In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “I promise too,” said Fetterlock grimly. He made the sign of the crescent, slipped into Tansyard, and Mullein looked reassured. She asked a question and he said “mines.”

  “Mines bad,” said Mullein. “All time dig. Bear-priests—” She broke into Tansyard again.

  “Whip,” said Fetterlock. Mullein asked him more words. “Blood. Starve. Kill. Die.” He shuddered. “She wants to tell us what life is like for them in the mines. I think you can guess from the words she wants to know.”

  “Velika-gora,” said Mullein.

  Fetterlock frowned. “I do not know what that is. A silver-bear?” He asked Mullein a question in Tansyard.

  “In mines,” said Mullein. “Silvah-bera.” She thought a moment, then tried another word on Fetterlock.

  “Monster,” said Fetterlock.

  “Monsters in mines,” said Mullein. “I no go back. Die first.”

  “How did you live?” Clovermead whispered. “How is it possible?”

  Fetterlock asked Mullein a question, and then they spoke back and forth for a minute.

  “Shaman-Mother,” said Mullein. “Keep Cyan Cross live. Take our poison, into her. Other slaves die. Our Horde live.” She paused a moment, then looked up at them with sudden, awful sorrow. “She hurt, all time.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  That night Clovermead dreamed of darkness—

  She felt spurs on her back and a bit in her mouth. She was thirsty and tired, but she could not stop to rest, could not drink. Her paws fell clumsily on the unseen earth, and she was jarred by every small rise and fall of the ground. Sharp twigs scored the fleshy pads of her paws. The saddle on her back had rubbed sores into her flesh.

  “Where are you?” Boulderbash asked wearily. “I have not seen the sun in a week. Little cub, Clovermead, you said you would free me. That was more than three years ago. When will you come?”

  “I’ll come as soon as I can,” said Clovermead. There was no point in trying to contradict her.

  “Why didn’t you free me?” Boulderbash howled with rage and frustration. “You were there. You sprang one knot of the trap, and then you let me go. You chose the human over me.”

  “Yes,” Clovermead said miserably. “I did. But I didn’t have time to save both of you, and I couldn’t just let him die—”

  “I’m tired of your excuses,” Boulderbash roared, howled with the agony of years enslaved. “Save me now.”

  “I will help you,” said Clovermead. “Just as soon as I can. But—”

  “But you have other things you need to do first,” said Boulderbash, with weary bitterness. “Isn’t it always that way, little cub?”

  “Mother sent me to the Steppes on a mission,” said Clovermead. “I can’t give it up to help you.” Sorrow thickened her voice. “I couldn’t give it up for Sorrel, either, and he’s my best friend.”

  “No one is my friend,” said Boulderbash. “So I am left in darkness.”

  “You’re being unreasonable,” said Clovermead. She wanted to be sorry for Boulderbash, but the constant complaints were aggravating her.

  “Reason is a pretty word for abandonment,” said Boulderbash. She switched her tail angrily. “I am growing tired of coming last, little one.”

  “I’ll come for you,” said Clovermead wearily. “I promise, I will.”

  “I am waiting,” said Boulderbash.

  And as Clovermead woke, she heard a great and familiar growl. “I have always been true to you, Mother,” Lord Ursus roared—

  A spattering of hail pelted them at dawn, then turned into an intermittent drizzle that chilled them to the bone. The Yellowjackets wrapped their sleeping blankets around their bodies. Sergeant Algere began to sneeze helplessly as the wet day wore on. Clovermead grew thick fur all over her body, and Mullein jumped as Clovermead’s fur poked into her back, but then made herself relax into the warm and golden pelt. Fetterlock cast uneasy looks at her furry body all morning long.

  Toward noon a pale sun emerged between thick gray clouds. As it did, a scream shivered over the Steppes. It sounded of pain twined with bloodlust. It wasn’t human, but Clovermead had never heard an animal moan like that. The cry sent gooseflesh running up and down her arms.

  “Lady preserve us,” Naquaire whispered. The bald corporal had gone dead white. He made the crescent sign with a trembling hand, and Bergander and Golion shakily followed suit.

  “Velika-gora,” Mullein whispered, and now she shook with fear. “Monster.” She tugged at Auroche’s reins, and looked up pleadingly at Clovermead. “Please, ride fast.”

  “I think that is good advice, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. He looked around at the unnerved Yellowjackets. “That came from the south. Let us ride straight north.” Clovermead nodded, and the party galloped northward.

  They did not stop for lunch. The sun disappeared again, the clouds thickened, and the drizzle returned. In the dim light, the Steppes had become gray and colorless. Monotonous, interchangeable grassland fell behind their horses’ hooves, but, nightmarelike, they never seemed to make any progress. The terrible scream came at regular intervals. It never fell any farther behind them, although their horses were running so hard that the poor beasts’ flanks were heaving. Soon it began to edge closer to them.

  They rode deep into the twilight. Let it stop, Lady, Clovermead prayed. Let it sleep. But the screams followed them steadily. Only when the light was almost gone did Clovermead rein in her horse. “The grass is wet and slippery,” she said. “If we keep going like this in the dark, we’re going to trip and fall. Mullein, can these things see at night?” Fetterlock quickly translated her query and Mullein nodded her head.

  “I do not know what we should do, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. “All courses are dangerous.” He sighed. “A Gray Bar warrior could smell his way through the darkness, but I have no such talents.”

  Clovermead suddenly smiled. “I do,” she said. She fumbled in her saddlebag, and brought out a length of rope. She rode in the thickening dusk to Algere. “Do you have more rope, Sergeant?”

  Algere brought out another loop of cord and tossed it to her. “Indeed I do, Demoiselle. What do you need it for?”

  “To tie the horses together. I’m going to lead them tonight.” She jumped down from Auroche, tied one loop loosely around her chest, and tossed the other end to Fetterlock.

  “I do not see the point of this,” said the Tansyard. He began to loop the strands around his horse. “We would be better off riding.”

  “You want a good nose?” asked Clovermead. “I’ve got one.” She turned into a bear.

  Her bear-form had grown too, these last few years. Now she was nearly ten feet long, and her claws, her jaws, and her fur were thicker and longer than ever. Fetterlock was small next to her, and Mullein tiny. Mullein tried not to flinch, but she couldn’t help backing away toward Fetterlock. Clovermead sighed as the Tansyard picked up the little girl, held her in his arms, and whispered comforting words to her. The band quickly lashed themselves together, and then Clovermead took the lead. She began to walk northward through the dark Steppes.

  The horses came in a herky-jerky chain behind her. Clovermead tramped slowly through the wet grass, sniffing and listening more than looking. The horses were nervous at first as they followed her, but after a while they got used to her presence. They were distracted anyway by the screaming that continued at irregular intervals behind them. The thing hadn’t stopped for the night, but it had slowed down. Clovermead kept it a steady distance behind her.

  Mullein fell asleep first: The screams were terrible, but they weren’t new to her. After her the Yellowjackets nodded off one by one in their saddles. Fetterlock was the last to drift off, and then it was just Clovermead by herself in the night, with only the tired horses to keep her company.

  Just what is a “silver-bear”? Clovermead wondered to herself. The name sounds sort of pretty, but the creature can’t be, the way Mullein looked when she talked about it. I suppose Ursus has done something to th
e bears he controls—but maybe I’m not being imaginative enough. Maybe it’s some sort of great mole that lurks in the depths of the earth, which Ursus has lured up to the surface, so he can use it in the mines. Though what a mole would be doing scampering on the Steppes at high speed and screaming, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a carnivorous mole that lives in great, lightless caverns! Maybe there are people in the caverns with great big eyes to see in the darkness, who fight the moles in savage duels! Clovermead shook her head and rumbled with laughter. Maybe Mother’s right, and I do read too many adventure stories. I’m sure it’s just a bear. There was another scream behind her, and Clovermead shivered. I’d be just as glad not to find out. I hope it doesn’t catch up with us.

  She came to a stream in her path, but she could tell by the sound of the water rippling on pebbles that it was narrow and fordable. She descended into the water, felt her paws freeze beneath her fur for a few seconds, and then she was rising onto the other side. That wasn’t so bad, thought Clovermead. I wish Sorrel were here, so he could see how good I am at this! But then she remembered that even if he were there, Sorrel wouldn’t have any admiration for her. He had looked at her with such anger.

  He shouldn’t have gotten so mad at me, she told herself. But I bet I’d be just as angry if I’d asked him for help like that and been turned down. Oh, Lady, I know I had good reason to say no to him, but I still feel low-down and treacherous. Sorrel’s got cause enough to be disappointed in me. Growling unhappily, she went on into the night.

  She grew more and more tired and walked more and more slowly. Mud caked her paws, her eyes started to ache, and she wanted to just lie down and collapse. Even the screams behind her ceased to frighten her, and she moved only from a sense of duty. The clouds cleared, the rain ceased, and for a moment she paused and looked behind her at the dark Steppe. I know the Demoiselle is supposed to lead the way, thought Clovermead, but I wouldn’t mind some help.

  “Are you tired, Demoiselle?” Fetterlock was by her side. He had gotten off his horse and walked up to her. “Now that the clouds have cleared, there is enough moonlight that I can see. Give me that rope, and I will take over pulling the horses. You may rest.” He was nervous as he stood by her, but he controlled himself.

  Clovermead shifted back to human, yawning as she did, and Fetterlock chuckled to see her floppy bear tongue shrink to a delicate human one. “I wouldn’t mind,” said Clovermead. She took the rope off her shoulders and looked at him curiously. “I was mostly leading the horses, but sometimes I had to pull them a bit. I know you’re strong, but can you really do that?”

  “My wife has always called me an ox. Now I can prove her right.” Fetterlock took the rope and wrapped it around his chest while Clovermead got back onto Auroche. “Sleep while you can, Demoiselle.”

  “I will,” said Clovermead. “Thank you.”

  “I have ridden horses all my life,” said Fetterlock. “It is amusing to pull a horse for once.” Then he began to drag the line of horses through the night. Clovermead settled Mullein in front of her on Auroche’s back, and quickly fell asleep.

  She woke at dawn to the sound of an even louder scream. The Yellowjackets woke with her, Mullein was crying silently, and Fetterlock was undoing the rope, and then the Tansyard giant was running back to his horse. “Time to ride again!” he cried out—and as he yelled, not one but two screams echoed out of the Steppes. Both were to the south of them, but they came from two distinct directions. “Do you by any chance possess any bear-powers you have neglected to inform me of, which might turn those things aside?” the Tansyard asked Clovermead. “If so, now would be the time to use them.”

  “All I do is turn shape,” said Clovermead. And free bears, she thought. She sent her mind winging toward the south, to see if some blood-net of Ursus’ kept those creatures captive, but she saw nothing in her mind’s eye.

  They serve me by choice, Ursus whispered in her mind. They serve me for pleasure.

  “Let’s go quickly,” Clovermead said out loud.

  They fled through the Steppes with the pair of screamers coming after them. Sergeant Algere kept the rear guard, yelling at any trooper who began to fall behind, and whipping each horse as it began to flag. Like a good sheepdog, thought Clovermead. Habick took out a crossbow, and began to wind it up as he galloped. Corporal Naquaire stayed in the vanguard. He flinched every time a scream floated over the Steppes.

  The unseen monsters loped just south of a low ridge near them, came nearer by the minute, and sang a terrible, raw sound to each other. It sounded like a horrible parody of the song-speech Our Lady’s nuns used with one another. The beasts rose over the ridge crest, and now Clovermead saw them fuzzily in the distance. They were silver and black, and they flew like liquid lightning along the heights. They were like bears, but not quite bears. There was something horribly distorted about them. And their shape changed, flowed as they ran, from thick and bulky to long and thin. They glowed in the sunlight.

  The beasts howled, and came after them with redoubled speed.

  I should have hugged Mother once more before I left Chandlefort, thought Clovermead. Father, too. And Saraband. Oh, Lady, it’s too late now.

  “I am afraid that we are about to find out precisely what a velika-gora is,” Fetterlock said grimly—but as he spoke he smiled, because there were riders ahead, coming toward them at top speed. They carried pennants on flags with them, each one decorated with a White Star.

  “I don’t think I was ever so glad to see a Tansyard,” Naquaire muttered through chattering teeth. The Corporal’s whole body was shaking.

  I’d rather see Sorrel. Clovermead sighed, but she couldn’t help feeling a surge of relief, too. The nightmare’s over, she thought gratefully. Thank you, Lady. They came just in the nick of time.

  The things behind them stopped in their tracks and screamed their disappointment as the White Star horsemen came rushing up. Then the creatures turned and ran behind the hills again. Mullein was shivering violently, and she still stared southward where the monsters had disappeared.

  “Those banners do shine marvelously in the sun!” said Clovermead. And then the lead horseman, reinless and saddleless, brought his horse to a halt and looked suspiciously at the party from Linstock.

  Chapter Eight

  The Encampment of the White Star Horde

  Twenty Tansyard warriors wheeled around them. They rode bareback on wild horses, and controlled their steeds with gentle motions of the arms and legs. Each warrior had a white star tattooed on each cheek—but aside from that they wore a hodgepodge of clothing. Most wore leather from the Steppes, some wore wool from Linstock, a few wore broadloom cloth woven in the Thirty Towns. All, however, wore embroidered bright rainbow designs upon their clothes: One had a blue wolf running across his chest, another a soaring eagle on his shoulder, a third an entire herd of buffalo charging across his back. They wore no armor, but all had stout wooden spears with sharp, bright steel tips. Most wore silver crescent pendants on their chests, but some wore obsidian bear-teeth instead. Clovermead looked at the mouths of the latter and was relieved to see that none of them had filed their teeth.

  “Enemies?” asked Mullein. She pointed surreptitiously to the warriors with the bear teeth. “Friends?” She pointed to the ones with the crescent.

  “I don’t know,” said Clovermead. “I’m not sure they know yet either.”

  Mullein frowned. “Tansyards friends Ursus? Ursus slave Tansyards.”

  “Tansyards aren’t all nice to each other,” said Clovermead. Mullein stared at her blankly. “It’s difficult to explain,” said Clovermead.

  Fetterlock rode in front of Clovermead and called out to the warriors. They nodded to him respectfully, and a squat middle-aged warrior with an old scar lining his right cheek began to speak with him. They talked with each other for several minutes, while the Yellowjackets nervously eyed the circle of Tansyards around them. Fetterlock gestured to the south, in the direction where the unseen beasts had fled, whi
le the squat warrior pointed a little south of east. Then Fetterlock rode back to Clovermead.

  “We are only an hour’s ride from the White Star camp. They will escort us back and make sure that we are not molested by the beasts.” He frowned. “Breamback tells me that the Horde has been hearing these things scream the last two weeks. One warrior went to find out what they were, but he has not returned. They suspected that they were hounds of Ursus, and now they are sure, for they have fallen silent since Ursus’ emissary arrived in the camp. The Horde supposes that Ursus would not want his servants to attack White Star warriors while he was seeking them for allies.”

  “Ursus sent an ambassador? How long has he been there?”

  “Breamback says he arrived at dawn. But you need not worry. He cannot speak to the Elders until the Horde Chief returns, and he is not expected back until later today.”

  “What will Ursus’ man say to the Horde?” asked Clovermead. “Oh, Lady, he’ll have some smooth-talking lie on his tongue, and I don’t know what to say to keep the Elders from believing him. Is he going to try bribes? Threats?”

  Fetterlock laughed. “Demoiselle, I am not a mind reader.”

  “Well, what sort of people are the Elders? I want to put my best foot forward, but I just know I’ll make some stupid blunder and muff up everything. What is the Horde Chief like? You never talk about him much, and I get the sense that he’s under his wife’s thumb, because you keep on saying she sent you, not him.”

  “He listens to her counsel. Some warriors mock him for that, but if they are wise, they do so behind his back. He thinks she is wise, although he does not think she is infallible. He has often rejected her advice.” Fetterlock grimaced. “I would not even hint to him that he is, ah, ‘henpecked.’ He does not take kindly to the imputation.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll just make clucking noises to you when his back is turned, that’s all.” Fetterlock looked rather pained, and Clovermead laughed.

  They rode off with the Yellowjackets in a tight circle around Clovermead, Mullein, and Fetterlock, and the Tansyards in a loose circle around the Yellowjackets, and by midmorning they came to the camp of the White Star Horde. It sat on a meadow near a ford over a stream high with spring rain. Four hundred hide tents had sprouted on the grass like spring flowers; smoke rose from holes in the centers of the tents. Clovermead saw young girls bringing pots of water from the river to their tents, and older women cooking the animals their husbands had brought back from the hunt. Farther off, guarded by fifty warriors, was the horse-herd of the Horde—hundreds of grown stallions and mares, and hundreds more young foals. They already had chewed down most of the grass in their meadow. There were fresh meadows nearby, but soon the Horde would have to move on.