In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Snuff laughed, and staggered to his feet. “You should see your face! Poor little girlie’s had her birthday doll snatched from her. I can see that through all that fur.” He felt at his chest, and winced as his fingers touched raw flesh. “So much for tactics. Snatch-and-grab, suicidal folly, and a bear willing to die for you gets you your locket for a second only. There’s philosophy there for you.” Clovermead snarled at him, stepped toward him in anger—and howled as she put weight on her hurt ankle. Snuff reached behind his back and drew a short sword. “I can still fight. Can you, hobble-foot? No reason to, though, now your friend’s taken the caul. Say truce, and we can go back to our armies. We’ll fight another day.”

  Bring it back to Chandlefort, Mullein had told Sorrel. And the caul was getting farther away by the moment.

  Clovermead turned human again. “Go,” she groaned. “I’ve got better things to do than kill you.”

  “I rather liked killing you,” said Snuff. “Pity it didn’t stick.” He smiled, and his teeth shone. “But life is full of second chances. We’ll meet again, girlie—in Chandlefort. Maybe there we’ll fight honestly, without these magic tricks.” He laughed, and then he was stumbling, jogging eastward toward Charbonlea Fort, toward the Fustic Hills and Ursus’ army.

  Clovermead picked up Firefly and limped back toward Sorrel as Snuff trotted out of sight. She found Sorrel bandaging his skull. “Lacebark stole the caul,” she said. She quickly told him what had happened. “Sorrel, can you overtake him?”

  “Hello, Sorrel,” said Sorrel. “I’m glad you aren’t bleeding to death, Sorrel. Isn’t it nice that we’re both still alive, despite having faced a suddenly immortal swordsman?” Sorrel groaned, felt at his head, and looked at the lava around them. “Maybe,” he said. He looked at Clovermead. “You cannot run on your hurt ankle?”

  Clovermead shook her head. “After the caul healed me, I could have outrun Brown Barley, but now . . . My ankle will be fine in a day, but that’ll be too late.”

  “Then if your friend Sundrink is dead, you cannot come with me,” said Sorrel.

  “I’d been thinking that,” said Clovermead. She grimaced. “I don’t want to send you away, Sorrel. I’d rather you stayed with me.”

  “So would I,” said Sorrel. “But this is the sensible choice.” He smiled grimly. “Besides, I would not mind killing the thief. I will do so as soon as I get the caul away from him.”

  “Right now, I can’t say I’d object,” said Clovermead.

  “Good,” said Sorrel. He took Clovermead’s face in his hand and kissed her, with desperate passion. She kissed him in return, equally hard. After a minute Sorrel reluctantly stepped away from her. “I must ride now if I am to catch up with that cursed thief. You said he went northwest?” Clovermead nodded. “When I have caught up with him and retrieved the locket, we must bring it back to Chandlefort. Where shall I meet you?”

  “Do you know that hay meadow on the western edge of the Chandlefort fields?” Sorrel stared at her blankly. “Oh, Lady. Don’t you remember? All right, how about the summit of the hill just north of Chandlefort?”

  “Which one, Clovermead? I seem to remember that there are at least three hills there.”

  “The cave on the Low Branding road—no, not near a road. Ursus’ army would be right there, like as not.” Clovermead sighed. “In Chandlefort itself.”

  Sorrel scowled. “According to prophecy, that is not a good place to be. Your mother certainly did not want you there.”

  “I know,” said Clovermead. “But we’re not doing too well at coming up with another place for a rendezvous, and Lacebark’s getting farther away by the minute. Anyway, we’re supposed to bring the caul to Chandlefort itself, not someplace outside the walls. So you should ride straight to Chandlefort, and—and if you’re going there, I will too. I wouldn’t send you there without me.”

  “Perhaps if we waited five minutes, we could come up with a better plan?”

  “I’m all ears,” said Clovermead. She waited a moment. “Ticktock. Ticktock.”

  “You are not helping,” said Sorrel. He sighed. “I wish we had more time. I wish I had not forgotten the landscape around Chandlefort while I was out on the Steppes. Especially I wish that you would not jump headlong into horrible prophecies with quite such enthusiasm.”

  “I’m afraid that trying to be too clever by half so as to sidestep prophecy doesn’t much help,” said Clovermead. “I’ll bet if you did know where the hay meadow was, and we arranged to meet in it, Ursus would decide to set up his headquarters right there. We’d be blundering through ten thousand bear-priests as we tried to find each other. Have you come up with a better idea for a place to meet?”

  “How can I, with you chattering at me?” asked Sorrel. He glared at her. “My head hurts, and all I can think of now is a myriad of bear-priests in some meadow. Chandlefort geography has flown from my head.” He looked anxiously to the northwest and groaned. “Chandlefort it is. Tell Lady Cindertallow this lunacy was not my idea.”

  “Don’t you worry. She knows us both too well for that.” Clovermead suddenly looked blank. “How do I get to Chandlefort from here?”

  “I see I am not the only one who is shaky on geography,” said Sorrel. He smiled a little. “Run north along the Fustic Hills. Make sure you do not get too thirsty in this wilderness! There is a small spring by Rosemount—that is the one hill in the Fustics that is not yellow—very near the old quarry in the mountainside, where once they mined the stones for the walls of Chandlefort. After the Fustics run out, the bear-priests on the Charbon Pike will be able to see you, so veer west and out of sight of the Pike. Keep heading northwest, and you cannot miss Chandlefort. There is a mud hole up in the Heath, between the Two Eggs—you cannot miss them. The mud hole has fresh water.”

  “That seems clear enough,” said Clovermead. “I don’t think I’ll have any problems.”

  “I have given you directions to your death,” said Sorrel. He shivered. “Kiss me again, beloved.” They embraced as tightly as they could. Clovermead made their kiss last as long as possible.

  “Until we meet again,” said Sorrel. He leaped onto Brown Barley and took a last look at Clovermead, and then he was galloping after Lacebark. In the blink of an eye he was out of sight.

  “In this world or the next,” said Clovermead softly. She sighed, shivered, and turned into a bear. She hobbled back toward the site of her battle with Snuff—there was Sundrink’s body, already growing stiff. I don’t have time to bury you, thought Clovermead. Besides, there’s no dirt here. She roared a prayer to Our Lady, Be kind to her. Treat her gently.

  She limped northward on the Black Plain.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Gates Close

  Clovermead didn’t stop to rest until long after midnight. She flopped down on the lava and slept in bear-form. The fur on her body kept her warm in the icy desert night. She was exhausted, and she didn’t wake until midmorning. When she finally rose, her ankle ached so much that she could barely walk over the cracked surface of the Black Plain. After noon, however, her pain began to fade, and she picked up speed. Here the Fustic Hills hooked west into the Black Plain, and Clovermead climbed halfway up their slopes on a narrow track she found in the dirt. The Fustics smelled of sulfur, and from time to time foul-smelling vents of smoke erupted from cracks in the ground. Still, there was greenery up here, and even a few thin pine trees on the crest of the hill. In a mountain meadow where snow still lingered in the shady hollows, Clovermead stopped to drink water from a stream and nibble grass. As she ate, she wandered up to the crest of the Fustics. She peered over the edge—

  Lord Ursus’ army stood before her. Innumerable bear-priests marched northward, in a line that stretched from the southern horizon to the northern one. Directly in front of Clovermead they had set up a small city filled with tents, food, and barrels of water. Slaves scurried to bring food and drink to the marching soldiers as they passed by. Ten miles to the north, Clovermead saw more slaves had
set up another commissary. The bear-priest vanguard was already well beyond it.

  They’ll have Chandlefort besieged in days, Clovermead thought as she lurched back down the grassy slope. Hurry up!

  What will I do if I beat the bear-priests to the city? she asked herself as she quickened her pace. Twiddle my thumbs, hope that Sorrel finds Lacebark quickly, and pray that he doesn’t get killed? Pray again that a bear-priest doesn’t ambush him? She growled unhappily. Never mind. Get to Chandlefort first; worry later.

  That night Clovermead reached the spring by the quarry of Rosemount. The mountain peak glowed a marvelous pink in the sunset, but its whole lower half had been scooped out: All that was left was a dirty pool in the old quarry, splinters of ruddy stone on the ground, and the crumbling remnants of the miners’ huts. Clovermead smelled bears up in caves above the quarry.

  Poor Saraband, Clovermead thought as she curled up for the evening by the spring. She wondered if Lacebark would turn rogue again, and now he has, and I don’t think she’s ever going to see him again. He won’t stop running this side of Selcouth. She growled under her breath. He’d better run. I can forgive him for taking my purse, but not for stealing the caul. If I catch him—She clawed at the ground.

  Then Clovermead sighed. Why did you do it, Lacebark? Maybe I was a fool, but I thought better of you.

  The next day Clovermead’s ankle was nearly healed, and she ran more quickly along the Fustics. The Fustics curved eastward again, and Clovermead descended from their slopes back onto the black lava of the Plain. The day after, as the Fustics began to dwindle, she swerved far to the west, away from the Charbon Pike. She left the Black Plain that afternoon, and the dull Heath replaced the sheer lava. When the Fustic Hills finally disappeared, the bear-priests marching north on the Pike were tiny smudges on the horizon.

  I don’t think they can make me out, thought Clovermead. Even if they did, I don’t think they could catch up with me. Still, she kept at a fast clip through the Heath.

  Clovermead spent that night beneath two enormous boulders that did indeed look like cream-colored eggs, balanced precariously on the rubble of the Heath. Before she left in the morning, she drank deeply from the mud hole between them.

  Clovermead ran through the stone, the rubble, and the weeds of the Heath. By the afternoon of the fifth day the green fields of Chandlefort had come into view. Clovermead saw the Cindertallow flag of the burning bee with sword upraised flapping in the breeze over a nearby meadow, and she yipped with joy. I’ve made it in time. She turned toward the meadow.

  As she left the Heath, Clovermead glanced behind her. In the distance she could see the bear-priest vanguard. The dust rose from their feet and hovered in the desert air.

  Servants, Tansyards, mercenaries from Low Branding, and militiamen from the Lakelands had all made their camp in the meadow. Some soldiers rested around campfires, others tended their horses, and a few scouts rode into the Heath to watch the oncoming bear-priests. A servant ran his finger along the edge of his sword as the word spread among the army that the bear-priests had come at last.

  Clovermead turned human and jogged through the camp. She found Waxmelt huddled with half a dozen Horde Chiefs and Chandlefort lords, and a general from Low Branding. “We retreat to Marten Lake,” he said as Clovermead came within earshot. “The Tansyards will cover our rear guard with a cavalry screen. Esteemed Horde Chiefs, please be prepared to turn and attack if the bear-priests leave their flanks exposed. General Turbot, make sure the commissary wagons are well protected. My lords, hoard our men’s lives. If Chandlefort falls, we are the last defense of Linstock.” His eyes widened as he saw Clovermead, and he broke away from the commanders around him. “Clo!” He hugged her quickly, and then took a step back. “What a time for you to come! We’re leaving for the Lakelands within the hour.”

  “Just my luck. I’ve been living on second-rate grass these last few days, and I was hoping for a hot dinner.” Clovermead smiled wryly. “I suppose I’ll see if I can scare up something in Chandlefort.”

  Waxmelt lowered his voice. “So you did get the caul?”

  Clovermead shook her head, and she told her father what had happened. “And I said I’d meet Sorrel inside the city,” she finished.

  “I wish you hadn’t,” said Waxmelt. He looked very old. “Clo, we should trade jobs. You’re the one who’s supposed to order these soldiers around, not me. You stay here as general, and I’ll go back to the city.”

  “I don’t want to live without Sorrel,” said Clovermead. She laughed unsteadily. “So strange. People say that all the time in the storybooks, but I never quite knew what they meant. It’s true. When I think of him dead, I feel all empty inside. Gray and hollow. I don’t—I can’t face that. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course,” said Waxmelt. His eyes greedily drank in the sight of his daughter. “I’ve known it for eighteen years. Ever since that day I held you in your silk swaddling clothes and first took a proper look at you.” He smiled a little. “When we lived in Timothy Vale, I dreamed that you would marry some good-hearted Valeman. I thought I’d see you running Ladyrest Inn as I grew old, and you’d let me sit back in a rocking chair in the dining room and spoil your children rotten. Sometimes I had bad dreams—of soldiers, of bear-priests—but in those dreams I always tried to step between you and danger.”

  “I always knew you would,” said Clovermead. She laughed. “Do you know, I think the first memory I have is of clambering out of my crib to go look for you? I crawled down the stairs to the kitchen, and I watched as you made soup in a cauldron. You smiled as you stirred the broth. Then you saw me standing in the doorway, where any guest at the inn could have run into me without noticing, and you dropped your ladle into the cauldron and ran to pick me up. I remember I thought the ladle was a toy, and I was sad you’d lost it. I wanted to say so, but I hardly knew how to say more than ‘no’ and ‘belly button.’”

  “You do keep wandering into harm’s way,” said Waxmelt. “Lady knows I’ve tried to rid you of that habit, but you’re incorrigible.” He tried to smile again, but he couldn’t. “In my worst nightmares, I couldn’t save you in time. When I couldn’t, I woke up screaming.” His face was gray. “Please, Clo. I don’t want you to die before me. Let me take your place.”

  Clovermead tried to speak, but she had no words. She took her father into her arms, and she hugged him as tight as she could. His old, lined cheek pressed against hers, and Waxmelt shook in her embrace.

  Clovermead let him go at last. “What would the servants do without you?” she asked gently.

  “I don’t care,” said Waxmelt. “Let them die. Let the world fall into ruin. Who have I ever loved but you?”

  “You know you love them, too, Father,” said Clovermead. She wiped her eyes dry. “You can’t help it. We all end up loving more than one person. I love you, and I love Mother, and I love Sorrel, too. And Mother loves Chandlefort, and she still loves Ambrosius, and there’s a thousand servants out there you’ve spent the last six years training to be proper fighting men, and all their families, and I think you’ve given them a little bit of your heart. They’re worth living for.” She looked around her. “Besides, I was right—you’re a better general than I’ll ever be. Look at all that shining armor! Don’t you see how crisply everyone marches? And no one’s bumping into anyone else. I’m not a bad fighter, but I couldn’t have gotten this motley into half as good a shape.”

  “I could have done worse,” said Waxmelt, with a glimmer of pride. “I’ve gotten some skill at giving orders, after all these years of getting lunkhead stable boys to stand in straight lines. And by Our Lady, I’m proud of my boys! They’ve turned into proper soldiers!”

  “They still need you,” said Clovermead.

  “And you don’t?” Waxmelt shivered. “I’m afraid to leave you on your own.”

  The lance head came toward me, thought Clovermead. Father leaped and he pushed me out of harm’s way.

  “I’ll have to take
my chances, Father,” said Clovermead.

  “Lord Wickward!” someone shouted. A black-haired courier boy came toward them at a dead run. “Lord Wickward, there’s bear-priests riding toward the fields!”

  “I have to go,” said Waxmelt. He gripped Clovermead’s hand in his. “Last chance to trade places, Clo.”

  Last chance to escape, thought Clovermead. Last chance to hope I can be clever and outwit Ursus somehow. Last chance to let Sorrel come to Chandlefort and find me gone. Last chance to live. She shivered. I don’t think that’s what you want me to do, Lady. I ran toward Snuff’s sword. That’s the only way out.

  “I’m a Cindertallow of Chandlefort,” Clovermead said as lightly as she could. “I have a reputation for boneheadedness to live up to.”

  “Twenty-first Lady Cindertallow,” said Waxmelt bitterly. “Most boneheaded of them all.” He took a ragged breath. “Oh, Lady, I love you so,” he whispered. Then he turned abruptly to the courier. “Which way are the bear-priests coming from?” he asked.

  “Good-bye, Father,” said Clovermead as he strode away from her. She wanted to sob, to howl, to roar with grief. “Good-bye,” she said again as he disappeared from sight. She turned away from him, and her stomach was tight-clenched and aching. She turned back to bear-shape, and she raced toward Chandlefort.

  The half-sown fields had turned dry from lack of water, though the deep-rooted vines and olive trees were still green. The irrigation ditches held only the last remnants of water in their muddy bottoms. The fields were empty of animals: The cows, sheep, and chickens had been driven to within the city walls. There would be little food for the besieging bear-priests.

  Clovermead stopped on a little hill and looked back through the new green buds of an apple orchard as Waxmelt’s army began to march. There were Tansyards out front, to make sure the bear-priests kept their distance, and a rainbow of different uniforms followed them. The servants held pride of place in the center of the line, and they flew a new regimental flag: It was the Cindertallow burning bee, but it brandished a serving platter, not a sword. Clovermead smiled to see it wave so jauntily in the wind. Bravo, Father! she thought. There’s a flag to fight for.