In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Good-bye, said Clovermead unhappily. She wanted to say more—but no more words. She walked away from Boulderbash.

  At the ford two figures stood in darkness. Clovermead stopped a moment when she saw them, irresolute, and then one of them stepped forward. It was Fetterlock.

  “She has shown the Horde no disrespect, Bear-Priest,” said Fetterlock, and now Lucifer Snuff came forward. “Your suspicion of her was unjust.”

  “She came close enough, Horde Chief,” said Snuff, as jauntily as he could, but he was discomposed. He glowered at Clovermead. “You saw her raise her sword. I think my suspicions had some cause.”

  “I know the obligations of a guest, Horde Chief,” said Clovermead. She glared at Snuff. “I will free her as soon as I can. It’s disgusting the way you keep her.”

  “She is my steed to do with as I will. Isn’t that so, Horde Chief?” asked Snuff.

  “Yes,” said Fetterlock. “But we would not do such a thing.” A hint of distaste entered into his voice. “I do not want you as our guest any longer, Bear-Priest. You may stay the night, but I want you gone at dawn. If my warriors find you after noon, you will be killed. You have been warned.”

  “So you’ll ally with Chandlefort? That’s a mistake, Horde Chief.”

  “You assume too much. The Horde has rejected Lord Ursus’ offer of alliance, but that does not mean that we have decided to ally with Chandlefort.” Fetterlock chuckled. “Perhaps Chandlefort’s ambassador will be as unpersuasive as you were, and we will stay neutral in your wars.”

  “There are hunters and there are prey,” said Snuff. “Choose soon, Horde Chief.”

  “So you told the Elders. Your warning is noted.” Fetterlock nodded slightly to Snuff and Clovermead. “Good night, Bear-Priest. Good night, Demoiselle.” He walked through the shallow ford back to the White Star camp.

  “I almost hate you more than Ursus,” said Clovermead to Snuff. “He’s bloodier, but you’re crueler. You like toying with people.”

  “Guilty as accused.” Snuff made her a sweeping, ironic bow.

  “You’d be nothing without Ursus. You’d be a little torturer in a dungeon.”

  “I think you are mistaken,” said Snuff. “I think I would have risen to conquer one of the Thirty Towns. My abilities are sufficient for that task. But it would have been an unsatisfying success. I prefer to serve something greater than myself.” He grinned. “Now I am a great torturer whose dungeon is all the earth. I am grateful to my master for the opportunity to work on so large a scale.”

  Clovermead shook her head. “I don’t understand you. I know how tempting Ursus is, but—he didn’t tempt you, did he? You were like this already.”

  Snuff grinned again. “As you say, girlie, you don’t understand me. But I understand you well enough. You moon-rabble are all the same, with a folly that is uniform from the Astrantian Sands to Snowchapel. And so you are easily dealt with.”

  “We defeated you twice already,” said Clovermead. “We’ll do it again.”

  “Now that he’s conquered Queensmart, my master can draw on all the Thirty Towns to replenish his armies. You’re short of people here in the northlands. Lord Ursus already has twice as many soldiers as he did when you repulsed us at Chandlefort—but Chandlefort hasn’t yet made up their losses. You can’t afford many more such victories.”

  “We’ll win in the end,” said Clovermead. “Our Lady won’t let us lose.”

  “The sky-crone isn’t what she was,” said Snuff. “Best not rely on her.” He bowed again to Clovermead. “Good night, Demoiselle.” Then suddenly he screamed at the top of his lungs, shrieked like the unseen monsters. Far away, something screamed in reply.

  “Master had to come up with something new, now you and that sword of yours keep him from using bears. Wonderful creatures, they are. You’ll be amazed when you see them. And you will see them, girlie. Very soon.” Snuff laughed, and he kept on laughing as he walked into the darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  The Meeting of the Elders

  Clovermead waited in her tent until midmorning, to be sure that Snuff and Boulderbash had left. She couldn’t bear to look at either one of them. When they were gone, she went out of her tent into the White Star encampment. The scent of horses and verdant grass pervaded the air. Here a warrior was examining the hooves of his horse for pebbles, here a mother and daughter were sewing torn tent cloth with bone needles, here two little boys ran around a tent until Clovermead grew dizzy watching them. Just beyond the boys she found old Golion listening bemusedly as a pair of old warriors sang a rousing tune. The words were Tansyard, but the tune was Chandlefortish.

  “That’s an old Yellowjacket marching song, Demoiselle,” Golion said. “I wish I could remember the words in common tongue—I only heard it a few times when I was a cadet. We sing something else now. These fellows must have fought with Chandlefort in one of our wars.”

  “Against Cyan Cross,” said one of the old men, in heavily accented common tongue. His hair was snow-white, his face was a mass of wrinkles, and he grinned broadly and toothlessly. “They raid against High Branding, Lady of Chandlefort come to punish them. We join for promise of booty, for promise we can fight in vanguard. Our Lady bless us, we earn great renown, great herd of horses, in that war. And learn to sing with Yellowjackets!”

  “We fight with your great-grandmother, Dem’zelle,” said the other. “Fight with Cyan Cross next year, against her. Send Yellowjackets running from Steppes!” Golion bristled, and the warrior guffawed and pounded him on the back. “Year after that, we run from you. No dishonor in running after defeat in battle.”

  “I was taught differently,” Golion muttered. “Funny people, these Tansyards.” Then he shrugged his shoulders, winked at Clovermead, and put a smile on his weathered face. “Do you know any other Yellowjacket songs?” he asked the old warriors.

  “Many, many,” said the first warrior, and he started up another tune. Golion recognized this one, and he joined them in the song.

  Clovermead saw other Yellowjackets, like her, wandering through the camp. Sergeant Algere and Habick admired horses, whose owners were glad to show them off, Bergander chatted with some of the young ladies of the camp, and Corporal Naquaire and the rest simply walked around and gawked at the sights. Each had a trail of children following him—Clovermead looked around, and she saw that she had followers of her own. She tried to shoo them away, but they happily ignored her.

  “Good morning, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock, as he strode up to Clovermead. He wore clean, new clothes this morning. His white-gold star jounced against the head of the stallion tattooed on his chest. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I lay down, and the next thing I knew it was morning. It’s very restful to hear whinnying in the night.” She glanced sidelong at him. “I stayed in my tent.”

  “I would know if you hadn’t, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. He smiled. “Mullein and Calkin were throwing oatmeal at each other during breakfast. They are a bad influence on each other, and Arman was laughing as she made them settle down. I was glad to see that—she does not often laugh. I wish that Mullein could stay with us.”

  “I told Sorrel I would watch over her,” said Clovermead. “I want your daughter to be happy, but I have an obligation to him.”

  “And Mullein?” asked Fetterlock. “You have an obligation to her, too. Before you leave, ask her if she wants to stay.” Clovermead’s lips thinned angrily, and Fetterlock sighed. “Consider it, Demoiselle.” He looked around at the crowded camp, and now he frowned. “I would like to talk with you privately. Will you walk with me?”

  “I’m just as mulish by myself as I am in company, Horde Chief,” said Clovermead. “You won’t be able to persuade me any better.”

  Fetterlock laughed. “No doubt, Demoiselle. Come with me anyway.” Clovermead nodded, and they strolled out of the White Star camp.

  They walked up to a low rise above the river. From there they could look out over the hundreds of sprawling ten
ts and thousands of horses that lay along the stream. The camp was full of constant motion, wonderfully bustling and thriving.

  “There must be at least a thousand of you in the Horde!” Clovermead marveled. “We had more people in Timothy Vale, but they were spread out all along the valley. Chandlefort has a lot more people, of course—there must be ten thousand in the city—but you don’t see them all together like this.”

  “My Horde is beautiful,” said Fetterlock. He glanced at Clovermead. “I have told you some of my fears and hopes, pretending to be only the warrior Fetterlock, and everything I have told you is true. But I am the Horde Chief as well, and that imposes far worse fears upon me. I am responsible for every man, woman, and child you see below. I do not think your Mother knows all her subjects, but I know every one in the Horde, and I cherish them more each day. If I fail in my responsibility to them, I know the name of every one who will die.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Horde Chief,” said Clovermead. She bit her lip in frustration. “I’ve been practicing all sorts of speeches in my head about what to say to the Horde Chief, but what’s the good of saying them to you? You know them already, and it sounds like your wife’s been a lot more eloquent that I ever could be. She got you to come to Chandlefort in the first place! Anyway, she said you wanted to take a look at Chandlefort, and at Mother and me, so you could decide if you wanted to ally with us or not. All right, you’ve seen us. Do you trust us as allies against Lord Ursus?”

  “I do not know,” Fetterlock said slowly. “I know you are brave and kind, Demoiselle, and I do not doubt your good intentions. Those are powerful arguments in your favor. But I worry about your steadiness. You let young Sorrel leave us, so far as I could tell without a word of complaint or a hint to him of punishment. I think perhaps your friendship with him has made you less stern than a leader ought to be. And then you came down to the ford last night. You did not free that bear, but you came very close. Your heart is generous, but its impulses came close to bringing your mission here to ruin. I wonder what your heart will tell you to do next, and whether you will resist its promptings when necessary. Can you assure me of that?”

  Clovermead looked south over the Steppes, toward distant, unseen Bryony Hill and Barleymill. Somewhere on the plains Snuff was digging his spurs into Boulderbash, somewhere Sorrel was riding to free his mother. She could not think of either of them without her heart leaping in her, and she could not answer Fetterlock to reassure him.

  Fetterlock sighed. “And so I remain unsure whether to entrust the Horde to an alliance with Chandlefort.”

  “You told me that you had more hope when you saw Mullein and Sorrel were alive,” said Clovermead. “Doesn’t that mean anything now?”

  “They give me hope that I might redeem myself before Our Lady,” said Fetterlock. “But I cannot commit the Horde to war for so flimsy a cause.” He touched the golden pendant at his chest. “My wife wears both Our Lady’s crescent and the White Star, and that is good. But it is my duty to wear the White Star alone. I cannot be a servant to two masters.”

  “I understand,” said Clovermead, but she couldn’t help sounding bitter. He’s going to say no tonight. It will all have been a waste of time. The fortress will go up on Bryony Hill, Mother will march her army back to Chandlefort, and then we’ll wait for Ursus’ armies to come after us. All I’ve done out here is lose Sorrel as my friend. “Is that all you had to say to me?”

  “Not quite, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. “My warriors have brought me some information that you may find useful. They tell me that the bear-priests have been bringing a great many carts of hwanka-velika, quicksilver, from Barleymill to their obsidian temple on Bryony Hill.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Clovermead. She frowned. “There isn’t any silver in Bryony Hill, is there? Why would they bother?”

  “I do not know. But I offer you that information as a token of goodwill.”

  “I’d rather have your alliance,” said Clovermead. Fetterlock shrugged. They stared at the Horde below them a minute longer, so vibrant and so fragile, and then Fetterlock led her back down to the camp in silence.

  That evening Clovermead left the Yellowjackets in their tents and came alone to where the Elders were waiting. She was met by Mullein, who barreled over from Fetterlock’s tent and jumped up into her arms. Her feet dangled in midair, she babbled in Tansyard, and then she said, “Calkin show me crayfish stream! We catch twelve!”

  “I’m awfully glad,” said Clovermead, laughing. “Was everyone nice to you?”

  Mullein nodded vigorously. “Soft bed, honey eat, Bardelle sing sleep. Nice!”

  Do you want to stay with them? Clovermead couldn’t quite ask. She looked around at the gathering Tansyards. “You should go to bed now,” she said to Mullein.

  “No! I stay you! Not leave.” She wrapped her arms around Clovermead’s neck.

  “All right! Mullein not leave! Mullein squeeze less tightly or Clovermead will choke. You understand choke?” Clovermead pantomimed clutching her neck, and Mullein loosened her hold and slid to the ground. Clovermead took Mullein’s hand in hers, and walked with her into the center of the camp.

  The Elders, both male and female, were waiting for them in front of the great circle of tents at the heart of the Horde. They sat down on intricately woven blankets all around the earthen clearing. They ranged in age from middle-aged to ancient; the younger ones helped prop up some of the feeblest. They wore an assortment of jewelry to match the warriors—some wore silver crescents, but almost as many wore obsidian teeth. Farther back from the circle of tents, standing in the shadows, young men and women watched in silence, waiting to hear Clovermead speak and to hear their Elders’ decisions.

  Fetterlock and Bardelle sat side by side in front of their tent, on high-piled blankets made of cloth-of-gold. Bardelle gave Clovermead the slightest glance of encouragement, then made her face immobile. Fetterlock smiled a little when he saw Mullein come with Clovermead into the open space among the Elders, then quickly stood up and strode forward to stand by their side.

  “Elders!” he called out. “I will speak in common tongue, in courtesy to our guest.” Some of the Elders began to whisper translations of his words to their fellows who knew only Tansyard. “The second ambassador has come to ask us for our aid. She is Cerelune Cindertallow, the Demoiselle of Chandlefort. Lord Ursus honored us by sending his great lieutenant of the northlands as his ambassador, and Lady Cindertallow honors us by sending her Heir Apparent. Let us hear her make the case for Chandlefort, as we have heard the bear-priest make the case for Ursus.” Fetterlock bowed to Clovermead, and went back to sit by Bardelle’s side on his golden blanket.

  Clovermead looked around her at a hundred waiting Elders. Some stared back at her curiously, some with boredom, but none with friendship. She gulped, and she held more tightly to Mullein. I must look awfully silly holding her hand, she thought, but it sure is a comfort. Mullein squeezed her palm, and Clovermead began to speak.

  “I think you all know why I’m here,” Clovermead said. “We heard in Chandlefort that Ursus is building a fortress at Bryony Hill, and we knew we had to fight him before he finishes it. He’s just about conquered the Thirty Towns, and he’ll be able to launch an invasion of Linstock from the south and the east once he has his fortress walls up. He gets stronger every year, so we know we have to fight him now.

  “We’ve come to ask the White Star Horde for help for two reasons. The first is that it looks to us like you wouldn’t be too happy about the fortress yourself. Ursus will try to make himself lord of the Steppes once that fortress is built, and then you’ll have to submit to him or fight him anyway. We think you’d have better odds fighting this summer, with an army of Yellowjackets at your side.” Clovermead paused for breath. “The second reason we’ve come to ask you is that we’re not fools. We want the best warriors in the world on our side, not on Ursus’.”

  There was a ripple of appreciative laughter among the El
ders. And they don’t think it is flattery! Clovermead realized. Good heavens, they’d be insulted if I didn’t tell them that once a day. They are a conceited bunch.

  She looked around the circle of Elders again and she saw that a fair number of the Elders were looking at her favorably. But when she looked closely, she saw that they all wore Our Lady’s silver crescent. The Elders who wore obsidian bear-teeth, or no jewelry at all, looked at her as unfavorably as ever. What do I say to convince them? Clovermead asked herself. Look at them scowl at me! I don’t think sweet reason and soft words is going to do it. She glanced down at Mullein, wanting the comfort of her gaze—and her eyes caught on the scar on her own arm.

  Gently she disentangled her arm from Mullein. She rolled up her sleeves, and the chill evening air prickled on her flesh. She held her arm up to the firelight and turned around, so every Elder could see the ugly, mottled flesh that ran from her shoulder to her palm. It was healed now, pale where it had once been livid, but it would never go away. Clovermead walked around the circle of Elders and showed it to every one of them. She stopped in front of a knot of Elders who wore Ursus’ obsidian around their necks.

  “Lord Ursus possessed me once,” she said, and there was utter silence in the camp. “I put his tooth in my arm, and he drank my blood. I got this scar for my pains. I put his tooth in my jaw, and now I have a hole where my own tooth used to be.” She touched the empty space in her upper jaw, still hollow and aching. “I had a choice, like you, about whether to fight Lord Ursus properly. I got it wrong the first time, and I surrendered to him. And I won’t lie to you: I liked it. I liked hunting with Ursus. I liked seeing the world as my prey. I liked knowing what my master would do to the world.”

  Clovermead swung abruptly from the bear-tooth-wearing Elders to the ones who wore no jewelry. “I know what Ursus will do to the Steppes, Elders. What he did to Cyan Cross Horde, what he’s done to Bryony Hill, he’ll do to everyone and everything. He will set fires from one end of the grasslands to the other, and leave them in charred ruins. He will chop down every tree and poison every stream. He will send bear-priests into the Steppes to slaughter every horse of every Horde, for the sheer pleasure of watching you walk. And then he will hunt you down, one by one.” She turned back to the Elders with the bear-teeth. “The only reward you can get is to help him hunt your brethren down. Whatever joy you get from that will be short-lived, for he will turn on you when the others are dead. In the end, you will die as they have died, with Ursus’ gratitude as your only reward.”