In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  They finished their breakfast, and then they rode over to join Lady Cindertallow and Fetterlock. “Good morning, Clovermead,” her mother greeted her. “You always seem to have trouble getting up in the morning.”

  “I got up at daybreak!” Clovermead protested—and then she saw her mother was smiling. “That’s me. Late for the morning hunt at home, late for the morning battle abroad. I hope I haven’t delayed you.”

  “I think you’ve showed up in time.” Lady Cindertallow’s eyes strayed to the bear-priests opposite, then returned to Clovermead. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk last night. I came to see you, but you were deep asleep. I thought it better to let you rest.”

  “I’m sorry too, Mother,” said Clovermead. She swallowed, and kneed Auroche a little closer to Lady Cindertallow. “I can’t remember,” she said in a low voice. “Is the Lady Cindertallow supposed to direct her soldiers from behind, or lead them into battle?”

  “Opinions vary. My advisers always suggest the former. I find the latter is essential for my self-respect.” She saw Clovermead was about to speak, and she shook her head. “I don’t think the Demoiselle’s counsel will make me change my mind.”

  “Pity.”

  “True. It’s the funniest coincidence, though. I was about to suggest that the Demoiselle could stay behind the lines and guard those slaves she brought out of Barleymill. By all accounts, she’s already done enough fighting these last few weeks.”

  Oh, Lady, I’m tired of fighting, thought Clovermead, but somehow the thoughts had turned into words and blurted out of her mouth. She couldn’t help but laugh. “And just plain tired. Thank you, Mother, but the Demoiselle will decline your kind offer. Can’t you just imagine what I’d say back in Chandlefort? ‘Sorry, I misplaced my mother.’ ‘Where did you leave her?’ ‘Oh, I left her on the front lines at Yarrow’s Bowl.’” Clovermead shook her head. “They wouldn’t think much of me. I don’t think I’d think much of myself either.”

  “This search for self-respect will be the death of all of us.” Lady Cindertallow treated her daughter to a mordant grimace. “I like the sound of that. Put that on my tombstone.” Lady Cindertallow brought her horse back a step from Clovermead, put on her spectacles, and squinted through them at the solid mass of bear-priests at the south end of Yarrow’s Bowl. The bear-priests had hoisted up their scarlet flag with the great black bear. The allied armies had formed a solid line opposite the bear-priests, along the north end of the Bowl. Behind them sat the slaves, too exhausted to do more than sit and wait for the result of the battle. The allies had scores of flags—Chandlefort’s burning bee, Low Branding’s sapphire pike, and all the different Tansyard flags. “I hear you’ve been fighting off these bear-priests for a week now,” Lady Cindertallow continued more loudly, so their companions could hear her too. “How on earth did so few of you do that?”

  Gratitude, thought Clovermead. Mercy. She shrugged awkwardly. “I think they were waiting for reinforcements,” she said. “The silver-bears, those screaming monsters, had to come from Bryony Hill. The bear-priests didn’t want to attack until they had arrived.”

  “That was a mistake,” said Lady Cindertallow. “We’ve given them a surprise, all right, showing up like this!”

  “Be careful, Milady,” said Fetterlock. “The silver-bears are formidable.”

  “We’ll still win the day,” said Lady Cindertallow.

  “I hope so.” Fetterlock made the sign of the crescent. “Lady have mercy on us.”

  Lady Cindertallow ignored him. She took off her glasses, raised her hand high, and waved her arm. Behind her a Yellowjacket herald raised an enormous golden flag with a silver crescent gleaming in the center. “There’s a flag for all of us,” she cried out to her audience of soldiers. She smiled with sudden enjoyment of her role as centerpiece of the martial spectacle. “Chandleforter, Low Brandingman, and Tansyard can fight for Our Lady together. Trumpeters, play!” She let her arm fall, and a chorus of horns burst out in glorious defiance.

  The horns of the bear-priests brayed in response, and their front line opened up. Boulderbash ran through it, toward the allies, with Snuff on her back. He carried a white flag of truce, and waved it in the clear air. The sun shone brightly on them, and Clovermead gasped to see how handsome Snuff was. For a moment she saw the young noble of Queensmart riding toward her—and then a cloud crossed the sun, and his beauty faded. He was only sharp-toothed, bloody Lucifer Snuff.

  Snuff brought Boulderbash to a halt fifty feet away. The Yellowjackets near Lady Cindertallow raised their swords, to warn him from getting too close. “Greetings, prey,” Snuff said cheerfully. “Are you ready to surrender?”

  “You are overconfident,” said Lady Cindertallow. She looked at the bear-priests opposite them. “I grant your soldiers are formidable, Snuff, but there are more of us. Your men cannot frighten us.”

  “I do not intend to frighten you with my men,” said Snuff. “That is what Lord Ursus’ other servants are for. It has taken a certain amount of time to gather them, but here they are. Look at them.” He lifted his own horn, and blew it sharply three times.

  There was another stirring among the bear-priests. Their lines opened again, and silver-bears padded through the front lines, here, there, and everywhere. There were a dozen of the monsters, a score, and finally thirty of the beasts stood scrabbling in the grass. One howled, and each in turn took up the cry. The screams traveled up and down the line. Ten feet tall, misshapen, jaws snapping, they looked eagerly at the army opposite them.

  “We cannot trust our bears, thanks to your brat,” said Snuff to Lady Cindertallow. “But these are still more man than bear, and she cannot affect them. Besides, they serve my lord from choice. I advise you to surrender.”

  “I came here to fight, bear-priest,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Save your breath.” But she had grown more uncertain now that the silver-bears had come to the fore.

  “You came to die, Milady,” said Snuff sweetly. “And you, Horde Chief,” he said, turning to Fetterlock. “The Hordes will lament if you fight—of that I assure you.”

  “I know it already,” said the Horde Chief. His voice throbbed with sorrow. “I tell you frankly, Bear-Priest, I do not want to see tomorrow.”

  “I will attempt to satisfy your desire,” said Snuff. He flashed his bronzed teeth at Fetterlock, then grinned at them all. “A fight, then.” He raised his voice. “This is your last chance for quarter! Any man who fights on will be killed. You are warned.” He waited, but the allied soldiers kept in place. Snuff shrugged, and he and Boulderbash rode back toward the bear-priests. His white flag lowered and disappeared.

  Run, girlie, he thought at Clovermead. You won’t be pursued.

  Thank you for the offer, said Clovermead. I won’t.

  No quarter for you, either, said Snuff. I am my master’s loyal servant, now and forever. He disappeared behind the bear-priests’ lines.

  The bear-priests came rushing across the valley. The silver-bears loped ahead of their companions, screaming, and bear-priest horns blared. The Yellowjackets and Low Brandingmen answered with a yell, and charged at the silver-bears and bear-priests while the Tansyards came galloping in on both flanks. There was a great clash of swords against swords, and the battle began.

  A silver-bear came howling at Clovermead and Auroche. She swung her sword in defense, and it was a flame of silver light. She slashed along its ribs, but its burning paws smashed against her and swiped her off Auroche. Her stirrups snapped and she went flying onto the ground. She turned bearish as she flew, so she could absorb the impact. She tried to keep her hand tight around her sword, but it flew from her hand.

  She turned back human, scrabbled for her sword, but she had no time: The terrible beast was leaping at her, screaming. She rolled away and its claws sank three inches into the dirt beside her. The grass charred beneath the silver-bear. It turned at once and leaped toward her again, and its screaming rang in Clovermead’s ears and made her dizzy and confused. The world spu
n and she didn’t know which way to run. She darted to the left, but it was the wrong direction, and the monster was coming down on top of her—

  Fetterlock ran from behind her and slashed the silver-bear with his broadsword. Its edge crumpled the creature’s rib cage, but the sword rotted and cracked with the impact. Fetterlock didn’t give the silver-bear time to recover, but hammered at its broken ribs with the stump of his sword. It howled, ribs snapped one after another, but the metal was sloughing from Fetterlock’s hands and the creature still hadn’t fallen. He kept on pounding, and now Clovermead saw tears start from his eyes. The last of his blade had fallen away, and he was punching the creature with his bare hands. His skin was turning red, as acid ate into it, and he was bleeding—soon the quicksilver oozing from the silver-bear would eat into his flesh and bone—and at last the monster collapsed onto the ground. Fetterlock dodged to one side of the dying silver-bear and came rolling toward Clovermead.

  “My hands hurt,” Fetterlock moaned. He rubbed his hands against his shirt and gasped as the flecks of acid oozed into the cloth. He tore two strips of cloth from his shirt, and bound them around his burned hands.

  “Thank you,” Clovermead gasped.

  “Tell Bardelle I fought hard for Our Lady,” said Fetterlock. He fumbled behind his neck, and drew another sword from a scabbard slung over his back. “I must be fighting again, Demoiselle,” he said, and he charged back into the battle.

  Clovermead recovered her sword from the ground, swung up onto Auroche, and galloped after Fetterlock. He hadn’t gone far: A line of bear-priests and White Star warriors fought with each other fifty feet away, and Fetterlock and Clovermead joined in the fray. There were more Tansyards than bear-priests, but each bear-priest fought with more than human savagery. Still, Clovermead’s sword parted their mail like soft cloth, and Fetterlock’s sword splintered their armor. Clovermead felt half a dozen slashes on her arms and legs, and one blade sliced down her side like searing flame. The ground around her was thick with the bodies of bear-priests and Tansyards.

  Clovermead had a moment’s respite, and she looked up to see silver-bears scythe through the battlefield. One a hundred yards away mowed its way through dozens of Tansyards, burning them, biting them, and smashing them to the ground. Tansyard after Tansyard rushed at it to throw a lance, fire an arrow from horseback, or strike at the monster with a sword. The beast howled its insatiable bloodlust, its pleasure at killing, and it struck down another half dozen Tansyards in seconds. Another score of Tansyard warriors came at the silver-bear. Now, at last, it howled in pain and disappointment, and fell dying to the ground. The remaining Tansyards had no time to rest, but moved on to fight the nearest bear-priests. Thirty Tansyards, dead or wounded, lay around the fallen silver-bear.

  The sun rose high in the sky. The armies fought each other in intimate embrace along the middle of Yarrow’s Bowl. The first eagerness that had galvanized both sides seeped out, and now they fought among the fallen with weary endurance. Soldiers sweated as much as they bled, and the grass had grown slippery underfoot. More than half the silver-bears lay dead on the field, but the remainder still ravened among the allied soldiery. Clovermead had lost sight of her mother hours before, she was barely aware of the battle around her, and she fought among dismounted Yellowjackets against a knot of bear-priests. Bergander was by her side, and so was Sergeant Algere. Habick and Corporal Naquaire were on Algere’s other side. Clovermead’s arm rose and fell, rose and fell, and Firefly had become nothing more than a hacking butcher’s knife. Bergander was singing some song, and then a scimitar sliced open his lungs. He fell, he died, with a look of surprise on his face. Four, thought Clovermead. Algere also fell, wounded in the thigh. Clovermead crushed the fingers of the bear-priest who had stabbed Algere, slew another bear-priest, raged forward, and left Habick and Naquaire and Algere far behind her. She fought alone, and then for a moment there was no bear-priest to face.

  Snuff came riding by on Boulderbash. He held a sword in either hand and he slew two Low Branding patricians as she watched. Boulderbash roared with terrible fury, and her great claws killed as many men as Lucifer’s swords. They moved in deadly harmony through the battlefield, more deadly than any silver-bear, and no soldiers dared oppose them. They simply fled whenever the fatal pair came close. Snuff caught sight of the slaves huddled behind a screen of Tansyard warriors, and he chortled with joy. He said something to Boulderbash, and she began to race toward the slaves.

  Wait, Snuff, Clovermead cried out in her mind. Don’t you want to fight me, Boulderbash? Here I am.

  I do, said Boulderbash. Turn around, Lucifer.

  As you wish, Snuff said amiably. He whirled around and faced Clovermead with his two swords high. Then Clovermead brought out Firefly, and swung it at him. Boulderbash’s paws swiped at her, and Clovermead parried swords and paws as quickly as she could. Snuff pressed forward, Boulderbash lunged toward her, and Clovermead fell backward. Firefly was a blur in her hands.

  “Not bad,” Snuff gasped out loud. He drew back Boulderbash for a moment and rested. “You’re a proper fighter now. You were just an amateur the last time we dueled, girlie.” There was admiration in his eyes.

  “You’re better too,” said Clovermead. “You had Ursus in you last time to help you fight. This time it’s just you.”

  “Any Queensmarter should be the match of a dozen Linstockers,” said Snuff. He grinned. “I don’t need his help to finish you off.” He raised his swords, gave Clovermead a second to prepare herself, then came galloping at her once more. His swords were a blur, and the left blade missed Clovermead’s neck by a finger’s width. Clovermead stumbled away from Snuff, and he drew back his swords again as Boulderbash reared high onto her hind legs—

  Sorrel’s sword sent Snuff’s first blade twirling into the air, and then he smashed Snuff’s second sword to the ground as it swung toward Clovermead. He was galloping in front of Boulderbash on Brown Barley, the bear’s paws barely missed Brown Barley’s rump, and then Sorrel was whirling around Boulderbash. He grinned at Clovermead from behind the bear. “You know, Clovermead, saving your life is becoming a habit. Bear-priest, butterfingers, can’t you even keep hold of your swords?”

  “Stupid whelp,” Snuff snapped. “Stop interfering.” In an instant he drew a dagger from his belt, turned, and threw it with deadly accuracy at Sorrel—and as Sorrel drew up Brown Barley to avoid the whirring blade, Snuff pushed himself up into a crouch and leaped from Boulderbash’s back into midair. He slammed into Sorrel before the Tansyard could bring up his sword to defend himself, and the two of them tumbled off of Brown Barley to the ground. Sorrel’s sword spun into the dust, and the two of them, unarmed, gouged and kicked at each other as they rolled on the grass—

  Boulderbash roared and leaped at Clovermead. Clovermead struck at her with Firefly, and Boulderbash didn’t try to avoid the stroke, but took the sword in her paw and swept it out of Clovermead’s hands. Only the side of her paw struck Clovermead, but the force of her blow sent Clovermead flying to the ground. Clovermead was turning into a bear, and then Boulderbash was on her, snapping at Clovermead with her teeth and clawing at her.

  Did you know I killed your Horde, Tansyard? Clovermead heard Snuff say in her mind, heard him say out loud to Sorrel however many feet away they were. Clovermead clawed at Boulderbash’s front legs, but barely scratched her skin. I convinced the Mayor to send his soldiers over the Moors. I summoned the bears and bear-priests. I led them all into your Horde that night. Boulderbash’s claws scoured Clovermead’s legs, and her fangs bit deep into Clovermead’s side. Clovermead screamed, rolled away from Boulderbash, and banged her paw against Boulderbash’s snout. The white bear recoiled for a second.

  You had a father, Sorrel? Snuff asked. He’s dead because of me. I pounded the nails into your mother’s hands myself—rank has its privileges. Boulderbash stalked toward Clovermead, and Clovermead scrambled onto all four feet as the bear approached her. She was twice Clovermead’s bear-size, and she
wasn’t even tired. Clovermead’s ribs ached from the effort of breathing. I’ll kill you, too, Tansyard, and tie up the last loose end of the Cyan Cross Horde. But first you’ll see me entertain myself with the deaths of your mother and sister—

  Sorrel screamed. He flailed at Snuff like a madman, like a beast, and all his self-control was gone. Cool and collected, Snuff easily dodged Sorrel’s blows. He clawed and punched the Tansyard with dispassionate precision, but Sorrel didn’t even realize how badly he was being hurt. He fought berserk, and Snuff was going to kill him. Boulderbash was coming toward Clovermead, and Clovermead had to turn and fight her, or she’d die too, but she couldn’t let Sorrel die. She ran toward Snuff and Sorrel, ignored Boulderbash’s oncoming fangs, and she leaped at Snuff. He cursed as he saw her coming, jerked away from her oncoming bulk, and Sorrel’s windmilling fist caught him square in the jaw. Snuff slumped to the ground—

  —And then Boulderbash caught the scruff of Clovermead’s neck in her mouth. Effortlessly she shook Clovermead, tossed her from side to side as if she were a rag doll. Clovermead bit at midair, scraped Boulderbash’s fur with her claws, but the white bear boxed Clovermead in the ear, and the blow shivered through Clovermead. She couldn’t move, could barely see, and she hung limp from Boulderbash’s jaws. Contemptuously, Boulderbash let her go, and Clovermead slumped helplessly to the ground.

  Boulderbash stood over her, panting. She looked at Clovermead with grief and rage greater than anything Clovermead had ever seen. Tears fell from the old bear’s eyes, blood dripped from her mouth, and her fangs were close to Clovermead’s throat. You deserve to die, she growled, with all the anguish in her heart. Torturer.

  Clovermead rolled her eyes away from the oncoming jaws, to Sorrel. Snuff lay unconscious on the grass, and Sorrel knelt above him. He had drawn a knife from his belt, and held it over the bear-priest’s chest. His face was a mask of hatred and grief. He cursed the unconscious bear-priest in Tansyard. His knife slashed toward Snuff’s shirt—bounced off a button and skidded to the grass. A drop of blood ran down Snuff’s chest.