In the Shadow of the Bear
Page 52
It was Lucifer Snuff—bear-priest, one-time aide to the Mayor of Low Branding, the savage, silk-tongued man who had convinced Waxmelt Wickward fifteen years ago to steal the baby Clovermead away from Chandlefort. Clovermead hadn’t seen him since he fled from Chandlefort three and a half years ago with the remnants of Ursus’ army of bears and bear-priests, but his bald head, brown goatee, and filed bronzed teeth were instantly recognizable. He crouched low on Boulderbash, and his face was alive with the pleasure of the hunt. He wore polished leather with his wolf-skins, his black cape flared behind him in the breeze, and his scimitar’s hilt glittered with rubies. He knifed Boulderbash in the side with his spurs and sent her leaping ahead of the other bears after Roan.
Why do you let him ride you? Clovermead thought frantically at Boulderbash. Rise up! Throw him to the ground and tear him apart!
I can hear you, girlie, thought Lucifer Snuff, and his bubbling laughter splashed through her mind. She would if she could, but she can’t. Lord Ursus has given me the whip hand over her. He lashed Boulderbash’s shoulder, for the sheer pleasure of the blow. How delightful to see you again, Demoiselle. Now you can watch your friend die. Boulderbash leaped toward Sorrel.
Sorrel had reached his mother. Their hands touched for an instant, and then Sorrel leaped between Roan and Snuff. Snuff brought down his sword with vicious fury, and Sorrel parried desperately. He half-slipped in the mud, and Snuff lashed out again. Sorrel fell backward into the pool. Fetterlock and the Yellowjackets were halfway around the mud banks of the pool, but now the other bear-priests on their bears had turned from the chase and were blocking their way. Habick and Bergander tried to charge them, shouting “Chandlefort! Chandlefort!” but their steeds’ hooves sank into the mud and they could not advance. Only the bears’ broad paws were able to keep a footing in the muck. Clovermead drew Firefly, swung it toward the blood-net, and a dagger of light flew from Clovermead, out through Firefly’s tip, to shatter against the crimson bonds. The blood-net shivered but stood still.
My master has made preparations, brat, Snuff cried. You won’t undo his knots that easily this time.
We’ll see about that, thought Clovermead. She looked at the blood-net again. It wasn’t really a single set of tendrils, the way it had been the last time, but a hundred smaller tendrils intertwined within each shackle. The bonds were flexible and resilient, but if Clovermead concentrated, she could make out the weak points in each bond. She swung Firefly again, focusing fiercely, light jabbed out of her—and the bond around Boulderbash’s jaws snapped loose. She roared with delirious joy at her newfound freedom and bit at Snuff’s hand. He jerked it hastily away.
The rest now, Boulderbash begged. Hurry!
Clovermead wanted to, but then Snuff kicked Boulderbash hard in the side and sent her running into the pond toward Sorrel, jaws still snapping at her rider. Sorrel was standing in front of his mother with his sword drawn, but he looked helplessly small against Boulderbash’s huge bulk. Sergeant Algere, Corporal Naquaire, and Golion sparred with two bear-priests, cursing as their horses shied from the snarling bears. Fetterlock tried to turn from the mud bank to help Sorrel, but a black bear snapped at his arm, and he whirled back to slash at its snapping jaws with his sword. “Sorrel,” Clovermead moaned, as she staggered into the pond to save him from Snuff. She couldn’t focus on more than one thing at once, and she abandoned the white bear.
I’m sorry, Boulderbash, Clovermead whispered. As she ran to the Tansyard, the blood-net’s tendrils greedily reattached themselves to Boulderbash’s jaw. There’s no one else who can help him in time. Snuff hammered down against Sorrel’s blade, the Tansyard’s sword spun into the water, and Sorrel went sprawling. Then Snuff was closing in on Sorrel’s mother, she screamed with desperation, and she tossed the child Mullein through the air toward Clovermead. Clovermead dropped her sword into the pond’s muddy water as the girl hurtled toward her, and she caught her in her arms as Snuff scooped up Roan.
“No one escapes from Barleymill,” Snuff cried out in triumph. “Back to the mines with you, slavey. You’ll suffer for this escapade, and then you’ll die slowly, where the other slaves can see what happens to runaways.” He looked at Clovermead and he grinned. “Someday we’ll bring back the little girl, too. Soon all the world will belong to Lord Ursus. You have no hope.” He roared, and Ursus’ growl echoed thunderously in his voice. The other bear-priests turned from Fetterlock and the scrambling Yellowjackets, and set their bears hurtling through the mud. Snuff cuffed Roan unconscious, laid her body on Boulderbash’s back, and raced off after the other bear-priests. In seconds he was gone.
I am still a prisoner, Boulderbash thought as she disappeared from view. You said you would free me, but you abandoned me. Terrible disappointment tinged her voice.
I’m sorry, said Clovermead. He looked like he was about to kill Sorrel. I couldn’t just stand there.
You chose the human over me, snarled Boulderbash.
Next time I’ll free you, said Clovermead. I promise!
You promised before, said Boulderbash, and then her thoughts faded away.
“We must make sure they do not double back to attack us again,” said Fetterlock. “Shall we follow them a little while?” Sergeant Algere nodded agreement, and the Tansyard and the Yellowjackets cantered after the bear-priests into the Moors. Sorrel scooped up his sword from the pond, struggled toward Clovermead, and rapped out quick, fierce questions to his sister in Tansyard. Mullein still clung tightly to Clovermead. She was a girl of eight, dressed in rags, and terribly thin. She answered in frightened monosyllables, and then Sorrel spoke a quick last sentence to her and turned to Clovermead. “I must go,” he said. He whistled loudly.
“Go where?” asked Clovermead. Sorrel was splashing toward the dry grass.
“To rescue my mother,” said Sorrel. “You heard him. Snuff will take her back to Barleymill and he will kill her.” He whistled again, and now pounding hoofs came closer. Brown Barley came running from the meadow. Sorrel looked at Clovermead with suddenly pleading eyes. “Come with me, Clovermead. I will need your help.”
Yes! was on the tip of Clovermead’s tongue. Of course. All you have to do is ask. She opened her mouth.
We can’t afford any impulsiveness on this mission, her mother had said.
You can count on me, Mother, Clovermead had said. I don’t flibbertigibbet when it’s important.
“I can’t,” Clovermead faltered. “I have to go to the Steppes. Mother said—”
“Are you actually saying no?” Sorrel looked at her in shock. “Clovermead, do you remember how I abandoned my duty to your mother to help you save your father? He would have died if I had not come with you when you asked.”
Your first priority is to get the Hordes to agree to an alliance. Remember, no one but you can do this.
Soon all the world will belong to Lord Ursus. You have no hope.
“I can’t, Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “I would if it were just me, but I’m the Demoiselle, too. Everyone’s depending on me.”
“Mother depends on me, and I also depend on you, to come to Barleymill. Please. I beg you. Do not refuse me.”
“You can go to Barleymill if you want,” said Clovermead. “I’m not asking you to stay with me any longer. But I have to keep going to the White Star Horde.”
“I understand,” Sorrel began—and then he scowled. “No. I do not. I have asked you to help me save my mother’s life, and that should be reason enough for a true friend. I thought I could count on you.” Sorrel looked at her with disappointment, bitter resentment, and then all affection slid from his face. “I was mistaken. You are no friend at all.” He leaped onto Brown Barley. He urged his horse a step toward Mullein, reached down to take her from Clovermead—then hesitated. “It is too dangerous to bring her with me,” he muttered. He glanced at Clovermead, and he scowled again. “I do not wish to ask you for help, but I must. Since you will not come with me, at least take care of Mullein. You owe me that much.”
You always promise, Boulderbash whispered in the distance. And you always are forsworn. Faithless girl, you abandoned me.
Mullein tightened her arms around Clovermead’s chest.
Chapter Five
Mullein
He’s gone, thought Clovermead numbly. She fished her sword from the muddy bottom with one hand, then carried Mullein to the side of the pond. Fetterlock, Sergeant Algere, and the Yellowjackets rode back to rejoin her, swords still drawn in case the bear-priests should return. Mullein shrank from them and pressed herself against Clovermead. “Don’t be scared,” said Clovermead, but the girl only babbled in Tansyard. Clovermead turned to Fetterlock. “Tell her not to be afraid,” she said. I’ll never see Sorrel again.
Fetterlock sheathed his sword and knelt, his knee squelching in the mud. He spoke softly, and after a while Mullein said a few words to him, loosened her hold on Clovermead, and reached out to him. He lifted her to the bank.
“I could use a hand up too,” said Clovermead. He’s gone. She couldn’t stop thinking that. He’s gone, he’s gone, the words hammered at her.
“At your service, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. He reached down, grasped Clovermead’s outstretched hand, and pulled her out of the pond in one smooth motion. She was light as a feather in his grasp. He gazed, distracted, at the spot in the Moors where the bear-priests had disappeared. “Lucifer Snuff,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Clovermead—and the name drove Sorrel from her thoughts for a moment. “You know him?”
“He has been on the Steppes before,” said Fetterlock. “You are acquainted with him too?” Clovermead nodded. “He is not a friend of mine, Demoiselle, so remove that suspicious look from your face. Where did Sorrel go?”
Away from me forever. “This is Sorrel’s sister, Mullein,” said Clovermead. “The woman the bear-priests caught is his mother, Roan. They must have survived all these years in the Barleymill mines, after the Cyan Cross Horde was destroyed.” Fetterlock gazed at Mullein in wonder. “Sorrel went to rescue his mother from the bear-priests. They’re going to kill her when they bring her back to Barleymill.”
Fetterlock glanced at Clovermead. “Did you give him permission to go, Demoiselle?”
“Yes,” said Clovermead. “She’s his mother.” I’ll never hear his voice again. I’ll never hear what happened to that red fox. Oh, Lady, I’ve lost Sorrel, who teases me, who tells me stories, who can’t ever stop loving the Steppes. My friend. Her eyes were hot, and she spoke tonelessly. “We can’t leave Mullein here in the Moors or take her back to Chandlefort, so we’ll bring her with us to the White Star Horde.”
“That is good,” said Fetterlock. “She can stay with the Horde until her brother returns. There are many women who would be glad to take her into their tents.”
“I didn’t say I’d leave her there,” said Clovermead. “Sorrel asked me to take care of her. He didn’t say to dump her with the first people I met.”
“We are her own kind. She should stay with us, Demoiselle.”
“She’s your kind, is she?” Clovermead could see Sorrel in her mind’s eye as clear as ever, his brown eyes still looking at her with icy revulsion. She wanted so much to moan out loud, and now her guts were churning. “Then why’d you leave her for seven years in Barleymill? Seems to me you’d have tried to help her if you cared that much.”
Fetterlock’s cheeks flamed red. “That is not a just accusation, Demoiselle.”
“I don’t care.” Clovermead took a deep breath. “Sorrel is a subject of Lady Cindertallow, and Mullein is his sister. That means she’s a Chandleforter. If anyone in the White Star Horde lays a hand on her, I’ll take it as kidnapping and fight.”
Fetterlock looked down at Mullein. She stood between the two of them and stared up uncomprehendingly. “Let us continue this discussion later,” he said. “I will inform the Horde Chief’s wife. Perhaps she can persuade you otherwise.”
“I doubt it,” said Clovermead fiercely. She put a protective hand on Mullein’s shoulder. The little girl flinched, then let herself relax into Clovermead’s grip. “I won’t fail Sorrel again.”
“The Horde Chief’s wife is quite persuasive,” Fetterlock said, with an ironic smile. “And do consider whether your friend would have preferred to have his sister stay with you or with other Tansyards. But we can argue that matter again later. Let us get to our horses and ride. Now that the bear-priests know we are here, we are vulnerable to an ambush. I would like to get to the Steppes as quickly as possible.”
Mullein spoke a sentence in Tansyard. Fetterlock looked puzzled for a moment, then he burst into sudden laughter. “She wants to know why you have straw for hair. She says it must be very itchy.”
“It does not look like straw!” said Clovermead. She touched her hair, and was reassured to find it hadn’t suddenly become rough and dry. “Tell her my hair is just hair, but yellow.”
“Iore-le ne imali ta peluwa, siu Mullein,” said Fetterlock. “Iore amon ea, neo la.”
“Peluwa ea,” said Mullein. “Peluwa, peluwa, peluwa!” A faint smile drifted onto her face for a moment.
“Let me guess,” said Clovermead. “Peluwa means ‘straw.’” Fetterlock nodded, and Clovermead couldn’t help smiling herself. For the first time she let herself look the little girl full in the face. She was thin and short, with terribly large eyes, and when she gazed up at Clovermead it was just like Clovermead was looking at a young Sorrel. Her face was wonderfully familiar and Clovermead never wanted to part from her. She held out her hand, and Mullein put her tiny fingers in Clovermead’s. “I’ll just have to convince you otherwise, Mullein. Come with me. We’re going to go riding.”
Oh, Lady, I’ve lost Sorrel. She was hard-pressed not to weep.
Clovermead told Sergeant Algere and the other Yellowjackets quickly about Sorrel’s departure, and then they all rode eastward through the Moors in a steady, drenching rain. The mist was thicker than ever, and Fetterlock led them slowly and single file through the highest, roughest land, where there was least chance of slipping into the mud and the ponds. Mullein rode in front of Clovermead, huddled up next to her to stay dry. She looked around with wondering eyes, and gaped at the dank Moorland. Sometimes she spoke half to Clovermead and half to herself in incomprehensible Tansyard. Other times she would stare at nothing at all and shiver, frozen by something more than the chill of the rain.
They stopped at midday beneath a copse of sodden beeches that provided a feather of protection from the downpour, for a cold lunch of biscuits and beef jerky. “I’ll have to tell Mother that Sorrel ran off,” Clovermead said quietly to Mullein as they ate. “I allowed him to go after your mother, but he’s a Yellowjacket in her service, and, really, Mother will say that he’s deserted. If he comes back to Chandlefort, she’ll have to punish him.”
“I’ll ask her to be merciful,” said Sergeant Algere. Clovermead started, and Algere ducked his head. “Begging your pardon, Demoiselle, I didn’t mean to surprise you, or to eavesdrop. I’d come to tell you the rain got into one of the saddlebags and dampened our food, so we may need to ration our meals out in the Steppes, and I overheard you talking to the girl. Sorrel does need to be punished, for all he’s your friend. We can’t let troopers ride off whenever they feel like it. But he’s a good lad. He’s a swaggerer, even for a Yellowjacket. When I sprained my ankle once, he was the one who thought to come to my wife to help do the chores I couldn’t. I’ll tell Milady that, when he comes back.”
“Thank you, Algere,” said Clovermead. “That’s kind of you.” The Sergeant nodded uncomfortably, saluted, and hurried away from her. Clovermead stared southward, where the Tansyard had disappeared. “But he won�
��t be back. He’ll never return.” She wanted to run after Sorrel, more than ever, and her hands had already turned to paws before she caught herself. She forced them back into hands. She looked down at Mullein, still eating industriously, and she sighed. “I don’t even care that we’re never going to kiss, or anything. It’s losing my friend that hurts.” Mullein ignored the meaningless words, concentrating on wolfing down her food, and Clovermead couldn’t help but laugh a little. “All right, I’ll eat too. No point in being lonely and hungry.” She stuffed another piece of jerky into her mouth, and made herself chew and swallow.
The rain lightened as they rode that afternoon, and the mist lifted. Here the ponds widened to enormous lakes separated by thin causeways of land. Far away, in the middle of one lake, Clovermead saw a Harrowman village of ramshackle huts huddled on poles and roofed with a shiny mixture of pitch and straw. A few expressionless Harrowmen in canoes watched them pass. The Yellowjackets kept their hands close to their swords.
Midafternoon two Harrowmen suddenly appeared before them as the group rode along the neck between two ponds. The two men were short, scrawny figures wrapped in slick furs, with drawn knives in their hands. Clovermead heard splashing, and she saw canoes with more figures in them appear in the ponds to either side of her. The rowers’ hands were on their oars, but they also had knives. She heard footsteps scampering behind her.
Clovermead brought Auroche to a halt. I guess I’m our leader, she thought to herself. I’d better speak. “What do you want?” she called out. Her voice wavered through the gusting wind. She held tight to Mullein with her left hand.