As swiftly as Nicolas thought death would descend on him, a blur of fur and tangled beard rushed by him instead. “Grief!” boomed Bardölf. The Jamba keeper stood with his legs apart, but at a slight angle like a boxer. His great war hammer smashed into the ground so hard, Nicolas saw sticks and leaves bounce up, and he felt vibrations run through his legs. “Grief! Stans venn!” he roared at the bear. Like two woolly titans committed to battle, the jamba-bear and the Jamba keeper faced each other, each of them uttering a low guttural growl.
Then, with a sickening crash of broken branches and crushed litterfall, the two charged at each other.
Nicolas, sick with fear and expecting the inevitable slaughtering of long claws and teeth, squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head.
He heard the bl
