In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Clovermead and the Yellowjackets came to a space in the middle of the encampment, in front of a tent filigreed with threads of silver and gold. Breamback spoke to Fetterlock, and Fetterlock smiled. “The Horde Chief has returned to the camp,” he said to Clovermead. “Wait here a moment, and I will tell him and his wife that you have come.” He called out a loud sentence or two to the Tansyards around him, dismounted from his horse, and went into the gleaming tent.

  Clovermead looked around her uneasily. On all sides, warriors and women had begun to gather at the sound of Fetterlock’s words. They came drifting toward them in twos and threes, whispering to one another. They pointed at Clovermead, at Mullein, at the tent, and muttered even louder.

  “I wish they weren’t carrying so many weapons,” Clovermead muttered to Algere. “It makes me uneasy.”

  “Me too, Demoiselle,” the Sergeant whispered back. His fingers strayed to his sword hilt. “They don’t look unfriendly, exactly, but I wish I knew why they were so interested in us. I’m sure they’ve seen Linstockers before.”

  “They must want to see how the Horde Chief will treat us,” said Clovermead—and then the tent flap stirred and the Horde Chief and his wife emerged.

  The Horde Chief’s wife came out first. She was a tall woman with a kindly face, who smiled at Clovermead and Mullein when she saw them. She wore her silvering hair in a single tight braid down to the middle of her back, and held it together with a silver crescent hairpin. She wore a buckskin shirt and trousers, decorated with white and pink beads that formed a field of daisies, and on her finger she wore a gold ring adorned with a huge and splendid white diamond cut in the shape of a star. She had a look of rangy endurance to her, won by years on horseback.

  Next came the Horde Chief. The tattoo on his chest caught Clovermead’s attention first. Between the two halves of his open leather shirt an artist had etched a galloping white stallion, whose hooves bounded over the open Steppe. The stallion was wild, strong, free, and magnificent; its every muscle bulged on the Horde Chief’s own quite muscular chest. He, too, wore a star-cut diamond on a golden ring, but he did not wear a silver crescent. Instead he wore as a pendant a star of white gold, the emblem of the Horde, on a necklace of silver wire. He walked with an air of great majesty toward Clovermead.

  He was very tall. He was very broad. He was Fetterlock.

  “You’re the Horde Chief?” asked Clovermead in amazement. “I’m such a fool.”

  Somebody who knew common tongue translated what she said into Tansyard, and now a whisper of hilarity swept through the waiting women and warriors. They clapped their hands together rhythmically, applauding the joke, and the nearest warriors bowed to the Horde Chief. Then, grinning, they dispersed into the camp.

  Very gravely, Fetterlock clucked at Clovermead.

  She was certain that was Bergander’s rumbling laugh behind her, and Habick’s high-pitched giggle was unmistakable. Even Sergeant Algere was smiling.

  Clovermead turned bright red. “I’m sorry, Fetter—Horde Chief. I didn’t know who you were. Please don’t be offended.”

  “I am not,” said Fetterlock. He gave his wife his hand and presented her to Clovermead. “Demoiselle, my wife, Bardelle. Bardelle, this is Cerelune Cindertallow, called Clovermead Wickward, the Demoiselle of Chandlefort. She has come to the Steppes to ask the Hordes to ally with Chandlefort against Lord Ursus.”

  “And what do you think of her, now that you have spied on her so well?” asked Bardelle in common tongue. Her voice was low and brisk, with a hint of music in it. She smiled again at Clovermead, and Clovermead’s embarrassment faded a little. “You must forgive my husband, Demoiselle,” she said to Clovermead. “He was wary of this proposed alliance, and he wished to look at Chandlefort and the Cindertallows himself. I did not think he would see anything to distress him, so I agreed.” Her laughing eyes turned to Fetterlock. “Are they not worthy to be our friends and our allies, Husband?”

  “Perhaps,” said Fetterlock. He looked at Clovermead long and consideringly. “I do not yet know.” He bowed to Clovermead, slightly, as one king to another. “Please pardon me, Demoiselle. I have been away from the Horde for many weeks, and I must see how it fares.” He turned and strode away from her into the heart of the encampment.

  He’s seen me just as I am, thought Clovermead. She was still numb with shock. It’s not just that I was snippy about the Horde Chief, Fetterlock, whoever he is. He saw Sorrel leave, and he must think I’m foolish or weak to let that happen. He didn’t like that I said I’d keep Mullein with me, and, dear Lady, he told me about letting the Cyan Cross Horde be destroyed! How could he trust me with that story? She groaned. I don’t understand and I won’t understand, so I won’t try. At least I didn’t call him anything worse than henpecked!

  Clovermead swung down to the ground and brought Mullein down after her. While Mullein stared at the camp with fear, wonder, and delight, Bardelle approached Clovermead with quick yet gracious steps. “Welcome to the White Star Horde,” she said softly. “I hope your trip will not prove to have been in vain.”

  “I don’t think I’ve impressed your husband,” said Clovermead.

  “You have not alienated him,” said Bardelle. She turned to Mullein and looked at her gravely. “This is the little girl who escaped from Barleymill?” She switched to Tansyard and asked Mullein a question. Mullein clutched at Clovermead’s hand, but answered her. Bardelle spoke again, and they conversed for another minute.

  “She is very sweet and very shy,” Bardelle said to Clovermead. “I would like to take her back to my tent for the night. I think she would like to meet my granddaughter, Calkin—they are nearly the same age, and I think they would get along well. And I would be glad to cook Mullein a good dinner.” Clovermead looked at Bardelle suspiciously, and the Horde Chief’s wife touched her silver pendant. “I swear by Our Lady that I will not steal her away from you. I only wish to make her comfortable while she is here.”

  Clovermead knelt down by Mullein. “Do you want to go with her?” she asked.

  Hesitantly, Mullein nodded. “She nice, like you.” She smiled radiantly. “I back soon.” She gave Clovermead a quick hug, than dashed over to Bardelle.

  “I will send a warrior to guide you and your soldiers to your own tents,” said Bardelle. “I will ask you to stay in them this evening. Lord Ursus’ ambassador speaks to the Elders tonight, and he must be allowed the courtesy to speak without your presence. He will not be permitted among the Elders when you speak tomorrow night.”

  Clovermead scowled. “I still don’t like Ursus having an ambassador here.” Then she couldn’t help but ask anxiously, “Fetterlock—your husband was telling the truth when he said you wanted an alliance with Chandlefort? I’ve come an awfully long way, and Mother’s preparing an army, and I don’t want my trip to have been a waste of time.”

  “I do want the alliance,” said Bardelle. “And so do many of the Horde. But not yet a majority.” She sighed. “Speak well tomorrow night, Demoiselle. Your words will carry great weight.” Then she held out her hand to Mullein. “Mullein will see you tomorrow, Demoiselle. Farewell until then.”

  She walked away with Mullein trotting by her side, and Clovermead looked around. The Yellowjackets had gotten off their horses and were stretching their legs. Some Tansyard children were still watching her, and Clovermead stuck her tongue out at them. They giggled and ran away. A man in wolf-skins was walking toward her—

  Lucifer Snuff came ambling toward Clovermead, and he pulled Boulderbash behind him, jauntily tugging at her with long reins. The eye-patched bear stumbled blindly through the camp. She wanted to loll her tongue, but the bit in her mouth wouldn’t let her. Her throat was dry, but she couldn’t drink. Her white fur was spattered with mud she had been unable to clean, and welts of blood lined the skin underneath her fur. She was drooping misery, and Clovermead was standing up, turning huge and bearish and clawed, and getting ready to lunge at Snuff—

  Algere caught her by t
he shoulder and shoved her back down to the ground. She had already become far larger than he was, and it took a great deal of strength for him to move her mass of muscle. “Don’t, Demoiselle,” he said urgently. “You can’t attack an ambassador. We’ve come all this way for Milady, and you can’t muck it up now. Please, Demoiselle, calm down.” He was sweating with fear as Clovermead turned to glare at him with maddened eyes, but he kept a tight grip on her.

  “Do hurt me,” said Snuff. He tugged Boulderbash, walked up to them, and grinned at Clovermead. His mocking eyes danced to her clenched claws, her tufts of golden fur sprouting from her, her mouth half-everted into a snout and snarling jaws, and he dared her to use her bear-weapons. His every expression was a provocation. “Of course, I am a guest of the White Star Horde, and Tansyards do set great store by treating guests well. You shan’t charm our hosts if you hurt me.”

  We can’t afford any impulsiveness on this mission. With an effort, Clovermead made her claws and jaw retract. “I’m all right now, Sergeant,” she said roughly. “Thank you.” She shrugged out of Algere’s grip and made herself step back from Snuff. “Where’s Sorrel’s mother?” she asked tightly. “Have you killed her already?”

  “Oh, she’s not yet dead. Once Ursus sent word to me that he needed an ambassador, I dispatched her with the other bear-priests back to Barleymill.” Snuff’s eyes scanned the party. “Where’s your Tansyard friend, girlie? I have so many stories to tell him about his mother’s times in the mines! He’ll be delighted to hear them.”

  Clovermead wanted to leap at him again, and only barely controlled herself. “I sent Sorrel back to Chandlefort,” she lied quickly. I won’t let him know Sorrel’s chasing after his mother. He’d have bear-priests after Sorrel in nothing flat, and then he’d be dead. “I had to tell Mother there were bear-priests in the Harrow Moors already, and he was the quickest rider with us. He’ll come back and join me soon enough.”

  “I eagerly await his presence.” Snuff dismissed him from his mind. “Well, don’t let me detain you. I must stable my steed. The Tansyards say she has to go on the other side of the stream, downwind from the horses and out of sight. She alarms the Horde’s horses. Come along, steed.” He pulled and Boulderbash came. “I’ve tamed her,” said Snuff conversationally to Clovermead. He held up his whip, tipped with an iron thorn, and a cruel laugh bubbled out of him. “Spur and bit, bridle and reins, I’ve broken her.”

  Oh, Boulderbash, thought Clovermead, I’m so sorry.

  I don’t care how sorry you are, said Boulderbash. There was sharp resentment in her voice. When will you free me, Ambrosius’ daughter? Will it be soon?

  She can’t help you, Snuff jeered in their minds. She’s raised your hopes, but she can’t fulfill them. Don’t bother yourself with her. He jerked at the reins, and brought Boulderbash toward the ford over the stream. She growled in pain and shambled forward. Snuff’s bit cut into her mouth. With each step a drop of blood fell from her. Boulderbash looked back toward Clovermead, blind, then was pulled from sight.

  I begin to believe him, little cub, was the last thought Clovermead heard from her.

  A warrior led Clovermead and the Yellowjackets to a line of tents at the far left of the camp. Clovermead looked around, eager to see Tansyards who weren’t Sorrel just walking and chatting and living. Tansyard children, still untattooed, followed the Linstockers, and gaped and giggled and pointed at their strange clothes. The children up to age six or so went naked through the camp, the children a little older wore loincloths and moccasins, and from ten on up the children wore leggings and shirts. Grown warriors and women also glanced sideways at the Linstockers—but decorum restrained their curiosity.

  When Clovermead reached her tent, she yawned. I have been up most of the night, she thought. A little nap wouldn’t hurt. She crept under some soft furs and promptly fell asleep. When she woke up, it was already evening. She found a pot of hot stew waiting for her in the tent, kept warm by a cup of hot coals underneath, and she happily quenched her stomach’s rumbling hunger. She could hear the Yellowjackets talking in the neighboring tent, and she thought of going to join them, but she was still sleepy and didn’t feel like talking. She ate and listened to the noises of the camp.

  A whisper filled the dusk. Clovermead listened carefully, but she couldn’t make out any words. “I suppose that’s Snuff telling the Horde Chief and the Elders how lovely it is to drink blood,” she said to herself. “‘Be Lord Ursus’ wolfhounds!’ he says. ‘Join us and we can loot Low Branding! Join us and we can ravage Chandlefort!’” She shivered. “I wonder if they’ll listen to him.” Clovermead let her bear-ears poke up. Now she could identify Snuff’s voice, but she still couldn’t hear what he was saying. She let her ears dwindle again.

  The murmur of Tansyard voices came from the center of the camp. Clovermead mimicked a Tansyard accent: “‘Oh, yes, Mr. Snuff, we’d love to join you in an attack on Linstock! We can trust you bear-priests!’” Clovermead took another spoonful of stew, but somehow she had lost her appetite. “I wish I’d gone with you, Sorrel. I’m sure I’ve made Fetterlock think he’d rather be eaten by ants than ally with Chandlefort. What’s the good of talking to this bunch? I’d have been of more use if I’d gone to help save your mother.”

  Rescue me, she heard in her head. Boulderbash’s voice was suddenly very loud in her skull. Please, Clovermead.

  And Clovermead smiled. Maybe I can do some good here after all, she thought. I’m coming, she called out, and she put down her stewpot and left the tent.

  There were no Tansyards near her: Most had gone to listen to Snuff speak to the Elders, and the remainder were in their tents, making dinner. Cooking smoke wafted to the stars from a hundred tents. In the darkening evening Clovermead stole toward the stream where Snuff had left Boulderbash. She flitted inconspicuously from tent to tent.

  She found Boulderbash tied to the trunk of a prairie willow. A chain wrapped around the tree extended to a tight metal collar that half-choked the great white bear. The leather patches were still firmly around her eyes, and Snuff had left the stirrups and bit on her. Clovermead ran to Boulderbash and hugged her in her arms. Boulderbash’s huge jaws rubbed against her shirt and left bloody smears on it.

  Release me, said Boulderbash. You promised. Let me go free.

  I will, said Clovermead. She drew Firefly and it shone in the night. She saw Ursus’ blood-net glow: Its tendrils clung to Boulderbash, insinuated themselves within her brain and into every muscle. Clovermead reached out with her mind, examined the knots, and she knew that she could sweep them clear with one slice of her sword, hack open the metal shackles, and let the bear go free. She raised her blade.

  Tansyards do set great store by treating guests well.

  Clovermead hesitated. She looked back at the Tansyard camp. Then, slowly, she lowered Firefly. Its light guttered out, and she sheathed the blade. I can’t now, Boulderbash, she said. I’m the guest of the White Star Horde. I have an awful feeling that if I freed you, they’d call it stealing from another guest. Any other time, I wouldn’t care what they think, but now I’m here to bring the Tansyards into alliance with Chandlefort against Ursus. If I free you and offend them, then maybe they won’t ally with us. Maybe they’d even ally with Ursus, and then he’d conquer everyone and there’d be no hope left. Don’t you understand? I can’t risk offending them by stealing you.

  I do not belong to that man, said Boulderbash, with rising anger. You are not stealing me if you let me go free. Loose me from my bonds!

  Clovermead’s hand clenched hard on Firefly. The power still hummed in her sword, waiting to be used. You gave me that power so I could free bears, Lady, thought Clovermead. I know that. She wanted so much to take the sword from its sheath.

  It would be a disaster if I did, Clovermead thought miserably. I can’t free you, she said to Boulderbash. Her hand fell away from her sword hilt. Not here, not now. I don’t have a choice.

  I am in shackles, said Boulderbash. A whip guides ever
y step I take—and you say you have no choice? Don’t insult me, little cub. My freedom comes last. My slavery buys the hope for everyone else. That is your choice. She jerked her head from Clovermead’s hands and howled deep rage at Clovermead, to the world, to the moon in the sky. Her teeth snapped at Clovermead, and Clovermead sprang back from her, her heart thumping with sudden fear. My son hurts me less, Boulderbash growled. He tells me openly that I will be his slave. You give me hope, and then abandon me. How can you be so cruel?

  It’s for the good of everyone, said Clovermead.

  I begin to lose faith in your greater good, Boulderbash snarled. Her teeth snapped again and Clovermead jumped back another step.

  I’m fighting for Our Lady, said Clovermead.

  I cannot believe that she wants me to remain in bondage, said Boulderbash. Tears leaked from her eyes. And if she did—She did not finish her sentence, but growled again, with such bitter despair that Clovermead’s skin rose in gooseflesh. Why should I bother to stay in bondage? she whispered softly.

  You will be freed, said Clovermead. She wanted to comfort Boulderbash, but she knew that would be no kindness now. And she was afraid of her. I promise you—

  I’ve heard enough of your promises already, said Boulderbash. No more words, changeling. She howled in the darkness, and her claws dug deep into the earth. Oh, Lady, I have been kept in darkness so long that I am forgetting what the light looks like.