A pig nuzzled Waxmelt, and he scratched its ears absentmindedly. We hadn’t been, particularly, but we were working round the clock to get the Yellowjackets ready to depart and the servants ready to take their places, and we got punchy. Then we got giddy. She was making terrible puns while we were inspecting the Armory that last time. We—I quite enjoyed her company. She can be charming. Waxmelt paused for a moment, then sighed. It’s another reason I wish I hadn’t stolen you away from Milady. She must always hate me, in the cold light of day, and we can never be friends. I find myself wishing that we could be. He smiled wryly, sadly. But I suppose that is the stuff of dreams. And they were back on the parapets of Chandlefort again. A cold wind blew in the night.
Clovermead shivered, and tried to smile. Here I am, at least two hundred miles from Chandlefort, and I get to hear your voice. There’s a dream come true for you, Father!
There’s a compliment from my daughter! The wind died down and Waxmelt chuckled and stopped walking, and turned to embrace Clovermead. Ah, Clo, I do miss you so. Tell me, how are you doing out on the Steppes?
We got to the White Star Horde safely, said Clovermead. We had some scares along the way—she saw Waxmelt frown—but nothing too bad, she added hastily.
What will you do now? asked Waxmelt.
And the words froze in Clovermead’s throat. I can’t say, “I’m going to Barleymill,” she thought. I’d terrify him, and he’d tell me not to go, but I’m going anyway. All I’d do is make him feel miserable.
We’re heading to Yarrow’s Bowl to meet Mother’s army, she said. There’ll be no end of Tansyards coming to join up with us.
I’m glad to hear that, said Waxmelt. Somewhere a bell tolled, and the walls of Chandlefort began to crumble. Blast! I need to check on the sentries. The bell tolled a second time, the metal gate shuddered into dust, and Waxmelt yawned again. I’ll be waking up now, whether I want to or not. Come wandering into my dreams again, Clo, whenever you like.
As often as I can, Father, said Clovermead, and the bell tolled a third time. Waxmelt stretched—and faded from view. Chandlefort faded with him, melted into blackness, and now Clovermead could feel herself returning to the Steppes. Her body was coming nearer to her—
Nightmare waylaid her. She was in a meadow, and the corpses of the Cyan Cross Horde lay all around her. They were sprawled on crimson grass, their tents were burning rags, and the dead bodies stretched on forever on the Steppes. Bryony Hill rose above the plain of bodies, and it was covered with an obsidian skin. At the summit of the mount, Lucifer Snuff was hammering in an altar. The hill bled where the altar legs pierced its side.
Fetterlock stood by Clovermead’s side. I’m sorry, he moaned. Corpses were piled about him, up to his knees. Their dead fingers clutched at him. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Lady, I know I should have warned them.
You let this happen? asked someone on Clovermead’s other side. She turned, and she saw Mullein. The little girl stood in a patch of open ground, and she stared at the bodies around her. Then she turned to Fetterlock in disbelief. You were there?
I should have spoken, said Fetterlock. He could not look Mullein in the face. Now the bodies were piled up to his waist, and rising by the minute. I hated Cyan Cross too much. I am sorry.
You let me go to the mines? Mullein was weeping suddenly. I thought you were a kind man. You did this? And she was leaping at Fetterlock with outstretched nails, running over the dead bodies to rip his face and shred his flesh. She was snarling with anger and screaming with sorrow. Clovermead struggled after the little girl, waded through corpses, and pulled Mullein’s hands away from unresisting Fetterlock’s scratched cheeks. Mullein struggled in Clovermead’s grip, her scream split the sky, and sent vast chunks of blue falling down to crush them all. Then the world shattered in darkness a final time, and Clovermead’s heart was hammering as she woke up alone in her tent.
Chapter Eleven
Velika-Gora
Fetterlock and a score of Tansyard warriors accompanied Clovermead, Mullein, and the rest of the Yellowjackets southward out of the encampment. “Just in case that bear-priest is waiting to ambush you,” said Fetterlock. “He will think twice about attacking all of us.” At noon, at the top of a rise from which one could see for miles, Fetterlock held up his hand and the Tansyards came to a halt. “There is nothing nearby,” he said. “You will be safe for a while, Demoiselle.” He looked uncomfortably to the south. “Normally I would tell you to circle wide around Bryony Hill, but Barleymill is more than four hundred miles away. You will need to hurry to catch up with your friend, and you must take the straight route. Still, be careful not to go too near Bryony Hill. Warriors who approach it seldom return.”
“I’ll be glad to stay away from it,” said Clovermead. “Ugh! It sounds wretched.”
“Once it was beautiful,” said Fetterlock. “Once it was holy.” He glanced at Mullein. “I wish you would let little Mullein stay with us. You are taking her into danger. I promise you, we would care for her as our own child.”
“Do you want to stay?” Clovermead asked Mullein. Her heart tightened within her. “It’s true. We’ll be riding to Barleymill. You can stay if you want.” She looked at the little girl, and in her mind’s eye Sorrel stared at her with accusing eyes. She wasn’t sure if he would blame her more for bringing Mullein or for leaving her behind. “We would come and get you before winter.”
“You want me stay?” Mullein looked at her with hurt eyes.
Clovermead shook her head. “No. But I don’t want the bear-priests to recapture you either.”
“Maybe I stay,” said Mullein. “I scared, very much.” She looked uncertainly at Fetterlock—then frowned. “You were there,” she said suddenly. “I see in dream. You let Cyan Cross die.” Fetterlock turned dead white, and Mullein’s eyes widened. “Dream true, then.” She glanced at Clovermead. “You there, yes? You also see?”
“I saw it also,” Clovermead whispered. “Just for a moment. I don’t know how we got into the same dream.”
“It not matter,” said Mullein. She glanced at Fetterlock for a moment, cold as ice, then turned back to Clovermead. “I stay with you. Fight bear-priests, find Sorrel, save Mother.” She turned back to the Horde Chief. “You not care.”
“It was just a dream,” Fetterlock began, but then he fell silent. His head bowed. “Yes. We three shared a dream, by Our Lady’s pleasure, and you saw what I would never have told you. But I do care for you, Mullein. Very much. I have changed—” But Mullein’s scowl was fixed. “I also dreamed that you became my second granddaughter.” Mullein trembled, but she would not look at him. He sighed. “But some dreams, alas, are not true. I am sorry, little one.” He turned to Clovermead. “Lady watch over you all. Farewell, Demoiselle. I will see you at Yarrow’s Bowl in seven weeks.” He wheeled his steed, cast a last glance back at Mullein, and led his warriors northward back to the camp.
Clovermead looked at the Yellowjackets. “I’m looking for Sorrel, and when I find him, we’re going to go to Barleymill,” she said loudly. Bergander made the crescent sign. “This isn’t Chandlefort business anymore. If you don’t want to come to Barleymill, just come forward now. I need at least a pair of messengers to ride to Low Branding now and tell Mother to bring her army to Yarrow’s Bowl. You can all go as messengers, if you want.”
The Yellowjackets looked at one another. Some of them looked very tempted to kick their horses toward her. Corporal Naquaire started to clench his knees against his horse—then, shamefaced, relaxed his legs. The rest settled back in their saddles.
“That’s kind of you, Demoiselle,” said Sergeant Algere, “but we’ll be coming along with you anyway. Milady gave us fair warning back in Chandlefort. She said, ‘I want volunteers to escort my daughter. If I know her, she’s going to end up doing something horribly dangerous, and not at all what she’s been told to do, and she’ll need somebody to guard her, wherever she goes. So don’t volunteer unless you’re prepared to ride into the gates o
f Garum.’” Algere chuckled. “Milady had you pegged, right enough. Don’t you worry about us, Demoiselle. We made our choice back in Chandlefort when we signed up as your escort.”
“You can change your minds,” said Clovermead. The Yellowjackets stared at her woodenly, and Clovermead smiled. “I don’t much care for being mother-henned, and I’m going to have words with Mother about that, but I’m glad to have your company. It’ll be awfully dangerous riding to Barleymill.”
“Not so dangerous as facing your mother, and telling her we left you out here on the Steppes,” said Golion. The others laughed, and Clovermead laughed with them.
“I’ll still need messengers,” said Clovermead. “Sergeant, how many of the troopers have wives and children?”
“Corporal Naquaire,” said Algere. The Corporal smiled in sudden relief. “Habick.”
“Habick?” asked Clovermead. She looked dubiously at the redhead. “He can’t even grow a proper beard!”
“He surprised us, too,” rumbled Bergander. “Sneaked off to the chapel to get married without so much as a by-your-leave, with a girl no older than he is. And now they have a baby son!”
“I’m not asking to be sent back, Demoiselle!” Habick said hotly. “I’m no coward. The Sergeant has a wife and two daughters! Send him instead of me.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Naquaire whispered to Habick with harsh urgency. “Take your ticket out of this madness.”
“The Demoiselle can spare a trooper,” said Algere. “She needs me to keep the lot of you in good discipline.” Habick opened his mouth to protest again. “It’s an order, Habick,” said Algere, and the trooper sullenly acquiesced. “Give my goodwife my love, Habick,” Algere said softly. The trooper gulped and nodded.
In a minute, Corporal Naquaire and Habick were riding west for Low Branding. Clovermead glanced at Algere. A melancholy look had settled onto his face. I do need him, thought Clovermead. I think I’ll need all of them if I’m to have any chance of getting out of this alive. Lady, I know they say they’re volunteers, but I’m still the one who’s decided to risk their lives. Please make this worthwhile. Don’t let it be a madcap ride that ends with us all dead. She made the sign of the crescent to seal her prayer, and then Clovermead turned to the south and set Auroche galloping. The remaining seven Yellowjackets rode after her.
They rode for days over endless grass. The Steppes shifted their appearance in trivial details constantly, but the landscape’s monotony persisted from day to day. The sun wheeled overhead, and Clovermead was lost again, beyond what sense of direction the sun and the stars gave her. On rainy days she lost even that. She wouldn’t have minded so much if the Yellowjackets had a better sense of direction than she did, but they were as disoriented as she was. After a while Clovermead realized they were following her. She hoped that she was going on more or less the right bearing.
Mullein’s command of common tongue continued to improve. “The way you’re going, by midsummer you’ll be talking common tongue better than Sorrel,” Clovermead said to her fondly one evening. They were huddled around the campfire: A damp wind from the Moors was cooling the Steppes. “He will be surprised to hear you!”
“I am glad,” said Mullein carefully. She blew on her hands, still etched with quicksilver, and looked up at Clovermead. “What he like, Clovermead?”
“That’s right, you were still a baby when he left the Steppes. You wouldn’t know.” Clovermead smiled. “He’s a brave fighter—I’ve seen him kill two bear-priests in a single fight. He’s a good friend. He’s always helped me when I needed him. When I had just come to Chandlefort, and I didn’t have a friend besides him, he never let me get lonely. He’s always courteous to everybody and—well, he is a little vain, but he’s got good reason. There isn’t anyone handsomer in Chandlefort.”
“Sound like good brother,” said Mullein. She stared into the fire. “He knew mother alive? Knew me alive? In Barleymill?”
Clovermead shook her head. “He knew a few people from the tribe had survived, but he didn’t know either of you had. He thought his family was all dead.”
“He not abandoned us?”
“No!” said Clovermead. “Didn’t you see how he rode after the bear-priests to rescue your mother? He’d have done that as soon as he knew you were alive.” As I should have done.
Mullein nodded, satisfied. “He not like others. He better.” Then she couldn’t help but shiver. “In mines, slaves say, ‘They come save us, someday. Our town send army. Our Horde raid mines. Husband come, father fight.’ No one come. Then slaves die, lone in dark. Except Cyan Cross—Shaman-Mother keep us live.” She looked up again, and she smiled tremulously. “Sorrel come for mother. No one like him in world.”
“No one at all,” Clovermead agreed.
Later that night, Bergander strummed a jolly tune on his lute, and sang, cheerfully off-key, of the Yellowjacket and the milkmaid, the Yellowjacket and the duchess, the Yellowjacket and the seamstress, and some other songs about Yellowjackets so shockingly bawdy that Clovermead blushed brick red and refused to help Mullein understand the lyrics. The next two days a hot wind came out of the south, and the Yellowjackets shucked their thick jackets in the summery warmth. The sun shone bright and friendly, and flocks of birds flew northward overhead. Spring flowers bloomed everywhere, and prairie dogs shot out of their holes to stare at the Yellowjackets pounding by. Now Clovermead felt like she could ride on the Steppes forever, and she knew how Sorrel could love this land so much.
That evening they saw a black streak on the plain. When they came closer, Clovermead saw that something had left a trail of charred black paw-prints along the Steppe as it loped southward.
“Velika-gora,” said Mullein. “Monster is here.”
“It ran very fast,” said Clovermead. “I don’t think we’ll catch up with it.” She looked ahead. The blackened grass went on to the horizon.
The next afternoon they saw Bryony Hill on their right, far off to the southwest. It was a perfect cone that rose two thousand feet above the plain and could be seen dozens of miles away. A thread of a road ran up its smooth grass slopes, small dots traveled along the thread, and at the top was a large black square.
“They see us?” asked Mullein. She cowered from the distant fort.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Clovermead—and they heard a distant howl floating from Bryony Hill. “But let’s get behind the ridge here.” They cantered farther east, and out of sight of the bear-priests’ fort.
They continued to hear howls all day long. Mullein’s face grew pale and drawn. I must look just as scared, thought Clovermead. I hate that screaming.
That night the air was hot and thick. It weighed heavily on Clovermead and made her skin tingle. Dark clouds rolled over the Steppes, and lightning flashed to the west, where Bryony Hill lay hidden behind the sheltering ridge. The bolts were suffused with silver and scarlet, mercury and blood; the night seemed to be dripping blood, and the lightning flashed again, brighter than ever. A scream echoed through the Steppes, much louder and much nearer. There was terrible, racking pain in it and terrible hunger, the whimper of a serving dog and the growl of a wolf. It was the echo of nightmare.
“Monster,” Mullein moaned. “Don’t let eat me.”
“Should we ride now, Demoiselle?” asked Sergeant Algere. His face was pasty white.
Thick raindrops began to fall. “No,” said Clovermead. “We’d just slip and fall in this. I don’t think I’d do much better if I turned into a bear again to lead you. We might as well get some rest—with our swords out. Will you take the first watch?” Algere nodded. “I’ll take the second.”
She slept for a while, then stood watch in a pelting rain that threatened to drench their campfire at every moment. There were more screams in the night, but they didn’t come much closer. The monster seemed to be slowed down in the mud. The soldiers huddled as close as they could to the fire’s warmth. Near dawn, Clovermead woke old Golion to have him take the third watch, then wen
t to lie by Mullein. She took the little girl in her arms, so they could warm each other. Mullein clung to Clovermead, but tossed and turned with bad dreams. After a while Clovermead slept—
Three bear-priests were chasing Sorrel. He rode as fast as he could, but the bear-priests spurred their Phoenixians harder, and they came closer to Sorrel and Brown Barley. “How can I rescue myself?” he asked wearily.
“I’ll help you,” Clovermead cried out, but Sorrel couldn’t hear her. She bounded back to the bear-priests and clawed at them—but she was a ghost, and her paws went through their flesh without them noticing. The Phoenixians galloped on.
“Help him,” Clovermead heard someone say, but it wasn’t her. Mullein stood by her in the dream, looking on at the bear-priests and Sorrel. “Save my brother.”
“I am so tired,” a different voice whispered in the darkness. “I hurt so much.”
“I’ve helped you,” Mullein said to the voice. “Help my brother.”
“Help him,” Clovermead repeated. She took Mullein’s hand in hers and gripped it tightly. “Don’t let Sorrel die.”
“You don’t know what you ask.” The voice was familiar.
“Please,” said Clovermead, and Mullein echoed her. “Save him,” they said together.
“Lady, keep the pain from me,” said the voice. Then silver lightning fell from the sky and struck the foremost bear-priest. He screamed and fell, and somewhere the unseen voice was screaming too. The other bear-priests reined up their horses, and jumped down to attend to their fallen comrade. He still breathed, but he was unconscious and his head and chest were terribly burned. Ahead, Sorrel disappeared from view.
“He won’t live long,” one bear-priest grunted to the other. “Let’s bring him back to the temple. Tear out his heart on the altar while it’s still beating. The master can always use warm blood.”
The second bear-priest nodded, and they tossed their burned comrade roughly over the back of his Phoenixian. “Pity the Tansyard escaped,” the second bear-priest said—
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 59
