In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “If you insist,” said Saraband. She glanced back at the distant figure of Lacebark. “So handsome,” she sighed. “If he steals anything else from you, do tell me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Surgery

  They went slowly westward through the Heath the next couple of days. The sky stayed mercifully clear. With a scattering of servants Clovermead anxiously patrolled the southern ridges. Once she thought she saw a lone rider, no more than a dot on the southern horizon, galloping along a distant crag. She turned her nose into a bear-snout, but there was only the scent of the desert. Then the dot was gone, and Clovermead wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not.

  Is that you, Snuff? she called out with her mind. All she heard was the flapping of a buzzard as it settled down on a coyote’s distant corpse.

  Clovermead turned into a bear again that evening and listened for a friendly growl, but the night was as silent as the day. The Heath was empty of friend or foe.

  Waxmelt rode with her again on the fifth day. Toward noon they left the servants behind them on a crumbly gray ridge and scouted even deeper into the southern Heath. They cantered past curving umber gulches that cracked the uneven plain and widened and deepened to the south. Stringy weeds and small cactuses dotted the gulches, where a little more moisture remained than on the plateau above. The wind blew from the north.

  “It’s going better than I expected,” said Waxmelt. “I had nightmares that we’d have hundreds of stragglers dropping off already. I’m glad you have that in hand.”

  “I just think of it as a movable inn, Father,” said Clovermead. “It’s only a matter of beds and food, with mules and oxen thrown in. Easy, really. I don’t even have to make the beds.”

  “Ten thousand people on the move, and she calls it easy! How do you do it?”

  “It’s just a matter of knowing when to smile and when to yell. Mother’s trained me pretty well over the years. And it really helps that I can let you worry about our defenses. I’d be run ragged if I had to do that, too.” Clovermead looked into the mouth of a dry gulch that suddenly opened up on their left. It was empty. “I’ll be glad when we get to Silverfalls, Father. Every minute we spend out here in the Heath makes me feel more nervous. I’ve been seeing bear-priests behind every rock.”

  “Even the small ones?” Waxmelt gestured at a foot-long stone ahead of them.

  “Especially the small ones! Imagine a million foot-high bear-priests mounted on locusts charging at you. You could squash the first few hundred fairly easily, but your feet would get tired, and they’d seize on your moment of weakness—foot-high bear-priests are nasty that way—and it would all be over for you.” Clovermead shook her head dolefully. “I get nightmares about their evil little cackles.”

  “Sometimes I worry about you, Clo.”

  “And the rest of the time you’re sure?” They both laughed. “I’ve been too tired to have nightmares,” Clovermead continued more seriously. “I don’t think I’ve worked harder in my life. I ride around all day, and in the evening I make the circuit with the Quartermaster and the nuns in the hospital wagons, to make sure nothing’s breaking down. Then I walk around the campfires, just to talk to people or see if anyone has any complaints. That I can do anything about, I mean. They all complain, but I can’t help them with most of what bothers them. All I can say is that we’ll get to Silverfalls soon. And when all that’s done, I collapse onto my pallet of straw and just sleep! Until you come and shake me awake when it isn’t even dawn yet. You don’t know how close I’ve come to biting you. We bears get snarly when we don’t get enough rest.”

  “There must have been a little bear in you when you were a baby,” said Waxmelt. “You’ve never liked getting up in the mornings. Mind you, you were up and running once you’d gotten the sleep out of your eyes, but you were always a grouch for the waking-up part itself.” He smiled fondly. “I don’t think you’ll ever change.”

  “All I want is nine straight hours of sleep. Or even six.” Clovermead yawned, and she and Waxmelt parted company to ride around a lone cactus, nine feet high, with three arms, each sticking out a man’s length from the central trunk. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way those things look. Any plant that big ought to be a tree, and it should have needles or leaves or fronds. That thing’s just a blob with spines—”

  Three figures in wolf-skins rode out of the nearest gulch. Each was six feet tall or more, each wore a scimitar, and each rode a slender white Phoenixian horse. Their teeth, filed and bronzed, gleamed in the pale sunlight of the desert spring.

  Bear-priests, thought Clovermead, and she froze. Waxmelt’s hands were slack on his reins as he gaped at the bear-priests, and the bear-priests stared back at the two of them with equal surprise. For a moment that seemed like forever, the five of them looked at one another, just twenty feet apart—then the first bear-priest drew his scimitar from his waist, kicked his horse in the flanks, and rode at Clovermead. His companions spurred after him, in deadly silence. While Waxmelt fumbled at his sword belt, Clovermead’s arm grew long and furry, and claws extended from her fingers. She ducked low as the bear-priest’s scimitar swung at her head, and then she smacked the bear-priest with a glancing blow to his wrist. His scimitar fell to the ground, his horse neighed and jumped to the side as Clovermead’s claws fell toward it, and the second bear-priest swerved to one side to avoid the horse’s hooves. Waxmelt drew his sword, and swung it in time to parry the third bear-priest’s sword as it came down toward him. The metal blades clashed, and the bear-priest spun his blade back and down toward Waxmelt’s waist—and Waxmelt parried him again, knocking the blade to one side, so that the edge only sliced the skin of Waxmelt’s knuckles. The first bear-priest was coming at Clovermead again, with a dagger in his hand, and Clovermead swung out of the way of the blade—but the second bear-priest’s sword was coming at her. She had no time to duck—

  A black bear growled and leaped. The bear-priest shrieked as the black bear’s claws gouged his forearm, and his blade turned, so that the flat slapped Clovermead in the ribs. Bruised, she turned to face the second bear-priest again—but all three of the enemy had turned to flee back into the gulches as more bears loped into sight. Already a dozen of them padded around Waxmelt and Clovermead.

  Hello, Nightbrawler, said the black bear. You can’t seem to keep out of trouble.

  You’re not the first to notice that, said Clovermead in her mind. Hello, Brookwade. I sure am glad to see you. “Father,” she said out loud, “this wonderful, beautiful, extraordinarily timely black bear is Brookwade. He helped me fight Mallow Kite, and I sent word from Chandlefort to ask him to help escort us to Silverfalls. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t know if he’d come in time, but he has, and I hope you don’t mind. He’s come in awfully useful already.”

  “So he has,” said Waxmelt shakily. He sheathed his sword, took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his bleeding knuckles, and bowed to Brookwade. “Please greet him for me, and tell him that he and his friends are most welcome.”

  Father says hello, said Clovermead. He’s very glad you’ve come, and he’s more polite about it than I could possibly convey.

  Brookwade growled courteously at Waxmelt, and turned back to Clovermead. I told you to come to the Reliquaries if you needed me—not to send my sister! She’s spent the last week nagging at me to groom my fur better, and to eat more trout, and telling me that our mother wouldn’t approve of my slovenly approach to life.

  She wouldn’t, said Sundrink, squatting on a nearby rock. She sniffed as she inspected Brookwade. And don’t forget to lick the blood from your claws. She glanced at Clovermead, gave her the briefest nod, and looked away.

  You see? Brookwade groaned. I had been quite happy in my slovenliness. I don’t mind risking life and limb for you and your two-legs friends, but setting a sister on me is really cruel.

  I should think you’d be glad to have your sister around to point out how to make a good impression, said Clo
vermead. She got off Auroche, turned fully into bear-shape, and rubbed noses with Brookwade. I seem to remember you liked preening and primping.

  It’s one thing to tell yourself that your teeth are a bit dull. It’s quite another to have an interfering busybody of a sister tell you the same thing. Sundrink snorted. I see you were right to think that your two-legs would need bodyguards against the bear-priests. There are one hundred bears right behind me. Another two hundred should show up by sundown.

  That’s wonderful! said Clovermead. She yipped with joy. We have only five hundred servants, so that almost doubles our strength. I’m very grateful.

  More than doubles, said Brookwade. Any bear is worth five of your two-legs. Clovermead cuffed at him, and Brookwade laughed and ducked. Anyway, changeling, we are still grateful to you for freeing us from Ursus, and we will never forget that—no matter how many times you call on us.

  Careful, Brother, Sundrink growled softly. She sat back on her haunches and looked coldly at Clovermead. You don’t speak for us all.

  Don’t mind her, Brookwade said to Clovermead. Sister is cankered and bitter. She’ll come along anyway, so long as there are bear-priests to bite.

  True, said Sundrink. She licked her lips. I trust those three who scampered off will be back with friends.

  It’s the lady-bears who give our kind a bad reputation, Brookwade confided loudly to Clovermead. We males are amiable, friendly sorts, but our sisters are vicious. Sundrink snapped at his short tail. Brookwade laughed, and danced away from her teeth. His stomach rumbled. Speaking of biting, we’d be glad if you could give us something to eat and drink. There’s some old snow out here in the Heath, and the odd rat, but none of us has had a proper meal since we left the Reliquaries. We could use any horse fodder you have, and spare casks of water.

  I’ll have the servants bring you some, said Clovermead. She turned back to human form and repeated her conversation to Waxmelt. “Can you feed them?”

  “As you say, it’s like running an inn,” said her father. “These are just furry guests.” He eyed the bears warily. “You’re sure they don’t want, um, fresh meat?”

  “Not unless they’re very hungry.” Waxmelt didn’t look reassured. “Just keep them well fed and you don’t have to worry.”

  “Somehow I’m worrying even more.” Waxmelt sighed. “Well, better hungry allies than none at all. I’m glad they’re here. Tell them I’ll have their meals ready for them by nightfall.” He bowed again to Brookwade and cantered off to the refugees.

  Clovermead turned back into bear-form. Everything’s fine, she said. Now tell me what you’ve been doing these last six years.

  Flirting with lady-bears, said Brookwade.

  Even though they’re vicious?

  Even though. And Featherfur is an exception. He smiled at Clovermead. My lovely, sleek, cinnamon mate. She’s back in the Reliquaries, keeping watch on our cubs.

  Cubs! cried Clovermead. Tell me more!

  Two handsome boys and one beautiful girl, said Brookwade. You’ve never seen cubs so skillful and bold.

  You’ve never heard such a doting father, growled Sundrink. Be careful, changeling. Once he’s started on his little monsters, he doesn’t stop.

  I don’t mind listening, said Clovermead. Tell me more, Brookwade.

  Clovermead was beginning to wonder whether she should have listened to Sundrink, when Brookwade finally stopped for breath an hour later. I should check to see that your food is ready, she said hastily.

  But I haven’t finished telling you how wonderfully they stalked that cardinal, said Brookwade plaintively.

  You can tell me tomorrow, said Clovermead. She turned human before he could think of a proper objection, got onto Auroche, and rode back to the townsmen. Brookwade and the rest of the bears followed after her. Nearly two hundred of them had gathered by the time she reached the carts, and more trotted into the camp every few minutes. There were large bears and small bears, black bears and brown bears, bears barely more than cubs and grizzled grandfathers. The refugees regarded them warily, but relaxed as the bears tucked into the tubs of fodder and water that Waxmelt had left for them. The bears looked at the humans with equal wariness, and kept their distance. After they had eaten, they retreated back to the open Heath. A little apart from each other, humans and bears fell asleep.

  The next three days Clovermead ran with the bears in bear-shape along the southern ridges. Brookwade finally ran out of stories about his cubs, but it took two solid days. The desert of the Heath fell behind them, and they came to the grasslands that fringed the Reliquary Mountains. The peaks ahead grew higher, and she could see the slot in the mountains that showed the way to Silverfalls. The bears drank from little streams and ate from the supplies the servants brought them. The refugees walked more slowly every day. Saraband kept busy at the rear of the convoy, tending women and children who had fallen by the roadside, and helping them to get up and keep going.

  “I wish we could rest for a day,” said Saraband on the evening of the eighth day out from Chandlefort. Her eyes were shadowed and hollow, and exhaustion had made her face paler than ever. She huddled close to the scanty fire. “The children are worn out. Dozens have fever.”

  “The bear-priests are coming,” said Clovermead. “We can’t stop. Dear Lady, I wish we were in Silverfalls.”

  “I don’t,” said Saraband. She grimaced. “I’ve been imagining my conversations with my mother. ‘So, Mother,’ I’ll say, ‘are you still refusing to talk with me?’ Silence. ‘So, Reverend Abbess, have you forgiven me for going against your wishes and agreeing to be Demoiselle? I was only nine, Lady Cindertallow was insistent, and I was trying to do what was right. I gave up being Demoiselle ten years ago. Does it make a difference?’ Silence.” Saraband laughed bitterly. “I’d rather be in Chandlefort. It’s bad enough to know my mother won’t speak to me when she’s a hundred miles away. I don’t know how I’ll endure her silence when we’re under the same roof.”

  “Perhaps she’s softened by now,” said Clovermead. “She can’t reject you her whole life.”

  “She has so far,” said Saraband. “I don’t see why she should change now.” She sighed. “Never mind.”

  The next day Clovermead went out in bear-form again. She ran with the bears in grassland grown hilly, and dotted now with trees and small lakes. The grass had turned green, and exuberant buds sprouted on the tree branches. The wind blew briskly from the north, but the day was almost warm. Clovermead enjoyed herself as she ran. The sun glowed on her fur.

  She looked south, and the land was empty. We will make it safely, she thought happily. We’ll be in Silverfalls before the bear-priests come.

  Clovermead looked again, and a thousand riders dotted the southern horizon. They pounded northward, accompanied by bears who loped through the grass. The wind shifted suddenly to blow from the south, and now blood and musk wafted to her nostrils. Clovermead roared as loud as she could, and the servants to the north galloped hastily to reinforce the bears.

  “Faster on the left!” yelled Waxmelt. He rode like a sheepdog among the servants. “Don’t bunch up! No, you’re drifting to the right!” He chivvied the servants into a coherent line, while behind him the townsmen pushed their carts together into an enormous ellipse. The grown men lined the wall of carts with swords and spears while the women and children retreated to within the impromptu walls.

  Never become a nun, Clovermead, Clovermead thought. You have no talent for prophecy. No more than a minute had passed, and Ursus’ soldiers were almost upon them. The nearest bear-priests had drawn their scimitars; behind them other bear-priests blew howling horns. Are you ready? Clovermead roared out loud. The bears growled assent, the servants readied themselves behind the bears, and then the enemy were among them.

  A white bear clawed at Clovermead and swept beyond her. Bear-priests to either side of her sliced wildly with their scimitars, careless of whether they hit an enemy or one of Ursus’ enslaved bears. Clovermead ducked a black bea
r’s jaw and bit at his shoulder. She felt about with her mind, and saw Ursus’ blood-net tight on him. I can fix that, thought Clovermead, and in her mind she swung Firefly at the black bear. A dagger of light sliced out of her, and she made it as keen as she could. Don’t worry, Clovermead said to the bear. I’ll have your bonds cut in no time.

  The light severed the crimson net—but the net reformed when the light had passed. Clovermead growled in frustration, and smashed at the scarlet shackles again with her mind. The bear howled with joy as the shackles splintered—and howled in agony as they dug in again. He leaped at Clovermead, Lord Ursus’ puppet once more, and Clovermead had to duck as his teeth snapped at her neck. She gripped the shackles a third time, tried to hold them open with her light—and the bear was suddenly frozen. His jaws were open, prepared to bite at her, and there were more bears coming. I’m sorry, Clovermead said to him, and her claws slashed through his neck. Bleeding, dying, he fell to the ground. The blood-net slipped away from him.

  Ursus’ mocking laughter echoed in its scarlet strands.

  I wanted a better end, the bear thought, and then he died.

  What happened? asked Brookwade. He stood by her side, his jaws bloody and his chest heaving, and behind him a dead bear-priest torn from his steed lay sprawled on the grass. Why didn’t you free him?

  Ursus changed his blood-net, said Clovermead numbly. I don’t know how. I can only freeze his bears for a moment; I can’t free them. Oh, Lady, I’ve been waiting six years for the chance to free more bears, and now I can’t. Tears started from her eyes. Brookwade, I can’t let them kill us. I’m sorry.

  Spare any you can. Brookwade growled his helpless rage and misery. They are our family and our friends.

  I’ll try, said Clovermead, and they were swept apart by battle.

  More of Ursus’ bears and bear-priests arrived by the minute, roaring and howling as they came. Waxmelt led his servants against the bear-priests, and hacked down a burly bear-priest with his sword. In her mind Clovermead swung Firefly again and again, and daggers of light froze the bears in place. Some collapsed as the daggers of light faded, but others sprang at her again with tireless fury. She crushed the first bear’s skull between her jaws. She slew a second bear, a third, and a fourth, and she wept as the helpless slaves of Ursus stared at her in sad bewilderment while they died. Now bear-priest horse archers joined the fray: They shot deadly bolts, and bears and servants dropped screaming to the grass. Clovermead, the bears, and the servants fell back toward the wall of wagons and the townsmen’s spears.