,” said Greythorn. “A big man.”
    â€œSweaty,” said Filos.
    Melchior watched with interest. Tarlan allowed himself a smile.
    You might see things I cannot see, old man. But I hear things you cannot hear!
    â€œBig and sweaty, yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what he was. Can you find his scent? I think he must live nearby. Can you take me to where he lives?”
    Immediately, Greythorn and Filos dropped their snouts to the ground and began to sniff, trotting in ever-widening circles as they sought the trail. Greythorn found it first, uttering a low yip as he shot off along a little-used forest track. Filos quickly joined him. The two animals wove in and out of each other’s path, sharing the task of tracing the scent back to its source.
    â€œWho needs magic?” Tarlan said to Melchior. “Come on.”
    Long before they reached a ramshackle hut hidden in the trees, Tarlan could smell the bear himself: a damp, soiled stench that hung in the night air like smoke. The smell led them to a large wooden cage hidden behind the hut. Inside was the biggest bear Tarlan had ever seen.
    The instant he saw them, the bear snarled and threw himself against the bars. One massive paw slashed out between the slats of wood, his sharp claws raking down Tarlan’s arm. Tarlan drew back with a hiss and circled the cage, being sure to keep his distance.
    â€œBe careful,” said Melchior. “He is angry.”
    â€œOf course he’s angry!” snapped Tarlan. “Look at him!”
    The bear’s black fur was torn and striped with blood. Old scars shone through the matted pelt. Tarlan wondered how many years the man had kept him here, how many beatings the wretched creature had endured.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he soothed, reaching out his hand. “You’re safe now.”
    The bear bellowed and swiped again. Tarlan dodged, barely avoiding another injury.
    Maybe this isn’t going to be so easy.
    â€œI want to set you free.” Tarlan conjured up images of wide, open spaces in his mind, trying to project them toward the bear. For some reason, all he could think of was sandy deserts, even though he’d never seen one. “Please, won’t you let me help you?”
    â€œHe-elp?” growled the bear, eyeing Tarlan with suspicion. His voice sounded like falling rocks. “You speak? You he-elp?”
    â€œYes. I speak. I help. What’s your name?”
    â€œBrock!” The sound came out in a fit of coughing. “Brock! Brock!”
    â€œBrock? Is that your name?”
    â€œBrock!” the bear agreed, glaring at Tarlan with eyes like tiny furnaces.
    â€œAll right, Brock. Are you going to let me help you?”
    â€œHe-elp?”
    Melchior’s hand came to rest on Tarlan’s arm. Tarlan nearly jumped out of his skin. “I cannot understand what he is saying,” said the wizard, “but I do know he is dangerous, Tarlan. Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”
    â€œToo late. Like it or not, the bear goes free.” Tarlan picked up a stone and smashed it against the lock. The simple wooden mechanism exploded into splinters, and the door swung open.
    Before he could blink, the bear was out. The enormous beast moved like an avalanche, huge and