In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  What was left of her heart pushed out of her, and the sword flared white. Lightning blazed out along the arc in which her sword swung and pierced the white net, shattered it, and swept beyond the horizon. Clovermead heard a distant howl of rage, and the bears around her roared in sudden delight. Light came to rest on each of the bears nearby, glowed in their fur for a moment, then settled in them. For a moment Clovermead felt all their hearts beat in hers, and her chest wasn’t empty at all, but fuller than it ever had been. Then the bears’ hearts were only memories in her chest, but her own heart came back to her, as thin and dusty as before, but no weaker.

  I’m free, she heard a bear roar. So am I, shouted another, and then a joyful roar rang from one to another all across the Heath as the bears abandoned their pursuit of Clovermead and turned to run, to leap, to do whatever they felt like.

  Clovermead slumped onto the Heath with her sword by her side. The light faded slowly from it. She had exhausted herself. It would have been easier if I’d had all my heart to give, she thought—but there was no point worrying about might-have-beens. She sat and watched the bears enjoy their freedom, and a little joy warmed her cold weariness.

  After a few minutes the bears stopped playing. One by one they came forward to sit around her. Thank you, changeling, they said, one after another. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  Brookwade stepped out in front of the others and shuffled toward her. How did you free us? he asked in wonder. I thought there was no way to break our chains.

  There’s something special about this sword, said Clovermead. She touched the hilt of her father’s sword and tried to make lightning blaze again, but the metal stayed dull. I don’t know how it broke Mallow’s bonds.

  Will Lord Ursus come after us again? asked another bear. Will the dead man?

  I don’t know that either, said Clovermead.

  You look so tired, said Brookwade. You should rest.

  I will, a little, said Clovermead. But I can’t for long. I have to try to save my mother. My friends have a cure to heal her, but there’s an army between them and Milady. I have to find my friends and figure out how to get them past the bear-priests and into Chandlefort. She laughed despairingly. There’s no hope, but I have to try.

  Bear-priests? asked Brookwade. He growled angrily. I would be glad to take a bite out of some of Ursus’ jackals. He grumbled thoughtfully for a moment. Do you think this sword of yours has freed our minds forever? Or just for a while?

  I wish I knew, said Clovermead. If Ursus or Mallow try to enslave you, I’ll ask the sword to free you again. I don’t know if it will, but I’ll try my hardest. I give you my word for that, Brookwade, in Our Lady’s name.

  That’s good enough for me, Haybrawler, said Brookwade with a grin. He turned to the other bears. Let us fight him, he roared. We owe the changeling for her service to us. Besides, I want Lord Ursus to know just how much I dislike being enslaved. I want his servants to feel it as my jaws bite down on them. He growled low and terrible.

  This moonlight can’t stand up to him, said a stout bear. We can’t resist him. Leave us alone, Brookwade. At least we can enjoy ourselves until he comes for us again.

  We can defeat him if we fight together, said Brookwade.

  The stout bear laughed with scorn. No one can resist Lord Ursus.

  We can try, said Clovermead. She clutched at her father’s sword, and she felt hopeful again. Anyway, what have you got to lose?

  My life, said the stout bear. My freedom. We’ll only attract Lord Ursus’ notice if we fight him, and then his net will come down on us again. He may overlook us if we hide. No. Now that I have my freedom, I won’t throw it away. I won’t be a fool. She turned from Clovermead and Brookwade and trotted toward the Reliquaries.

  I will, said Brookwade. He roared with glee. I’m tired of running away, and he’ll come for us all in the end. I’d rather die fighting than be a slave again. I’ll take the risk. He took a step forward. And I do want to bite a bear-priest, he said hopefully, hungrily. A rumble of laughter spread among the bears.

  Some bears drifted toward Clovermead and Brookwade, others toward the distant mountains. They were slow to decide. At last, twenty bears sat in front of Clovermead.

  Clovermead looked at the remnant around her and sighed. There aren’t nearly enough of you to do much damage to the bear-priests. Maybe you should go off to the Reliquaries with the others.

  Brookwade rumbled consideringly. There are other bears who have hidden far from sight and stayed free of Ursus and Mallow. I might be able to persuade them to come to Chandlefort.

  Clovermead looked up at the waning moon. Lady Cindertallow’s life was waning with it. My friends and I need to be in Chandlefort as soon as possible. We only have a few days.

  That isn’t much time to search out my friends, said Brookwade. Then he looked at the other bears around him and he grinned. But then, it won’t be just me looking for them. He turned to the bears and roared loudly. Do you know where the free bears of Linstock hunt?

  In the snow-bound heights of the Reliquaries, growled a cinnamon bear.

  In the muddy pools of the Harrow Moors, said a black bear with one ear.

  In the wastes of the Salt Heath, sighed a grandame the color of ashes. In the hungry corners of the land, where Ursus does not think a bear can live and does not look for us. I should have joined them when I had the chance.

  Go search for them, said Brookwade. Tell them a few of us are going to rise up against Ursus and bite a few of his bear-priests. We may be slaves to him the next day, but we’ll have let him know the edge of our teeth first. Ask them to join us in the fun.

  Where? asked the cinnamon bear. When?

  Clovermead looked up at the narrow moon again and calculated what was the most time she could spare. Her mother would be dead in days. Can you meet me four days from now at the teardrop pillars west of Chandlefort?

  We’ll do what we can, changeling, said the grandame. She went over to Clovermead, rubbed her nose in a friendly manner, and growled at her comfortingly. Then she went bounding away onto the plain. The cinnamon bear left a few seconds later, then the one-eared black bear. Soon all the bears were padding off in different directions.

  I’ll see if I can find my sister, said Brookwade. Two years ago she was hiding among the salt pans in the South Heath. He smiled at Clovermead. There are more of us than you might think. Then he, too, slipped away.

  Clovermead let go her sword and it fell to the grass. “You’re just full of surprises,” she said to it. “I should give you a name. All great warriors have swords with names.” She smiled as she remembered what Sorrel had said when he saw the sword light up. “I think I’ll call you Firefly. You aren’t a talking sword, are you? I think I’d find that unnerving. I can handle bears chatting, but cutlery should stay silent.”

  Firefly lay quietly on the grass, much as swords do.

  “That’s a relief,” said Clovermead. She yawned. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life! I’m sure somebody else will be chasing me tomorrow, so I’m going to get a proper night’s rest while I have the chance.”

  She sprawled onto the grass, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Battle in the Heath

  Clovermead woke the next morning terribly cold. Sweat glistened on her forehead, but she felt no heat at all. The sun shone pale and the colors of the plains had faded to dull sepia. When she turned into bear form, the scents and sounds of the Heath were also distant. There was a shroud between her and the world.

  Dead to the world, she thought, and she laughed hollowly. There was ice all through her, but it was hard to care. I have to get to the pillars, she told herself, and she lumbered into motion. Her self was distant from her flesh, and the way she moved her body was like pulling the strings of a marionette.

  Clovermead ran southward, searching for the road from Silverfalls to Chandlefort. She passed alarmed farmers and cowherds, and sometimes arrows whipped overhea
d as she raced past herds of cattle. She stopped to gulp down some grasses at noon, and she gobbled them all the way down to the roots. They were rough on her stomach, but at least they filled it up. Clovermead smelled fish in the streams of the Heath as she forded them, but she was no longer captivated by their smell. Just so I have food in my belly, she thought, I don’t care what it is.

  Toward afternoon she reached the Chandlefort road. She sniffed at the flagstones, and she could smell Sorrel and Saraband. Their scent was two days old. She sniffed again, and she could smell Mallow’s faint, stomach-turning scent. He had ridden through a little while after Sorrel and Saraband. Their scents intertwined with each other, and Clovermead followed them eastward along the road.

  She spent the night by a stagnant stream where poplars grew over tall reeds. The air was muggy and mosquitoes rose in the darkness to nip at her. She scarcely felt their bites. She dreamed—

  An arrow pierced Ambrosius’ side, and the force knocked him from his horse. His chest ached and he saw an arrow sticking out of it. It ran through him. “I’ve been killed,” he said in amazement. Blood trickled from his mouth and he felt the world going gray. “Tell Melisande I love her,” he said, and he clutched at his sword. “Oh, Lady, I’ve never paid you for your gifts. Lady, I hurt.” And then grayness swallowed him up—

  Clovermead woke in the middle of the night shivering and weeping. She had turned human, and Firefly shone at her waist. She took it out and touched the birchwood plaques, and she could feel warmth in them through the coldness settling in on her. “Help me,” she whispered, and she clutched the medallions to her cheek. She closed her eyes—but now she could not sleep. She tossed and turned in the darkness all night, helplessly wakeful, and at dawn she rose with a groan. I’m going to be exhausted, she thought, but then she realized that while she wasn’t well rested, she wasn’t sleepy, either. Dreamless, sleepless, she turned into a bear and ran eastward into the Heath.

  At first the day was miserably steamy; then a storm boiled out of the Reliquaries, drenched her for five minutes, and blew quickly to the east. The sun came out and joined forces with a brisk wind to dry her off. The grass of the Heath grew thinner as the day wore on, and the soil thickened into a swirl of black and gray clays scattered over yellow sandstone. Clovermead gulped down a lunch of grass from the last patch before the Heath turned into bare and baking dirt. By dusk she had been running through flat clay for hours with only the odd clump of weeds to break the monotony. To the north more thin grasslands were barely visible, while broken hills covered the terrain to the south. Her paws pounded on the road’s hard stones, and small puffs of dust rose around her.

  She huddled by the plaques that night and closed her eyes, but still she could not sleep. When her eyes were closed, she rode through the night on a horse of bones, and the wind whistled through her empty rib cage. The world was dry, the world was frozen, but she was not dreaming. When she opened her eyes, she felt Mallow looking through them. We’ll be together soon, he whispered. Just a little longer, Clovermead. She looked up at the horn moon, eaten away by night and time, and Mallow smiled. Three days left? Four days? Then Melisande dies.

  “Let me sleep once more, Lady,” Clovermead begged. “I don’t care what I dream—just so I sleep. Please.” She closed her eyes and she did dream—

  She was a golden cub walking with a huge white bear through a mountain forest. It was late afternoon on an autumn day, red and yellow leaves fell from the trees with every gust of wind, and the pale moon shone in the clear blue sky. The white bear cried as she walked, and with every step a tear struck the ground. For a moment her tears turned the leaves they touched to rubies and yellow diamonds that glinted in the sunlight. Then the jewels turned back into fading, tearstained leaves.

  Why do you care about them? asked Clovermead, cold and discontented. She kicked at a leaf with a numb paw and tore it with her claws. Dead is dead.

  It’s my nature to cry when they fall, said the white bear. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  They’re only leaves, said Clovermead. They don’t deserve your tears.

  They have them anyway, said the white bear, and she roared with sorrow. Her roar was a great wind that shuddered through the forest and howled along the leaf-strewn floor. The leaves rose in the gale and swept around Clovermead’s head. They glinted in the sunlight, jewels once more, then blew out of sight.

  The forest had been swept clean of leaves, save for one tree that stood right in front of them. It was spindly, bent, and cankered. Some shriveled, worm-eaten leaves clung to the branches with fierce determination; others had stuck to the soil beneath the tree and bent away from the white bear’s breath. The tree’s bark was rotting.

  I’ve never seen anything so ugly, Clovermead marveled. She felt a wave of revulsion sweep over her. I’ve never seen anything so hateful.

  Nor I, said the white bear. She walked forward to the cankered tree, and her tears were a flowing stream. They washed toward the fallen leaves, but the leaves dug into the earth to avoid them. She brushed her head against the branches, but the branches shivered away from her fur. The white bear turned to Clovermead. I hurt so, Clovermead, she said. Her tears soaked the earth, but the tree was dry still. Help me.

  I will be revenged, the tree said in Mallow’s voice. Its sap oozed with venom.

  No, said Clovermead. She turned away from the tree. Let it suffer for what it’s done. It can’t be forgiven. But she could not walk. She was rooted to the ground, her arms had turned to branches, and venom ran through her rotting wood. I’m trapped! she cried in panic. Help me! But the white bear had disappeared, and there was only Clovermead and Mallow in the rotting tree, alone in the leafless woods.

  We are trapped together, said Mallow. Let us make the best of matters. Shall we dance? Far away the piper began to play. The dead limbs of the tree writhed to her icy tune.

  Dead is dead, sighed Clovermead, and she joined Mallow in the dance—

  Clovermead woke and her muscles had stopped hurting. She was not thirsty and she was not hungry. The world was shadows upon shadows, and the sun shone gray. “Dead is dead,” said Clovermead out loud, and she turned into a bear. The world was just as dark and she began to run on nerveless legs. She snuffled for Sorrel and Saraband’s scent. It was faint, but she could tell she was catching up to them.

  At midday she came to a valley filled with red sand, rolling hills, spires, and in the far distance a smudge of pale green where the fields of Chandlefort began. The valley was a mile long, with broken hills rising to either side, and she could see Sorrel and Saraband riding ahead of her at last.

  And then she saw them stop, turn around, and begin to flee toward her, pursued by three distant dots. It must be bear-priests chasing them, thought Clovermead. Mallow said they wouldn’t be safe once they got within sight of the fields of Chandlefort. I need to run faster. Saraband’s no good at fighting, Sorrel can’t hold off three of them, and I need to help him.

  But then she thought, with ice in her heart, Go slowly, Clovermead. You can take the flask from their dead bodies and then you can save Mother anyway. If I can’t have Sorrel, let them die. Her pace slackened, and the bear-priests came closer to the fleeing pair. Dead is dead. Mallow is waiting for me. In her mind’s eye she could see the bear-priests strike them down, and she didn’t have to feel a thing as dust blanketed her heart. It was the dust’s fault she wasn’t running, not hers. She let the kindly dust fill her. It was so sweet to have an excuse to do nothing.

  You almost got Milady killed and you almost got Saraband killed, a part of her that was still alive whispered through the muffling dust. You’re not in your right mind, and you’ll get Sorrel killed. Don’t let that happen. She thought of Sorrel who laughed with her and teased her, who had risked his life for her, whom she liked so much that his absence was an agony, and cold tears trickled onto her fur. I don’t care about Saraband, and I’ll be miserable seeing you with her, but I can’t let you die, Sorrel. I can’t. She sho
ok the cloud of dust from her thoughts. Still weeping, still miserable, she sped up again, so Sorrel could live happily ever after with Saraband.

  Sorrel’s face lit up with desperate relief as he saw Clovermead approach, and he kicked Brown Barley to go a little faster. Brown Barley grew large, the bear-priests were only a hundred feet behind him, and then Clovermead had reached her friends. Sorrel wheeled to face the bear-priests while Saraband clung to his waist and held the flask tight in her hands. Sorrel drew his sword, and then the three bear-priests were upon them, scimitars slashing.

  Clovermead’s opponent was a giant almost seven feet tall, with a scimitar nearly his height. He grinned at Clovermead with sharpened teeth, he swung his blade, and Clovermead crouched under its sweep and slashed the back of his hand with her claws. He cursed as they slewed around to fight again, and he lashed out and creased Clovermead’s fur from her shoulder to her tail. The bear-priest growled his pleasure at Clovermead’s yelp of pain, and hewed at her neck. Clovermead ducked underneath his blade, she was all cold dust and there was no mercy in her heart, and she slashed at the bear-priest’s guts as hard as she could. She crunched through his chain-mail shirt and into his flesh, and her claws ripped open his stomach. The bear-priest looked at Clovermead in shock. The bloodlust slipped from his face, he was suddenly scared, and then he was dead and falling forward onto his horse’s neck. In death he seemed to embrace his steed tenderly. She looked up with a snarl to fight the next bear-priest, but Sorrel had slain both the others. They lay on the ground, his sword was red to the hilt, and blood had spattered him from forehead to waist.

  Saraband looked at him with horror. She had ridden behind Sorrel the entire time. There were drops of blood on her sleeves too, her arms still held him around the waist, and there was no affection in her embrace now. “You killed them,” she said dumbly. “You slaughtered them.” Her teeth chattered in horror.