In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “They seem like Tansyards,” she said to Sorrel. “They look like they’d rather live on horseback than in these huts.”

  Sorrel nodded. “Most astute you are, Clovermead. I have spent a night or two here, while traveling, and I have listened to their tales. These cow catchers are descended from Tansyard mercenaries who fought for Chandlefort, before the Empire came. As payment for their service to her, the tenth Lady Cindertallow settled them here on the north fringes of the Salt Heath, where there is some water. They are strange to me—Sweet Lady, Tansyards who farm! On the Steppes it is unthinkable. But they are kin. I can talk with them, though we must speak slowly to one another. They left the Steppes two hundred years ago and their language has changed. Their grammar is very odd.”

  “Like pilgrims from the Thirty Towns,” said Clovermead. “I can hardly understand some of them. Are these cousins of yours still loyal to Chandlefort?”

  “More or less,” said Sorrel. “They say they are, but they do not pay the taxes they owe to the Lady Cindertallow. They are most lackadaisical subjects.”

  They spent the night in a ruined farmhouse. Its back wall had been smashed in, but it kept the worst of the night wind away from them. Sorrel lit a small fire from stray pieces of timber, and Clovermead reheated a fish for dinner.

  “I hadn’t realized how peaceful Timothy Vale was,” said Clovermead after she had finished her meal. “Valemen don’t carry weapons with them. They aren’t foolish—the men drill with their axes and bows in case soldiers should come north one day. But no one really thinks the soldiers will come. Everybody I’ve seen here in Linstock seems to carry a weapon. I knew there was war down here, but I somehow thought that was just soldiers fighting one another. It isn’t. Everyone’s fighting.”

  “You are very lucky up in Timothy Vale,” said Sorrel. “I envy you your years there. I am sorry you had to leave.”

  “And the Tansy Steppes? What are they like?”

  “We say that before she left for the sky, the Tansy Steppes were Our Lady’s last resting place on Earth. It is a blessed land and we are blessed who may roam its leagues.” Sorrel stared into the fire and frowned. “It is not as blessed as it used to be.” He lapsed into silence then, and Clovermead shrank from asking him any more questions about his home.

  Early next afternoon they came through a patch of woods to the back of a barn. One hundred feet away a cowherd walked idly back and forth, whistling a lugubrious tune and tossing pebbles at a tree. Soft neighing drifted out of the barn.

  Sorrel’s eyes shone. “An undefended barn,” he said gleefully. “Oh, it is too much of a temptation. The horse you do not guard becomes my horse, as we say on the Steppes. Surely they are Tansyard enough to know that?”

  “Sorrel,” Clovermead said sternly, “are you contemplating larceny? From poor defenseless farmers?”

  “It is much safer to steal from the defenseless than from the defended,” Sorrel pointed out with mild logic. “Also, they owe taxes to Chandlefort. And I have grown tired of this slide-slide-sliding, Clovermead. I am not a Valeman, whose feet take naturally to skis. My toes long for stirrups. My calves tingle to press horseflesh.”

  “These reasons are specious,” Clovermead declared. “And you may keep your tingling calves to yourself, thank you very much. Sorrel, my father was right when he said that Tansyards were natural horse thieves.” My father the thief, she thought to herself, and half her resistance broke down at once.

  “Calumny, Clovermead,” Sorrel said in an elaborately shocked tone of voice. “The truth is, our neighbors are unusually careless of their property. Many horses wander onto the steppes. How can we tell which horse belongs to which man? All we know is that there are abandoned horses. It is disinterested kindness to rescue a horse from abandonment. We Tansyards are a kindly people.” A shadow of a smile flickered across his face. “I feel sorely my recent lack of opportunities to bestow benevolence.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Clovermead. “Sorrel, this is wrong.”

  “Are your legs tired?”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t matter. Or—tell me, is thievery adventurous?”

  “It is a most profound and dangerous thrill,” Sorrel solemnly assured her. “It is the greatest and noblest excitement.”

  “Oh,” said Clovermead longingly. “Oh, my. Have you ever stolen anything yourself?”

  “Two or three times,” said Sorrel. “For a young man I am very kind to poor lonely horses, my father said.”

  “Then, let’s do it!” Clovermead grinned suddenly. “It isn’t temple robbery, but it sounds almost as exciting. Though I do feel awful taking something from these poor people. Sorrel, leave them this.” She took a silver shilling from her stockings and gave it to Sorrel. “They deserve some recompense.”

  Sorrel blinked at Clovermead. “I do not think you have quite grasped the point of thievery,” he said delicately. “Traditionally, one does not pay for what one has stolen.”

  “I am not a robber,” said Clovermead. “I’ll howl and I’ll scream and I’ll yell ‘Stop, thief!’ if we don’t pay.” I’ll be better than Daddy was, she thought. I won’t be a thief like him. “Anyway, isn’t the chance to steal worth the money?”

  “Ye-es,” Sorrel admitted, “but . . .” He looked at Clovermead’s implacable gaze and sighed. He took her shilling and rolled his eyes. “Never mind, Clovermead, it is not worth the argument. I will leave the shilling behind. Walk to the south end of the field, and I will meet you under the elm tree there.”

  “All right,” said Clovermead—and she was talking to no one. Sorrel had disappeared.

  Clovermead scampered cautiously behind the first line of trees, took off her skis, and hunkered down by the elm. From there she could see the farmhouse itself, where another farmer was drawing water from his well. Nearer, the barn door creaked back and forth and a shadow flitted inside. A horse neighed briefly, then went silent. The barn was quiet for a long five minutes. Clovermead chewed her fingernails.

  A large black stallion, saddled and reined, ambled out the barn door. He hardly seemed to know he was moving. Sorrel crouched on the stallion’s right side, invisible to both the cowherd and the farmhouse. His left hand crept a little over the stallion’s mane and guided him with a tug on the reins.

  The farmer looked up, saw the stallion out of the barn, and cursed. He shouted at the cowherd, who came out of his whistling trance a moment later and called to the horse. The stallion tried to turn toward his master, but Sorrel pulled him back. He pressed the horse’s flanks, and the beast began to trot toward Clovermead.

  The cowherd began to run and the farmer yelled back at the farm. Sorrel vaulted onto the horse’s back and spurred him hard. As the horse galloped toward her Clovermead saw half a dozen men boil out of the house. She dashed out from her hiding place and ran as fast as she could toward Sorrel.

  “Whoa, Shilling,” Sorrel cried out to his newly named acquisition. The stallion came to a sudden halt. Clovermead scrambled up behind Sorrel and gripped his waist in her arms. “No more draft work for you, Shilling,” Sorrel exulted. “I will show you the open road.” He spurred Shilling with his heels, and the horse galloped south into the woods.

  Clovermead looked behind her. Farmers with rakes and pikes chased after them. One farmer dashed into the barn and came out on a black colt, galloping after them. Another fumbled with a rusty crossbow.

  “They’re coming after us, Sorrel! Can we go faster?”

  “Shilling was the fastest horse in the barn,” Sorrel said cheerfully. “We have nothing to worry about.”

  A crossbow bolt zinged over their heads. Clovermead whimpered and clutched tight to Sorrel’s waist.

  “Oh, dear,” Sorrel said. “Clearly he did not see that shilling. The beast is paid for!” he yelled back. Their pursuer kept on coming. “My father always said I was impetuous. Clovermead, please do not hold me so tight. You are hurting me. Yah, Shilling!”

  More farmers chased after them, but soon only the first rema
ined in sight. Hunched over the neck of his black colt, he tailed them relentlessly through the scrubby forest. Freed from a plough at last, Shilling stretched his legs and galloped from sheer joy. The snow was thin enough here that his hooves could punch through and catch on the cold ground. He neighed and raced with all his might—and the pursuing farmer’s colt kept pace with him. After a while he began to inch closer to them.

  “He’s gaining,” said Clovermead. “I have an awful feeling that Shilling was the second-fastest horse in the barn. He’s energetic, but that other horse is marvelous steady.” Another crossbow bolt sliced through the air.

  “It is an old Tansyard skill to ride and shoot at the same time,” said Sorrel ruefully. “They have forgotten less of Tansyard ways than I thought. At least he cannot shoot accurately. We must thank Our Lady for small blessings, eh?”

  A third bolt whipped close overhead. “Small and getting smaller,” said Clovermead. “Can we stop, give Shilling back, and let them keep the silver shilling for their trouble? We could say that we are very sorry.”

  “There are other Tansyard customs, about how to deal with captured horse thieves. I would not like to see if they also have been preserved. We must ride faster, Clovermead.”

  “Sorrel, there must be something we can do to get out of this mess.” Sorrel shrugged grimly and spurred Shilling harder.

  I know a way, the tooth whispered. Give me horse blood. Give me boy blood. I am power for the taking. If you choose to use me.

  I won’t, Clovermead told the tooth. I don’t want to grow fangs. I don’t want to be turned into a killer.

  Do you think I gave you the urge to kill, little girl? All I’ve done is show you your true self. You are destined for strength and power. Haven’t you always dreamed of that? Take up the challenge, Clovermead.

  A bolt sliced the edge of Sorrel’s jerkin. He hissed with pain, and red droplets whipped out into the wind. He kicked Shilling again, but the horse could go no faster.

  What a waste of blood, said the tooth.

  He’s not yours, Clovermead thought fiercely. I won’t let you touch him. But her stomach squirmed as she imagined the different ways Tansyards might deal with horse thieves, and as the clip-clop of their pursuer drew closer still, she loosed one arm from Sorrel’s waist and took out the bear tooth from her vest. It was hot and sharp and throbbed eagerly as she held it in her palm. Clovermead squeezed it tighter and her lips curled away from her teeth. Her teeth stretched at her gums. Her nails thickened. She was hungry and she bit the air. Sorrel smelled like roast lamb, his bleeding arm like divine nectar.

  Not him! Clovermead repeated. With all her power she clamped her mouth shut. Her teeth shrank to human size. She pressed the bear-tooth against her thumb. Take my blood, monster, she whispered. I’ll use up myself if I have to. He lives.

  The tooth bit deep into Clovermead. She gasped as the sudden, burning hunger devoured her. She groaned with the delicious taste of her own blood. Pinkness trickled into the tooth.

  Pathetic, said the tooth. What sort of weakling bites herself?

  I do, thought Clovermead. Never mind the name-calling. Bring me . . . bring me Boulderbash, that huge bear from the valley. I want her to scare away that farmer. Bring her to me.

  I need more blood, said the tooth, and it reached deeper into Clovermead’s flesh. She gasped but let it bite. She bit, she was bitten, and she felt a strange and horrible mixture of pleasure and pain. She called for Boulderbash.

  Clovermead felt weak and closed her eyes. She gripped Sorrel even more tightly with her free arm to keep from falling off Shilling. In the darkness of her skull Lord Ursus appeared, large as a mountain. He growled, low and terrible as an earthquake. Clovermead’s bones danced to the rhythm of his roar.

  Behind them the colt screamed. Clovermead tore her thumb from the tooth, let the fang fall back within her vest, and whirled around. White Boulderbash was there, half invisible against the snow, bounding in from the eastern woods with mouth agape. The farmer yelled his terror too and dropped his crossbow into the snow. The colt screamed again and fled westward into the plain.

  Boulderbash growled contentedly and leapt forward to pace Shilling. Sorrel looked back once, blanched, and tightened his grip on Shilling’s reins. The stallion nearly went into a frenzy, but Sorrel’s strong hand kept him in line. He made the horse continue galloping.

  “Clovermead,” said Sorrel in a small, tight voice, “I think I see the bear who followed me to Timothy Vale.”

  “Her name is Boulderbash,” said Clovermead. Her hand ached and she looked down to see an ugly scar stretching across the ball of her thumb. It was already old and long since mishealed. Swollen purple lines scored her flesh far beyond the scar. Her veins had broken from her thumb tip to her wrist.

  Sorrel laughed high and fearful. “Ah, good, you are on a first-name basis. How marvelous. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Boulderbash. Clovermead, can we get rid of dear Boulderbash now that she has served our purpose?”

  He isn’t very polite, said Boulderbash. You’d think he’d be grateful.

  “He is grateful,” said Clovermead. “He’s just upset.”

  “To whom do you speak?” asked Sorrel.

  “Boulderbash. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’ll talk to her in my head from now on.”

  “That would gratify me,” Sorrel said, shuddering. “I wish I could say that you were mad, or I were mad. I do not like to imagine a conversational bear.”

  Yet we have lived with talking humans for a long time now, said Boulderbash. I suppose we are a more tolerant species. She huffed laughter. Tell me, Clovermead, whom should I kill for you?

  You don’t have to kill anyone, said Clovermead. All I wanted was for you to give that man a scare. He was trying to kill us.

  Is that all? Boulderbash was incredulous. Every human asks us to kill someone. Or to capture them so that they can do the killing themselves. Boulderbash roared with disgust, and Shilling bucked in terror. Then she looked quizzically at Clovermead. You really don’t want me to kill anyone?

  Really, said Clovermead. No one. You might rough up Lucifer Snuff a bit, but you don’t have to kill him.

  I would bite that one’s head off, said Boulderbash. Uhrr. I think you are telling the truth. How extraordinary. Truly, I had come to think all humans were murderers. I had not thought it mattered if we bit a few of your kind. This is most upsetting news. She loped on in silence a little more. Are you the small human who made Nuthoarder and the others flee from Snuff’s ambush?

  I am, Clovermead said proudly.

  Hrrooom. You had a companion there?

  My father.

  I am sorry to hear that, said Boulderbash. My own cub is . . . She fell silent. Never mind that. Snuff has sent word to the bear-priests that your father will be sacrificed to Lord Ursus.

  WHAT?!?

  Snuff spoke to the bear-priests with the power of a tooth in him, and his words echoed through all Linstock. He did not care if we bears heard too. Your father will be sacrificed before the walls of Chandlefort. Can you do anything to free your parent, little cub? If so, I would advise you to do it soon.

  I don’t even know where he is. Has Snuff already taken him to Chandlefort?

  Snuff has summoned the bears of Linstock to join him and his men. He is due east of here and heading south. Boulderbash grunted. Your tooth has run out of blood. Good-bye, little cub. I hope you find your father in time.

  “No, wait,” Clovermead called out loud, but it was too late. Boulderbash had already swerved and headed east, into dense forest. Shilling ran south alone.

  “Praise Our Lady that we survived,” said Sorrel. He was weak with relief, but he kept Shilling galloping, increasing the distance from the bear. “I never want to undergo that again. Clovermead, I do not like a great monster by my side and a witch-child behind me telling me she is chatting about the weather and cookery and Lady knows what. I do not wish to know the subject of the conversation. The di
fferent ways to nibble Tansyards, most likely.”

  “She said Snuff was going to kill Daddy,” Clovermead said. “She said the bears of Linstock are coming to join Snuff, and he’s going to sacrifice Daddy at Chandlefort.”

  “Most kind of her to inform you,” Sorrel chattered fearfully. “Indeed, most solicitous. I am afraid there is nothing we can do. We are two and Snuff leads many, and we will say prayers to Our Lady for kind Mr. Wickward’s soul. I am sorry, Clovermead, but I will not face an army of bears. I grieve for your loss.”

  “You needn’t grieve yet,” said Clovermead, suddenly full of anger and determination. “We’re going to rescue him.”

  Sorrel giggled hysterically. “Please, do not joke.”

  “We’re going to rescue him,” Clovermead repeated.

  “You are silly and stupid,” said Sorrel. “If Snuff says your father will die, he is as good as dead. If you can, you should save your own life. Do not fritter away your safety in a futile attempt.”

  Put me to his throat, the tooth whispered to Clovermead. Tell him to ride east or be slashed. Give me a drop of his blood to make him know you’re serious. Make him know you’re not silly, not stupid. Make him do what you want. Make him do what is right.

  Clovermead’s fingers quivered to take the tooth out from her vest. She bit her lip and clung tight to Sorrel’s ribs with both hands. The tooth laughed and roared.

  “Not so tight, please,” Sorrel complained. “I won’t let you fall, Clovermead.” Clovermead forced her hands farther apart. Viciously weak, they scrabbled at Sorrel as they loosened. “Ouch! Be careful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clovermead whispered. Hot tears burned along her cheeks. “Please, Sorrel. I’ll go by myself if I have to, but please help me. Snuff’s going to sacrifice him. It sounds slow and painful and awful. Daddy told me to leave him behind, but I’m sure he didn’t mean I should let him be tortured. He couldn’t have meant that. And it doesn’t matter what Daddy said, I can’t just run and leave him to be butchered. He’s given up everything to save me. I’d be a monster if I didn’t do anything to try and save him.” He was a thief and a liar, but he was still her father.