In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “You can’t resist me.” Mallow grinned at her and his flesh was shadowy on him. The skull beneath the skin stared through at her. “All you’ll do is hurt yourself if you try.” He looked at Clovermead, and now there was only compassion on the dead man’s face. He extended his hand toward Clovermead. “Don’t struggle. Let me end your pain.”

  Clovermead felt her heart beat slower as ice spread through her chest. For a moment it was welcome. I do hurt so much, she thought wearily. Besides, how can I save Milady in time? The moon’s less than half-full, and she doesn’t even have a week left. Maybe it would be easier to let this happen.

  Death, she thought as Mallow’s pale fingers approached. This is death. And suddenly it didn’t matter how much she hurt. I’d rather hurt than be dead, she told herself in fear and anger. Anything’s better than that! Her mind was slow and frozen, but she blurted out, “No! I don’t want to die.”

  “You don’t know your own mind,” said Mallow. She could feel the cold of the grave as his fingertips came close.

  “You can’t harm me,” said Clovermead. “You swore you wouldn’t.”

  “I swore not to harm your friends. I said nothing about you. Don’t be afraid, Clovermead. I’m doing you a kindness.”

  “So am I,” said Clovermead, and she drew her father’s sword from its scabbard. The birchwood medallions shone in the moonlight, and Clovermead swung in a blaze of heat. Her sword glowed in the night as she sliced through Mallow’s fingertips.

  Mallow screamed and stumbled back from Clovermead. “My hand!” he moaned, and the top halves of his left pinky and ring finger were gone. A dribble of blood came from the severed flesh.

  “Leave me alone,” said Clovermead. She stepped away from him.

  She heard a rasp of metal as Mallow drew his sword. Dusty tears ran down his cheeks, he howled again, and his sword smashed at Clovermead. She jumped back, then tried to parry his next blow, but it struck so hard against her father’s sword that she went tumbling on her back. Mallow raised his sword to finish her off—and Clovermead shot up a great paw to catch his hand and keep his blade suspended in midair.

  I need to fight berserker, thought Clovermead. She had kept herself human when she fought with Sorrel on the Training Ground, but she didn’t need to bother with that now. She growled and rose to her feet, and now she was as tall as Mallow and far thicker. She held her father’s sword with claws that could barely grip the handle, and she shoved Mallow away from her. He flew from her like a rag doll, and Clovermead threw herself at him with a howl.

  She was far clumsier this time than she had been when she fought Sorrel. All her training was as a girl, and her bear body was the wrong size, the wrong shape. She could barely keep from completing the transformation and just attacking him with her claws and jaws. Instead she used her father’s sword like a battering ram. They fought shambling from the courtyard into the kitchen, then through the house and out to the lawn beyond. Clovermead roared with rage as great as Mallow’s, and the dead man and the bear had scarcely a human thought between them.

  Clovermead smashed her sword at Mallow and it went six inches into the earth. She howled as Mallow danced away from her. His rage had subsided at last, and now he grimaced at her with a ghastly light in his eyes. “Do you want to play at being a bear?” he gasped. “Lord Ursus has given me power over them.” Clovermead felt something slithering in her mind, a hand out of the grave began to pull at her like a puppet, and against her will she felt her paw loosen on her sword hilt. She screamed in horror and turned herself back to human—but as she turned she lashed out one last time with her sword. She crunched through Mallow’s palm and half his wounded hand fell to the ground. Three fingers of his severed hand still scrabbled at the air, and his severed stump dripped thin blood. Mallow screamed louder than before, and the coils that had settled around Clovermead’s mind jerked away.

  “Not again, Ursus,” he cried out wildly. He backed away from Clovermead and raised his sword to defend himself. “Don’t let another Beechsplitter defeat me.”

  Have faith in me, Mallow, she heard Ursus roar in the distance. The words were a hot and foul wind from the south. Use my strength wisely. His growl made the trees shake.

  “You’ve already failed,” said Clovermead, in taunting triumph. “Sorrel and Saraband have the flask, and Sorrel’s the fastest rider I’ve ever seen, and they’ll cure Milady. You won’t get your revenge.”

  “You’re right, Demoiselle,” Mallow said wonderingly. “Your friends will rob me of my vengeance. I should concentrate on that. What do a few fingers matter?” He whistled shrilly and Clovermead heard neighing. Mallow’s dark horse galloped up to him, and Clovermead saw that he was like the dead bears, made only of shadows and bones. Where the flesh should have been was churning darkness that moved over his pale and glowing skeleton. His harness glowed silver in the moonlight, his eyes were dark hollows, and his tail was switching blackness. He neighed like clacking tombstones.

  Mallow jumped lightly onto his steed’s back and he was confident once more. “I must return to Chandlefort quickly, and I must keep you and that sword away from me.” Clovermead saw white coils flash through the night, and she heard Mallow’s bony rasp loud in her mind. Kill the changeling! he cried out. Chase her, bite her, crush her, eat her, tear her limb from limb. I command you, in Lord Ursus’ name! Lord Ursus roared with glee, and a hundred bears roared with him as they started padding toward her.

  “Run for your life, Demoiselle,” said Mallow. “You will find me in Chandlefort with your mother, if you survive. And perhaps then I will have the last bit of your heart from you, and we will spend many pleasant hours in the grave together.” He wheeled his horse and galloped down the valley after Saraband and Sorrel.

  The bears roared again and Clovermead turned pale. Time to get out of here, she thought, and she turned into a golden bear and started to run. She could see the first bears come into sight at the other end of the lawn, and she fled for dear life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hide and Seek

  Clovermead charged into the forest, angling away from the road back to Silverfalls. Sorrel and Saraband will be riding that way, she thought. They don’t need a lot of bears chasing them. Branches clung to her and slowed her down as she ran through pathless hills pursued by a straggling arc of bears. She heard steady roaring from one or another of the bears following her. Sometimes they lagged behind, sometimes they gained on her, but they never fell out of hearing.

  Clovermead struggled through streams and over rock faces, between thickets and trailing vines, and after a while she came to a dirt trail that was scarcely a path at all, but marked with blazes on trees every now and then. Clovermead could smell human scents on it—A smuggler’s trail, I suppose, she thought. This’ll be easier. She accelerated, and finally the bears fell out of earshot. She felt her fear ease a little.

  She knew she must be colder than ever, but she couldn’t feel the chill anymore. She knew that her paws struck the ground and that her whole upper body was still sore from pulling up the bucket of water, but she felt no aches. Her tongue lolled out and she wanted to drink, but she felt no thirst, either. Her heart was slow, her blood was dust, and inch by inch her body was growing numb.

  Toward dawn Clovermead couldn’t keep her eyes open. I have to sleep, she told herself as she lay down underneath an overhanging boulder. I haven’t heard any roaring for hours, so I think I’ll be safe. It’s sleep now or collapse later. The moon had set long since, and even the stars were dim. She shut her eyes—

  Mallow charged toward the heart of the Army of Low Branding. No! he heard Athanor cry behind him, but he didn’t care anymore. Better to die this way, he told himself. Better this than a lifetime watching them. He lowered his spear—

  “No!” cried Clovermead, and she woke gasping. “Lady, I don’t want to dream of Mallow. Let me sleep in peace.” She wiped dusty tears from her cheeks. “I beg you, Lady, with all my heart.” She fell back against the tw
igs and closed her eyes. She felt real sleep descend on her, sweet and refreshing, and she smiled with exhausted gratitude. “Thank you, Lady,” she said, and she slipped into unconsciousness—

  She dreamed that she and Waxmelt stood on the walls of Chandlefort and watched a regiment of servants in armor fight a horde of bears. “They don’t have the hang of it yet,” said Waxmelt, rather woebegone. “Look, they’re supposed to put up their shields to defend themselves, but they keep using them as trays. See? They’ve loaded them up with small sandwiches and—Dear Lady, they’re feeding them to the bears! I told them this morning, ‘Fight the bears, don’t feed the bears,’ but they don’t listen to me. Oh, dear, they’ve used the salmon sandwiches. Those were meant to be saved for the next ball.”

  “It seems to be working,” said Clovermead. “The bears have stopped attacking and, goodness gracious, Father, they’ve started dancing! They’re not orthodox tactics, and I don’t suppose Sir Tourmaline would approve, but it does seem to work. You should be proud of them.”

  “I commend you, Lord Wickward,” said Lady Cindertallow, who had just come down from the clouds, mounted on an enormous buzzing bee. “You will be rewarded. I dub thee Prince of Pastries; your escutcheon will be a cream-puff rampant. Clovermead, don’t forget that we’re supposed to go hunting spotted orchids after lunch. You have to watch out for orchids, they’ll rip your heart out if you’re not careful.” She waved farewell to Clovermead with her bleeding hand and flew, bee-back, off to her tower.

  Clovermead shivered suddenly. The bears were dancing to the sound of a distant piper, whose music was beautiful and cold. “Spotted orchids?” she asked Waxmelt. “What are those?”

  “In Timothy Vale we call them dead men’s fingers,” said her father sadly. “Clo, I wish you wouldn’t go hunting. If I’ve told Milady once, I’ve told her a thousand times, you’re too young yet to be murdered. Stay home with me in Ladyrest where it’s safe.”

  “I wish I could, Father,” said Clovermead. She seized him in her arms and hugged him, but he wore cold armor that kept her away. The bears roared to the piper’s tune, the cold pipe-music blew a hail of dust at her, Ursus laughed—

  And Clovermead woke to the sound of distant roars. The bears were catching up to her again. She started to her feet; the sun was barely above the horizon. I liked the sleep, Lady, she thought, but the dream at the end wasn’t so nice. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t feel much hunger. She started running again.

  The trees thinned after a while, but the ground grew more precipitous. Clovermead stopped at a rushing stream for a drink of water, then ran faster over the rocky slopes. Here the soil was chalky, and dry gulches alternated with pure white cliffs that heaved out of the earth. When Clovermead went into a gulch, the earth seemed quiet; when she rose to the top of a ridge, she could hear bears roaring behind her.

  At noon she came to the top of a granite scarp and saw the Salt Heath just beyond a last few miles of broken ground. She could see herds of cattle and horses wandering the grassy outskirts of the Heath, and beyond them the bare rock and sand of the Heath’s heart. She could run flat out once she reached the Heath—but so can they, she thought. She bounded down the slope a little faster and wondered how far Sorrel and Saraband had gotten by now. Next time, she told herself, I will arrange matters so Saraband flees through the forest and I get to ride on Brown Barley with my arms around Sorrel. Share and share alike is fair: She’s had the fun parts of adventuring long enough, and now it’s my turn.

  All through the long afternoon Clovermead made her way down the slope of the hills toward the Heath. Here the trees gave way entirely, on a slope so steep and rocky that not even grass could grow on it. She skidded down among boulders and thanked Our Lady for her thick fur, which protected her skin from abrasions. It would have been safer to turn human and use her fingers to clamber down, but that would have slowed her down too much. The roaring grew ever closer.

  At dusk she came to the bottom of the hills at last, and the plain stretched out before her. She ran as quickly as she could across it, and for the first time all day the roaring dwindled. After a few hours it struck Clovermead that she had heard nothing for a while. Maybe they’re asleep at last, she thought hopefully. She was terribly tired. She came to a stream, turned, and splashed upstream for a few hundred yards before turning into a muddy bank obscured by reeds. Even if they do come after me, that should obscure my scent long enough for me to get away. Then she prayed again: Give me better dreams tonight, Lady. She fell asleep—

  Mallow watched as Ambrosius carved figures into a birchwood plaque. They had just fought together in the Training Grounds for a solid hour, and Ambrosius had beaten Mallow six touches to four. It had been a good bout, and Mallow didn’t much mind that he had been beaten by a commoner. Now they sat together on a bench at the edge of the sands while figures emerged at the touch of Ambrosius’ knife. “What is that, Master Beechsplitter?” Mallow asked.

  “A reminder to myself,” said Ambrosius. He dug his knife deeper into the wood and etched out the features of a captured bear. “I once freed a bear’s leg from a trap when I was a boy. I don’t precisely know why—she was a monstrous creature, and I should have been terrified. But somehow I wasn’t. All I saw was that she was hurt, and I had to help her. I felt happier going home that day than I ever had in my life.” He shook his head and laughed. “My father whipped me for ten solid minutes when I told him what had happened, and he told me never to do anything so foolish again.”

  Mallow laughed. “Sage advice. Did you follow it?”

  “Until the day I insisted on becoming a Yellowjacket.”

  “That’s an understandable folly,” said Mallow, and for a moment the two of them looked at each other almost as friends. Then Mallow remembered how Melisande had looked at Ambrosius, and he dropped his eyes. “So this plaque is vanity? You have a swelled head, Lakelander.”

  “Undoubtedly, My Lord,” said Ambrosius merrily. “I try to put cold cloths on my forehead, but it will bubble up with pride.” Mallow had to laugh, and Ambrosius laughed with him. Ambrosius put the first plaque onto the bench and pulled a second one from his pocket. He showed it to Mallow: It was a rough carving of a young man who offered up his sword to Our Lady. “Seriously, My Lord? I joined the Yellowjackets because I loved the idea of fighting, and I have enjoyed myself splendidly as a cadet and trooper these last few years. But we have not fought in any actual battles yet. I used to think I would welcome a real fight, but now—” He shook his head. “I see Milady and the Mayor drift closer to war, and I find my joy diminishes as the prospect of battle comes closer. I find myself thinking back to how happy I was when I freed that bear. I felt like I was doing something in Our Lady’s service. I like to think that when I do fight, it’ll be in her service too. I’m carving these medallions to remind myself to consecrate my sword to Our Lady.”

  “You wear Melisande’s livery, not Our Lady’s,” said Mallow. “You must fight when she orders you, whether or not the cause is good. If you cannot do that, perhaps you should take off your yellow coat and become a nuns’ man.”

  “Perhaps I should, My Lord, but somehow I don’t wish to leave Milady’s service.” Ambrosius smiled, Mallow scowled, and Ambrosius flaked away another piece of birchwood. “Call these medallions a prayer in wood. I carve them and pray that Milady will never ask me to draw my sword in a cause which is not Our Lady’s—”

  Bears roared, terribly loud. Clovermead started awake with the moon high above her, and twitched her ears. The bears were no more than a mile away and coming closer terribly fast. She was still muzzy-brained, and she stumbled in loose soil before she hit her stride. Time to run again, she thought as she dashed out onto the plain, but she wasn’t quite sure who she was as she ran. She seemed to be riding on a horse of bones somewhere else on the plain, and she felt her blood course through Mallow’s veins. It took her a minute to be sure she was Clovermead and not Mallow.

  Now she could see the bears behind
her. Fifty of them had spread out upon the plain. She couldn’t run any faster, and the bears were gaining on her. A little help wouldn’t hurt, Lady, thought Clovermead. The bears roared, and each growl was a message that she had no hope of escape.

  Finally Clovermead could run no farther. She stopped upon the plain, heaving with exhaustion, and turned to face her pursuers. They bounded toward her, howling, and she could see Mallow’s white coils bright against the darkness. They were a cage of bones in the sky.

  I’d rather die as a human, thought Clovermead. She changed shape and drew her sword from her belt. She could kill at least one bear before she died. The moonlight struck against the birchwood plaque of the boy freeing the bear.

  “Shine, sword,” said Clovermead. “Keep the bears away from me.” The sword remained obstinately dark. “Isn’t there anything you can do, Lady?” asked Clovermead despairingly.

  It was a white cage in the sky.

  “Lady’s kirtle,” whispered Clovermead. “I’m not the one who has to get free. They are.” She lifted her father’s sword to the moonlight and she cried, “Free them, Lady. Not me, but them. In your service, Lady.”

  The moon was brighter than Clovermead had ever seen it, and the worn birchwood glowed like silver fire. The bears were very near to her, but they had stopped, blinking in the glare of the light. Clovermead could no longer look at what she held in her hand. The light pressed against her eyes, into her mind, and rooted through every corner of her. How shall I free them? it seemed to ask. What shall I do?

  Clovermead lifted up her sword and pointed it at the white coils. “Shatter those chains, Lady,” she cried. “Free these bears from Mallow Kite. Let them go!”

  I’ll need your help, the light asked. Will you give it to me?

  “So long as I have something to give, Lady,” said Clovermead. Then she gave her heart up to the light, without bargaining and without dismay, and she swung her sword wildly at the white cage of bones in the night sky.