A scream woke Clovermead. It had stopped raining in the gray light of dawn, and the monster was much closer. It was still miles away, but it was terribly loud.
“Now we ride,” said Clovermead to the Yellowjackets around her, and they scrambled to their horses. She paused for a moment, though, to stare curiously at Mullein. “You were in a dream of mine again.”
Mullein nodded. “You in my dream. We save Sorrel.” She smiled. “True dream, vision. He alive.”
“That really happened?” asked Clovermead. Mullein nodded. “I know that woman’s voice.” Clovermead snapped her fingers. “That last night at the White Star encampment! I heard her voice just before I started wandering into other people’s dreams.” Where are you? the voice had said. I can’t find you, little one. Clovermead’s eyes went wide. “She was looking for you. Who is she?”
“Shaman-Mother,” said Mullein. “She find me now, at last.” She touched her chest. “She in here again, with me.”
“What do you mean?” Clovermead asked, but then there was another scream, much closer. “Never mind. I’ll ask again later, if there is a later. Now let’s go.”
They galloped due south in the early morning light. Their horses’ hooves swished through the dew on the grass, and the sun rising on the eastern horizon stabbed Clovermead’s eyes whenever she looked back to see what was chasing them. The screams came every few minutes, closer and closer. The horses whimpered with fear and bolted as fast as they could, now that there was light enough to see by. The thing came nearer still. It was running far faster than a galloping horse. Clovermead felt for her father’s sword at her side and gulped. I hope this thing can be fought, Lady, she prayed.
They leaped over a tiny brook, past a row of poplars by the streambank, and then up a hill. The soil here was thick clay, and only supported a pale grass, less than half a foot tall. They reached the summit, and there was bare flatland ahead of them for another mile. Another scream tore through the poplar trees just behind them.
“Fight here,” said Clovermead. “At least we’ll have the advantage of height on it.” She whirled around and drew her sword, and the Yellowjackets did likewise. Then the thing emerged from the trees and into the bare grass.
It glowed with a silver sheen, it loped on four legs, and it had long claws on each paw. It was as long as a bear, with fur like a bear, but it was far thinner than a bear, with a body of human thickness. Its face was almost human—flat and hairless, but with fanged jaws that protruded like a wolf’s. It was a human being, Clovermead realized with a shock, but stretched all out of shape. Its bones had been pulled like taffy, stretched until it was ten feet long and more, and the misshapen thing howled its pain and its bloodlust. It ran at them with even greater speed. Where its paws touched the ground, the grass withered, blackened, and died.
Bergander spurred his horse, charged the creature, and swung his broadsword at it. The creature wrapped its great paws around the sword, let its edge dig into its flesh, and jerked the sword from the trooper’s hands. The blade soared into the air, its surface corroded with acid, and then the creature swung backhanded at the Yellowjacket and smashed him off his horse. Bergander rolled twenty feet, and moaned on the grass as the creature moved on.
Clovermead charged the monster while the Yellowjackets galloped to surround it. The beast growled, pawed the ground—then flung itself toward the Yellowjackets behind it. It leaped onto old Golion before he could move his sword, grabbed his head, and broke his neck with a howl of delight. It dropped the dead soldier to the ground, and leaped for Algere, who shied out of its way. The beast’s claws sliced through the Sergeant’s chain mail, and opened up his arm from his shoulder to his elbow. Mullein whimpered, soldier and beast both shrieked, and then Clovermead reached the monster as Algere slumped to the ground.
Clovermead swung Firefly—and it blazed with light. The creature ducked beneath the arc of light, and then it was dancing to avoid Clovermead’s blade, and its claws swung out all the time, so that Auroche jumped away from it and Clovermead’s aim was wild as often as not. Clovermead pressed the monster close, the four unwounded Yellowjackets jabbed at it tentatively, and the beast, the velika-gora, kept them all at a distance. It was faster than any of them, stronger than any of them, and it screamed, never losing its breath, and each scream was a touch of nightmare that chilled and slowed down the Chandleforters.
The beast jumped suddenly toward a Yellowjacket behind him, cabbage-nosed Lewth. Lewth screamed and dropped his sword. The beast laughed—and in an instant leaped toward Quinch the lancer. With one motion it broke Quinch’s wrist, with another it punched his jaw and sent him reeling, unconscious, to the grass. The beast turned in a flash and leaped toward Clovermead and Mullein. Clovermead screamed with terror and slashed at the beast with Firefly, whose light blazed brighter than ever as she sliced off the creature’s paw.
The beast howled with shock and pain. Silvery blood bubbled out of its stump, and with a scream of pure hatred it swung its other paw with all its force at Clovermead. Auroche fell to one side as Clovermead tumbled to the ground with Mullein in her arms, and Firefly fell to the grass beside her. The beast prepared to leap—and the tip of a sword emerged from its chest. The beast looked down, whimpered, and then slid dead to the ground. Behind it stood Brown Barley, with Sorrel on her back, his sword drenched in silver from hilt to tip. The surface of his sword was melting from the beast’s acid blood.
“You seem to need saving a lot, Demoiselle,” Sorrel said quietly. Then he shook his head. “Ah, Clovermead, what would you do without me?”
“I never want to know,” said Clovermead. On wobbly legs she got to her feet, then helped up Mullein. “I kept Mullein safe for you.”
Sorrel smiled at Mullein, and Clovermead thanked Our Lady that she could see his smile again. Even if it isn’t for me. I was so afraid I would never see his smile again. Sorrel swung down from Brown Barley, dropped his disintegrating sword to the ground, and ran to catch Mullein in his arms. They spoke to each other in Tansyard, hugged each other, and then Sorrel put her down. He looked at Clovermead again and she wanted to run to his arms, to hug him as tightly as he had hugged Mullein—but there was still a distance in his eyes, a coldness and a wariness, and she made herself stand still.
“I am glad to see you are safe,” said Sorrel at last.
“I’m glad to be safe,” said Clovermead. Then she couldn’t help but look at the Yellowjackets. Bergander was still stunned, Quinch and Sergeant Algere were wounded, and Golion was dead. Clovermead made herself go to Golion’s side and look down at his fresh-scarred face, at his neck so horribly awry. At his face twisted in pain and fear.
Not even Chandlefort business, she told herself, and her eyes were hot with tears. My fault. And he’s just the first. She made the crescent sign over his body. Lady, take his soul. Lady, don’t let me get used to having people die for me. Then she couldn’t bear to look at the old trooper anymore, and she turned away from his body.
While Quinch’s wrist and Sergeant Algere’s arm were bandaged, Sorrel took Golion’s sword to replace his melted blade. Clovermead looked with sudden dread at Firefly—and was relieved to see that the creature’s blood had dripped off and left the metal unharmed. She wiped the blood on the grass, then sheathed her sword.
Sorrel was staring at the dead creature, and Clovermead went to join him. It still shone a ghastly black and silver. Fur like bristles covered leathery skin, which stretched over elongated, melted bones. It looked less of a monster in death: The scream and the snarl had faded, the pain was gone, and it was almost human. Still, its body burned the grass around it. The black poison had already spread three feet beyond the corpse.
“I saw him on Bryony Hill not two days ago,” whispered Sorrel. “He was a bear-priest. Look, he had blue eyes and a scar on his left cheek. There they are.” He pointed and Clovermead saw them. “He was made into a monster on Bryony Hill.”
“Velika-gora,” said Mullein solemnly. “Like others
, in mines.” She clung to Clovermead and looked up at Sorrel. “You rescued mother?”
Sorrel’s face twisted in despair. “I tried. I cannot do it by myself. There were dozens of bear-priests guarding her, and they drove me away when I came too close.”
“We came to help you,” said Clovermead. She gestured awkwardly at the Yellowjackets, at Mullein, at herself. “We were riding to Barleymill to help you rescue your mother.”
“You have given up your mission?” Sorrel stared at her wonderingly.
“No,” Clovermead admitted. “I’ve finished it already.” Quickly she told him what had happened at the White Star camp.
“Ah. You have done what policy demands, and now you come to help me.” For a moment Sorrel could not hide his disgust. With difficulty he wiped it from his face. “It does not matter. I am glad you have come.” He looked back toward Bryony Hill. “We should ride quickly, before more such monsters come.” Then Sorrel glanced down at his scuffed yellow jacket and trousers. “I know you gave me permission to depart, but let us not pretend that matters. Lady Cindertallow will say that I am a deserter from the Yellowjackets. I have not been able to change clothes yet, Clovermead, but I cannot be in the service of the Cindertallows anymore. I am simply a Tansyard riding with you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Clovermead. “I wish—”
“I am not sorry,” said Sorrel brusquely. He strode off to mount Brown Barley.
Chapter Twelve
Riding South
Clovermead helped the Yellowjackets bury Golion, and then the party galloped south in a gray day where drizzle spattered down on them. No more monsters screamed. Toward evening they rode over the ridge and saw that Bryony Hill had almost disappeared behind them to the northwest. After dusk they made camp. Mullein and Sorrel separated from the others and talked for some hours. Then Mullein dragged Sorrel back to the fire where Clovermead and the Yellowjackets were huddled against the cold. She sat down and Sorrel sat down by her side.
“I hear you made quite a speech to the White Star Horde,” said Sorrel in a low voice, so only Clovermead and Mullein could hear him. “Mullein says the stars came down from heaven to listen, and that every blade of grass on the Steppes will fight on our side against Ursus.” Mullein blushed, and Sorrel smiled wryly at her. “I think my sister is fond of you.”
“She like Shaman-Mother,” said Mullein. “Never go from me.”
Clovermead looked at Mullein curiously. “I never did get a chance to ask you about that. You said she was still with you. And then—” She turned to Sorrel. “Did lightning strike a bear-priest who was chasing after you?” Sorrel nodded. “I saw it in a dream. Mullein was there, and I heard a woman’s voice, and Mullein and I asked her to help you. Then the lightning struck. Mullein, was that the Shaman-Mother?”
“Yes,” said Mullein uncomfortably. “I ask her help Sorrel, she does.” She tapped at her head and her heart. “Shaman-Mother in me. Never go.” She held up her hands, and they were still lined with silver. “I help her. I carry hwanka-velika, take some her pain. Now she help me.”
Clovermead took Mullein’s hands in hers and examined them in the firelight. The silver had faded for a while, but now it was as bright as ever. When she looked closely, it looked as if more threads of quicksilver were oozing into Mullein’s flesh, coming from nowhere.
“How is this happening?” Sorrel asked angrily. “Why is she doing this to you? You are just a little girl.”
“Not so bad,” said Mullein. “I stand it. Shaman-Mother take lots pain, from me, from all, always. And I must. For now.”
“How long?” asked Clovermead. She gingerly touched the line of silver in Mullein’s palms once more. Now that she looked closely, she could see that Mullein was still thin, despite all the food she had been eating. A cobweb of quicksilver lined her body and ate into her. “Haven’t you helped her enough?”
“Not yet,” said Mullein. She cocked her head, listening to something invisible. She nodded. “Shaman-Mother say, when you come Barleymill, I stop having pain. She say, ‘Come quick.’” Mullein frowned. “I say, ‘We come now.’ She not hear me. She very weak. She not help Cyan Cross much more. I think, we hurry.” She looked up anxiously at Sorrel and Clovermead. “You save Shaman-Mother, too? She hurt so much, from helping us. Don’t leave her in mines.”
Sorrel swallowed hard. “We will save her also, Mullein. You do not need to worry.”
“Good,” said Mullein, and she smiled radiantly. “I sleep now,” she added, and then she promptly leaned against Clovermead and did so.
Sorrel looked down at his sister, and he looked angry again. “I do not care how great the need was. The Shaman-Mother should not be using her like this.”
“The Shaman-Mother saved your life,” said Clovermead. “Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“No,” said Sorrel. Now he looked at Clovermead with smoldering anger. “You are always ready to have little ones pay prices for others. First my mother, now my sister. No, do not tell me how sorry and unhappy you are! In the end, you go ahead and let them suffer. For the, what is it called? The greater good.” He grimaced. “From where did you get that habit?”
“My mother, I suppose,” said Clovermead quietly. “I’ve been with her three years now, and I suppose some of her has rubbed off on me. I’m sorry you don’t like me being that way, but I don’t think I’m going to change. Somebody has to make the decision to say, ‘You, you’re going to fight against Lord Ursus, and you’ll probably die in the battle.’ ‘You, I can’t help you because there’s a whole city full of people I have to save right now, and I don’t have time to do both.’ ‘You, little girl, you have to do your part of the fighting too, even though you’re just eight, because if you don’t, a thousand other little girls are going to end up in the mines.’” You, Golion, you’re going to die at the hands of a monster, far away from home. “I wouldn’t have volunteered to make choices like that, but it turns out I’m Demoiselle and I have to. When I’m Lady Cindertallow, I’ll have to make even more choices like that. I won’t shuck that burden. I suppose it will get to be a habit, and I suppose it will be easy for me to tell other people to make sacrifices, and I’d hoped you’d be with me still, to tell me when I was doing something wrong.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of any of that just now. I was glad you were alive, and I didn’t care about anything else.”
Sorrel opened his mouth, then shut it. He was silent for a long minute, then cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “I am glad to be alive too.” For a moment Clovermead thought he might smile at her, give her his hand, say they were friends again—but he just looked away from her. He wasn’t so hostile toward her, but he wasn’t close to being friendly. Just civil. The same way he was with Saraband.
“Where have you been?” asked Clovermead hastily. She didn’t want him to see how white her face was in the firelight, didn’t want him to notice how much his cool indifference hurt her. “What did you do after you left?”
“It is a brief enough story,” said Sorrel. “First I followed the bear-priests and my mother. They went through the Harrow Moors for a day, then out into the Steppes. Soon their tracks split—Snuff on that bear off into the Steppes, and the others south along the edge of the Moors. I did not know which of them had my mother, but I thought it more likely she was with the group heading south, toward Barleymill. So I went that way.
“I rode fast and I came within sight of them in three days. By then other bear-priests had joined them: I saw ten bear-priests and a figure trussed up on a horse that I knew was my mother. I saw also that they watched the Steppes around them very carefully, that they kept good sentry-guard at night, and that I would not be able to sneak up to them and free my mother as I had hoped. Instead I had to follow them at a distance of some miles, not letting them out of my sight, but staying far enough away that they could not see me. So we went for several days.
“We came at last to Bryony Hill, which I had last see
n as I fled from the camp of my slaughtered Horde. The bear-priests’ fort and temple has grown huge since then: They squat upon the summit, there is a constant traffic of carts into the fort, and great bodies of bear-priests ride and march on the road they have slashed into the Steppe. The bear-priests led my mother into the fort and I knew I had waited too long. I knew I would have to try to rescue her that night—they would take her the next day to Barleymill in the middle of a regiment of bear-priests, and there would be no way to extricate her then.
“I tethered Brown Barley in a copse at the base of the hill and crept up in the darkness toward the fort. It was slow going: The road curls up Bryony Hill, and I had to curl too, to avoid the torches and the tramp of bear-priests. There were a great number of bear-priests marching up the road that night. I stopped once in the shadow of a boulder, by the side of the road, and watched the procession pass by me. At their lead was that bear-priest with the scar, the one that became a monster whom I killed this morning. He strode forward without a scimitar and the other bear-priests sang a harsh song of praise for him. He wore a dozen bear-teeth on his body, and he smiled in exultation. Behind him the bear-priests carried barrels of glowing liquid—hwanka-velika, quicksilver.
“They passed me by, marching toward the temple, and then I was past the half-built walls of the fortress and up to the wooden ramparts of their black fort. There was only one gate to the fort, and it was lashed tight in the darkness. I crept to the walls, staying out of sight of the sentries, and began to feel to see if there was some way to climb up them. The stones were rough, and I thought I could do it. I began to ascend.
“I came to the top and I saw a great barracks filling the fort. Torches lit the night, and I saw bars on the barracks windows. I thought perhaps my mother was imprisoned there, and I began to creep along the wall toward her. As I crept, I heard a wailing chant from the temple. It grew louder and louder, faster and faster—and then a crack of lightning broke from the heavens, scarlet and silver, and I heard a terrible scream from the temple’s heart. The singing continued, loud and exulting, it shivered through me, and I stumbled as I crawled. My elbow cracked against the parapet, and a stone tumbled to the ground inside the fort.
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