In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Snuff rode out on Featherfall, slashing at the Phoenixian with his spurs. The horse neighed wildly and galloped southward at breakneck speed. Man and horse passed from sight in minutes, south toward the Chaffen Hills.

  Waxmelt let the poker drop and stumbled to Clovermead, hugging her tightly. Clovermead returned his embrace, then ran to hug Goody Weft. The Valewoman harrumphed, but she squeezed Clovermead close in her arms for a long minute.

  Clovermead looked up solemnly at her father. “What do we do now, Daddy?”

  Waxmelt stroked Ladyrest’s log walls wistfully. “We pack today. Tonight we sleep in soft beds, and at dawn we leave Ladyrest. Then we run from the Vale as fast as we can and keep on running till we think Lucifer Snuff has lost our trail.”

  “We’re leaving the Vale?” Clovermead asked. Her father was a thief and bears were roaring in her ears, and she knew she would feel unhappy and terrified soon enough, but right now she couldn’t. A smile was tugging at her lips and a laugh was rumbling in her belly. “Oh, Father, I’m scared for us both, but this is wonderful! At last I will survey the wide lands of the world in all their infinite and strange variety. Dear Lady, I get to have an adventure at last!”

  Chapter Five

  The Golden Cub

  Clovermead tossed under her warm and familiar blankets, wondering where she and her father would go and what he had stolen and what Sorrel would think when he found the abandoned inn, until weariness seized her and she drifted from the waking world.

  The darkness growled and the innkeeper’s daughter dreamed.

  Clovermead was a golden cub with four stubby legs and a roly-poly torso who lay on the rocky floor of a cave blanketed by drifting snow. Her pelt was long and soft and warm. Beneath her skin effortlessly strong muscles smoothly bulged with the promise of power. Her gouging claws scraped half an inch into the compacted snow. She gnashed her teeth. They clacked loud and hard. If she bit down on a rabbit, she could break its neck.

  Clovermead wobbled to her feet, clumsy as a baby, and looked out of the cave into the night. The world was an indistinct blur, where trees and boulders were brown streaks and gray smears, but her ears and nose were marvelously keen. Behind a nearby boulder the wind whispered to her of a sheer drop-off forty feet deep. Each swaying, unseen branch called out its location to her. The seductive scent of old honey wafted from a beehive high in a tree, and a school of trout tickled her nose from beneath the iced-over stream below the cliff. Clovermead inhaled bark and moss and grass and snow, and salivated when she smelled a distant doe. She was hungry.

  Clovermead set off after the meaty smell. Her legs could barely hold her at first, but she learned to walk in seconds, to run in minutes. She made sure to stay downwind of her prey so as not to alarm the doe with the sharp musk of her own fur.

  Delicious flesh, Clovermead hummed to herself. Warm meat, she sighed. It’s not as sweet as berries or nuts, but there are no berries or nuts in winter. It’s not so smooth and swallowable as a good fish, but I’m too weak to break through ice. A stag’s too strong to fight and the little fawns won’t be born till spring, but a doe will do. A winter-hungry, winter-weakened doe to be my lunch. I’ll gorge my fill and come back home. Then I’ll sleep till spring.

  Clovermead licked her lips and roared for joy. The doe heard her and ran faster. Clovermead chuckled and swiftly pursued.

  Clovermead padded through snowbanks and into a sloping forest of birch and pine and scrubby bushes. Crumbling limestone outcroppings rose from the thin earth, as teeth from receding gums. The hills were rotten with caves, and in each cave Clovermead smelled another sleeping bear. The underbrush was thin and black—a forest fire had raged here. The air was thick and wet, with an acrid tang.

  This is how the pilgrims describe the land near Snowchapel, thought Clovermead. Caves and bears and forests everywhere. I must be near the convent and Scrimshaw Harbor and the Western Ocean. So that’s what salt water smells like! I never knew it would be so strong. Or is that my ursine nose at work? It’s even colder than the Vale up here. I’d be a block of ice if I didn’t have my pelt.

  The waning crescent moon, whose faint light scarcely limned the darkness, hung slack and pale and old in the hazy sky. A mocking owl hooted from above, swooped, and jubilantly seized some small rodent in its fierce claws. The victim squeaked, crumpled, and died. The doe’s scent was getting stronger.

  Clovermead heard other paws behind her. They chuffed into the snow slow and steady, with quiet weight on them that made the frozen earth throb. Proom, proom, proom came the inexorable paws of a huge old he-bear, unmistakably male from his sour perfume. Proom, proom, he came no closer to her, but he never fell behind. She heard his regular exhalations as they ran, and felt his warm, humid breath. She smelled fresh blood on his jaws. The scent made Clovermead’s stomach churn, it made her mouth water, it was a horrible ecstasy beyond berries and honey and fish. She was terrified, and she would not turn to see who followed her.

  Someone who wishes to make much of you, the old he-bear growled. His bass made the mountains tremble. Perhaps your friend, Clovermead, if you will allow me. His laughter charred the cold night. Oh, little cub, your desire is sharp in the wind. Tell me your dreams. What do you want?

  Everything, said Clovermead. She nipped at the air. I want to fence so well I could beat that Lucifer Snuff in a fair fight, all by myself. I want to be a thief for real and steal rubies from temples and present my loot to the Queen. I want to be grown up and not have anyone tell me what to do. I want to conquer the Empire and the far lands beyond. I want to tell lies to people and have them believe me. I want an army to bow down before me and hail me as their leader. I don’t want to be the little girl who’s sent away when trouble happens. Misery and fury churned in her stomach, and she scratched at dead grass till it came up by the roots. I want Daddy to stop keeping secrets from me. I want to rip the truth out of him.

  I can teach you, said the bear. If you wish to learn.

  Learn what?

  How to hunt, Clovermead, said the bear. How to ambush and how to leap. How to be strong and how to be feared. All the necessary skills. I can teach you how to satisfy your hunger. Little cub, you are terribly hungry.

  I’m starving, said Clovermead. The scent of the doe came stronger and fresher to her, and she growled with hunger and the delight of the chase. Clovermead could not imagine adventure or glory sweeter than the taste of deer flesh. She wanted to kill—

  A wave of nausea swept over her. I don’t want to be a killer, she told the bear, told herself. What would she do? Bite down on a living animal? Crush it between her teeth? It was disgusting, bestial, degrading, tempting, and sweet. Her stomach turned, but still Clovermead ran after the doe. She didn’t believe her hollow words. She wanted to kill. Let someone else feel pain, not her.

  It isn’t right to kill, she said, more weakly still. Father told me . . . Not to kill, not to hurt, not to steal, always to tell the truth. But Waxmelt was a liar. Was he a killer, too? She didn’t know. Cruel, vicious Snuff had called her father his old friend, and maybe he was. Nothing her father had ever told her to do or not to do meant anything anymore.

  Do you want to kill? the old bear asked.

  I do! Clovermead howled. I do! I do! Please, teach me! She was weeping. Tears drenched her muzzle.

  Then, chase, he urged, growling, laughing, smashing the mountainside beneath his paws. Chase and I will guide you.

  I will, said Clovermead, and she ran. She heard the doe’s footfalls, closer than ever. Clovermead could smell every inch of her—delicious, terrified, and tender. Clovermead roared, bared her teeth, and leapt up the ridge toward her waiting meal.

  Go left of that stump, the old bear urged. Extend your claws. Bite! Bite again. Prepare yourself to tear into your prey. Good, little cub. You learn well. His bloodstained breath was hot on her fur. We will hunt well together.

  Yes, teacher, said Clovermead happily. Yes, Master. The doe was just beyond the ridge and almost within sight
. Clovermead was puzzled and she frowned. Master, I don’t know your name. What should I call you?

  Turn and look, said the old bear. His words were a harsh command that Clovermead eagerly obeyed. Behold Me. The mountains echoed his howling pride.

  Clovermead whined submissively, let the doe race from her, and turned around.

  The he-bear was immense. His shoulders were tree high and his great head veiled half the stars in the sky. He was as broad across as Crescent Road. His fur was satin black matted with blood, his rusty teeth were foot-long sabers, and his claws were sickles tipped with gore. His paws rammed through the heaped snow to the dirty moss below. He was horror and magnificence, strong enough to rip out the bowels of the earth.

  I am Lord Ursus, he said.

  No, said Clovermead, horrified. Her paws were weak, and the bloodlust had gone from her in an instant. Her hunger was gone too. All that remained in her stomach was coiling, trembling fear that grew and grew within her until Clovermead squeaked and moaned with shameful terror. She turned from Lord Ursus and fled.

  She bolted down ravines and up crags and leapt over crevasses. Lord Ursus loped easily behind her. She swerved around a boulder and through a narrow gorge. She heard him spring over the obstacles, land on the ground behind her, and keep running. Clovermead smelled her own fear in the night air, and she heard Lord Ursus’ breath grow deeper and faster as her panic reached his nostrils. He roared the delight of the hunt, and she could not escape. His stride grew faster. He was coming closer. His teeth grazed her tail.

  Hunt with me or be hunted, he said. You have no other choices. He chuckled. I would rather you hunted with me, Clovermead. You have my spirit in you, little cub.

  You’re wrong, moaned Clovermead, but she was afraid he was right. I’ll never hunt with you! Never! Her heart belied her: I will hunt for you soon, it said. It lusted still for blood, hungered still for power. Give me your strength, Lord Ursus, her heart whispered. Give me your teeth and claws, and I will kill for you. Dear Master, let me hunt for you, said her faithless, hungering heart. Let me be your loyal servant. You will never deceive me, will you? Not like my weakling father? Tell me, isn’t killing certain and true?

  I will never lie to you, said Lord Ursus.

  Lady help me, Clovermead implored. Her legs collapsed under her and she tumbled to the ground. Ursus would kill her, or she would kill for him. She had no strength and she had no hope. Sweet Lady, save me from him!

  Lord Ursus was gone. The night haze thinned and the moon shone bright. It lent a silvery hue to Clovermead’s golden fur. She dared to look behind her and saw behemoth paw prints dug into the snow. Each print was four feet wide. Five claw marks nine inches long extended from the impress of each paw. Clovermead shivered. She was terribly cold. Her pelt had melted from her and she was a little girl in the snow.

  Thank you, Lady, she said. Lady, it isn’t true. I’m not like him.

  Liar, whispered Lord Ursus. We are alike, little cub. In the end you will hunt for me.

  Clovermead woke moaning in the darkness. The sheets of her bed were drenched with sweat. She clutched her bear tooth in her left hand. It was hot. Her right hand had clawed into her down quilt and torn feathers from its guts.

  “Liar,” Clovermead wept. “Liar,” she repeated, but she didn’t know whom she meant.

  Chapter Six

  The Chaffen Hills

  The sky was gray over the eastern Reliquaries when Waxmelt and Clovermead left Ladyrest. The trees on the slopes were dark silhouettes, the moon had set, and the stars were fading. Nubble, heavily loaded with their packs, nickered sleepily as Clovermead held him still. Clovermead shivered in the cold. Her hand patted the hilt of her wooden sword. It was safely cinched to her belt.

  Waxmelt said farewell to Goody Weft at the door. “Leave for your family at once,” he warned. “I think Snuff is a man of his word, but I don’t want you to risk trouble. Stay away from Ladyrest this winter, Goody.”

  “I’ll skewer the bear-boy if he comes sniffing around here,” Goody said. She blew on her hands and spat at the ground. “A plague on the Lady hater! I’m not scared of him.” She glanced unhappily at Clovermead. “I’d feel better if you left Clo with me. I can hide her well enough while you’re wandering, Mr. Wickward. Valefolk won’t tattle on her.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” said Waxmelt. “Snuff won’t scruple to hurt Clo to get at me. He’s persistent, too. You might hide her from him once, but he’d come back. We both have to disappear. There’s no other way.”

  Liar, thought Clovermead. I listen to you, Daddy, and I know you’re marbling truth and lies together. I can’t tell where the falsehoods begin, but I can hear them. Why don’t you want to leave me in Timothy Vale? Are you afraid to go alone? Is that it? Then, I’ll keep you company, no matter how dangerous the journey is. But if that’s the reason, I wish you’d just say so.

  “Goody,” said Waxmelt, “I’d be awfully glad if you asked Goodman Sawyer to look in on Ladyrest this winter. Come springtime, I think it would be safe for you to come back. You can run Ladyrest for me while I’m away and keep for yourself whatever silver you earn. Is that a fair bargain?”

  “More than fair.” Goody Weft’s discretion wrestled with her curiosity and lost. “Where will you go, Mr. Wickward?”

  “What you don’t know, you can’t tell,” said Waxmelt.

  “As you say, Mr. Wickward.” Goody turned to Clovermead, kissed her full on the lips, and roughly embraced her. Clovermead turned her head so that her tears couldn’t be seen. Wordless, she hugged the old cook.

  “Tcha, enough of that, girl.” Goody firmly thrust Clovermead away. “Enjoy your chance to gallivant. But you obey your father and don’t flibbertigibbet. Good-bye, Clovermead. Good-bye, Mr. Wickward. Lady bless you both and keep you safe.”

  “Her blessings on you, too,” said Waxmelt. Awkwardly he held out his hand. Goody snorted with amusement, crushed him close to her for a farewell hug, then retreated indoors. Clovermead heard her footsteps creak back to the kitchen.

  Clovermead turned from her home, let go of Nubble’s reins, and bounded to the Road. “C’mon, Daddy, let’s go,” she yelled. Waxmelt waved a last farewell to Ladyrest, followed his daughter, and whistled to Nubble. The pony trotted after them.

  Waxmelt caught hold of Nubble’s reins and turned south on the Road, leading the pony behind him. Clovermead walked quietly by his side. Soon they were past the first hill.

  “Can I speak?” Clovermead asked. Her voice was startlingly loud in the silent morning.

  “Softly,” said Waxmelt. “No need to let everyone in the Vale know we’re headed south. Snuff’s sworn not to hurt the Valefolk, but he could trick them into telling which way we’re going.”

  “I am speaking softly,” said Clovermead with great dignity, but she lowered her voice. “Father, why are we going south? Low Branding and Mr. Snuff lie in this direction.”

  Waxmelt puffed out a cloud of air. Eastward the sky was turning pink. “The Road to Snowchapel is snowed in. The paths through the Reliquaries are murderous in winter. I don’t like us following Snuff, but I think our best chance is to try to slip by him. It should take him eight days just to ride to Low Branding, and by then I hope we’ll be through the Chaffen Hills. The Crescent Road’s the only way through the Chaffens, but we can choose from a dozen roads once we get to Linstock. We’ll have to leave the Crescent Road sooner or later—it leads straight to Low Branding.”

  “Do you prefer any particular road, Father?”

  “I’d like to take the Tansy Pike, one way or the other. The Pike crosses the Crescent Road a day or two south of the Chaffens. The East Pike leads through High Branding to the Tansy Steppes. We’d have to stay in the northlands all winter long if we went that way, but we could ride south through the Steppes in the spring to Selcouth. The worst danger that way is Barleymill—the bear-priests menace the whole southern half of the Steppes from there. Or we could go south on the West Pike, along the western edge of
Linstock. If we went that way, we could reach Queensmart by spring and not worry about bear-priests. On the other hand, that road takes us past Chandlefort. I don’t know which way is better.” He fell into a ruminative silence.

  The Vale seemed abandoned in the early morning. As the shepherds ate breakfast in their kitchens the sheep baaed sleepily in their paddocks. A cow lowed at Clovermead and Waxmelt as they passed, but the rest of the world ignored their departure.

  Nubble whickered mournfully as they started to climb another hill. With each slow step he reminded the world that he was more heavily laden than was right and just. He stared with liquid eyes at Clovermead, accusing her of complicity in this injustice. She soothed her conscience by patting his back till he was in a good temper again.

  “Are you really a thief?” Clovermead said after a bit, when the sun had peeped over the Eastern Reliquaries. “Like that Snuff said?”

  “May Snuff and his jabbering mouth spend eternity far from Our Lady,” said Waxmelt. “I suppose I could lie to you again and tell you I’m not, but I’ve grown weary of lies. And I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you other-wise. I’m sorry, Clo. Yes, I am a thief.” Waxmelt’s affirmation shuddered harsh and flat in the air. Clovermead wanted to flail at Waxmelt with her nails.

  A pale smile flickered across Waxmelt’s face. “I think I’m a pretty good thief, Clo. Stars above, but I fooled them all a long time. I kept out of their way for twelve years. I’ll swear they never dreamed that Waxmelt Wickward could do that.”

  I never dreamed you could fool me all this time either, thought Clovermead, but she decided to talk about something else, anything else, instead.

  “Snuff said he was chasing after Sorrel,” she said loudly. “He also said Sorrel worked for Chandlefort. Since Low Branding is at war with Chandlefort, why don’t we look for refuge there? Why should we avoid the Cindertallows’ scarlet citadel?”