In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “We are nearly there,” Sorrel said that evening. He pointed ahead. “Those mark the borders of Barleymill.”

  Clovermead squinted. In the distance she saw city lights shining beyond a ridge, silhouetting the Heights in a silvery glow. Nearer she saw a single, straight post upon the Steppes. “What is that? Some sort of tree?”

  “Some sort,” said Sorrel grimly. “Take a look.” They rode up to the post—and Clovermead gasped. It was a great cross, ten feet high, pounded into the plain. On the cross hung a crucified skeleton. Its clothing fell in strips from its bones.

  “Who?”—Clovermead wanted to retch. Now she could hear the Yellowjackets murmuring behind her as they saw the hanging bones, with fear, disgust, and anger.

  “Some slave. Or a wandering Tansyard who came too close without permission. Perhaps a merchant who charged the bear-priests too high a price for his wares.” Sorrel shrugged helplessly. “There are so many reasons and so many dead. Look, you can see them all around Barleymill.” Clovermead looked to her right and left, and she saw a palisade of crosses, one every mile, stretching west to the Heights and in an arc to the southeast across the Steppes. “When we cross that barrier, we will be in Barleymill territory. No one may enter without permission. We are warned of the consequences of disobedience.”

  “I hate them,” Clovermead said. Tears started in her eyes. “Every time I think I’ve seen the worst and most cruel thing they could do, they do something worse. I want them all dead.” She clawed at the air with an arm grown huge and furry. “What they do is unforgivable.”

  “We do cruel things also,” said Sorrel. He looked at Mullein. She was panting, and her face was gray. “See what the Shaman-Mother does to my little sister. Chooses to do. It is not enough to say that bear-priests make her be cruel.” He tore his eyes away. “Let us reconnoiter.”

  Sorrel and Clovermead got down from their horses, left them with the Yellowjackets, and began to walk toward the hillcrest. Mullein came with them, her chest heaving, but with such a look of determination on her face that Clovermead could not tell her to stop. The three of them got onto their stomachs just before they reached the crest. They peeped over the top of the ridge, and there was the city of Barleymill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Barleymill

  Barleymill stood in the crook of the Farry Heights, right where the southward-stretching hills turned to run eastward along the south end of the Tansy Steppes. Surrounding the city were the gray tailings of the mercury mines, piles of boulders and ash that rose seventy feet above the ground. A network of stone paths led through the tailings, with stone walls to either side of the roads to hold back the rubble. A hundred yards around the city walls there was only bare ground—an open space for the archers on the walls to fire upon, should any enemy come to the town. Within the city walls, Clovermead could see low, squat warehouses and barracks that stretched back toward the hills. Several dozen tunnel-mouths ate into the hillsides. From each tunnel-mouth, carts of shining ore came out, pulled by tiny, laboring figures. There were guards all around them, guards watching from wooden towers, bear-priests with savage whips who used them mercilessly. Beyond the mines the hills rose sharply in cliffs a thousand feet high.

  “It will not be easy to enter the city,” said Sorrel. “It will be harder to get out.”

  “I will get you in,” said Mullein, but it wasn’t entirely Mullein. A weary old woman spoke through her. Silver glowed in her half-shut eyes. “Wait until moon-set.”

  “Shaman-Mother?” asked Sorrel. “Is that you?”

  Mullein nodded, and now the shadow of an old Tansyard woman’s face glimmered over hers. “She has borne me so long,” Mullein whispered, the Shaman-Mother whispered. “Searching for help. I told Roan, save the child no matter what. She did, she threw her to safety in the Moors. But I lost her there, she was so far away. I am so weak.” Mullein swallowed. “Come tonight. We can rescue Cyan Cross together.” Mullein turned with her silver eyes to Clovermead. “The bear-girl and you and Mullein can come. The others must wait outside. We will save the Horde.”

  “All of Cyan Cross? How?” asked Clovermead, but the silver was fading from Mullein’s eyes, the old lady’s visage wavered like moonlight and was gone. “Shaman-Mother? Are you there?”

  “No,” said Mullein. “Just me.” She shivered in the cooling evening air. “I know what do. She tell me. Wait for moon-set.” She looked back at the Yellowjackets. “Tell them, be ready. Horde come out, not can fight. Need soldiers, guard while run.”

  “Oh, Lady,” Clovermead swore. “Sorrel, I know you talked about freeing lots of slaves, but I didn’t really think we were going to do more than look for your mother and try to grab her on the sly if we could. Where do we take however-many-they-are slaves? The bear-priests are going to notice if a lot of slaves go missing.”

  “I would have us retreat along Yarrow’s Way,” said Sorrel. He pointed toward the line of darkness running northward beneath the Farry Heights. “It is narrow, and a handful of men can hold off an army, for a while. That is what Yarrow did, as he fought against the warriors of the Gray Bar Horde.”

  “Didn’t he die in the end?”

  “But gloriously.” Sorrel laughed hollowly. “We will be retreating toward Yarrow’s Bowl, and perhaps we will meet some Yellowjackets along the way, come foraging or scouting, and they will rescue us in the nick of time and carry us back to Chandlefort for a long rest in bed with sherbets to cool us after our hard exertions. Or perhaps the bear-priests will catch up with us and slaughter us. There is no certainty along Yarrow’s Way, but I can think of no safer route from Barleymill.”

  “I’d like to be in Chandlefort already with the sherbets,” said Clovermead. She swallowed hard. “I don’t care about the glory. Try not to die if you can help it.”

  Sorrel’s face cracked, softened, and he could not help but look at Clovermead with a flicker of friendship. “I want you to emerge from this adventure alive too. Let us watch each other’s backs, so we need not worry.”

  “Agreed,” said Clovermead, and her heart was singing. We might be friends again. It’s still possible. Thank you for letting me know that, Lady.

  They went back to where the Yellowjackets were waiting, and Clovermead told them her new plan.

  Sergeant Algere scowled. “There’s just six of us to back up you and Sorrel, Demoiselle, and two of us are wounded. You do realize that we’re going to have every bear-priest in Barleymill after us?”

  “You say that like that was a problem, Sergeant,” Bergander drawled. Some of the other Yellowjackets laughed. Lewth and Quinch did not. “We made our choice to come to Barleymill, Demoiselle. It was always going to be an adventure, no matter how many Tansyards we tried to rescue.”

  “I don’t like this change of plan,” said Lewth. “I agreed to do something foolish. I didn’t agree to do something insane.” He shook his head unhappily. “It was easier to be brave when we were far from Barleymill. I wish I’d gone off with Habick and the corporal.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Clovermead angrily, “and here we are. I’m sorry the plan got changed, but it did, and now we need you all to get us out of here alive. To get Sorrel’s people out of here alive.” She pointed at the cross standing near them in the darkness. “They’re slaves of the torturers who did that. It’s worth dying to try to free them.” She stumbled into silence for a moment, then started again. “I’m the one saying it’s worth dying, and it’s your lives on the line. I know that. I’ve gotten you all into a mess, and I know I’ve just made it worse, but we’ve got a chance to get all of Cyan Cross Horde out of this slaughterhouse. We can’t just leave them here.”

  “I would,” said Lewth. He looked at the crucified bones, shivered, and made the sign of the crescent. “I’d leave now.” He shrugged apologetically at Sorrel. “They’re not my people.”

  “No. They are not.” Sorrel looked at all his former comrades. “I join my voice to Clovermead’s. I ask you to risk death for st
rangers, though I cannot make it a reasonable request. In Our Lady’s name, I beg your aid.”

  Algere looked up again at the dark cross, then along the horizon at all the other crosses that formed Barleymill’s borders. “I am afraid, Lady,” the Sergeant muttered. Then he sighed. “I’ll stay,” he said more loudly. He looked around, and all the Yellowjackets save Lewth slowly nodded. Lewth only shrugged, with despair in his eyes. “We’ll all stay, Demoiselle,” Algere continued. “We’ll help you rescue your Tansyards.”

  “Thank you,” Clovermead began—but Algere held up his hand. There was despair as deep as Lewth’s in his eyes, and an edge of bitter resentment. He turned abruptly from Clovermead, and shambled away.

  Clovermead grabbed what rest she could, until Mullein stirred from her shallow sleep. The moon was gone, and there was only starlight in the sky. “It is time to go,” she said to Clovermead and Sorrel, and the Shaman-Mother was speaking in her again. She stood up on short legs, with an aged face. “Bring the soldiers as far as the walls.” Clovermead spoke to the Yellowjackets, and they came after her, still yawning. The band got onto their horses and began to pick their way slowly toward Barleymill.

  They came over the ridge, their horses’ hooves clip-clopping softly on the ground. Clovermead looked for the town walls—but they were invisible. Mullein chanted low words, and from the little girl’s fingers black dust swirled into the air and formed a cloud that surrounded them, muffled all sounds from outside, and dimmed all light save the stars above. They were veiled from the world.

  Mullein shook, and silvery tears fell from her eyes. “Are you all right?” Clovermead asked her anxiously.

  “I sick,” Mullein whimpered. “Hurry, please. Get Shaman-Mother out.”

  They quickened their pace, but then patrolling bear-priests came near to them. They stopped in their darkness until the bear-priests had gone, then threaded their way through the tailings to the rough, black walls of Barleymill.

  “Go left,” said Mullein, said the Shaman-Mother. “The tunnel is this way.” They rode for two hundred feet, and aged Mullein raised her hand. “Here,” she sighed. She waved her hand, and what had looked like a solid piece of ground wavered and crumpled away to reveal a narrow tunnel.

  “Will the cloud stay here to hide the soldiers?” Clovermead asked Mullein. The little girl nodded and trembled. Her whole body was glowing silver. “You should stay here, Mullein. You’re not well.”

  “I have to come,” the old woman in Mullein gasped. “I have to show you the way. Quickly!”

  The three of them got down from the horses, and Clovermead took a last look at cheerful Bergander, angry Sergeant Algere, despairing Lewth. Then Sorrel scrambled headfirst into the tunnel, Mullein followed him, and Clovermead came last. The tunnel curved down, five feet and more, and then it went flat for thirty feet. Clovermead could feel dirt above and below her, to either side, and there was very little room to spare. Twice she had to stop while Sorrel squeezed through a particularly tight spot. When they were under the wall itself, she could feel the rough stones pressing against her back. Then the three of them began to curve up again. By now the earth seemed to be pressing against her, tight as a coffin. She was short of breath and very hot. Lady, help me, she prayed. Dear Lady, preserve me from fear. She repeated the words as a mantra to keep terror away from her as she scrambled the last few feet. There was dim light ahead of her, she could see Mullein’s feet, and then the little girl disappeared from sight. Sorrel’s hand reached down and the Tansyard pulled Clovermead out of the tunnel and up into Barleymill.

  They stood in a wide alley between two massive, low buildings. Tiny windows covered by thick metal bars pockmarked the dull beige, rough-hewn stone walls. The streets were made from the same rough stone. A musty smell that made Clovermead’s stomach crawl filled the alleyway. Farther on, Clovermead could see more low buildings and the mountainside that rose behind them. Slag and rubble filled a valley rising toward the south, behind the nearest mines. The slag had an oily glow.

  “How do we get to the mines from here?” Clovermead asked Mullein.

  “I tired,” said Mullein. She slumped to the ground.

  “Mullein?” asked Clovermead. “Shaman-Mother?” She knelt by the little girl’s side. Mullein was breathing rapidly and shallowly. “Sorrel, what do we do?”

  Sorrel knelt by his sister’s side. “Let her go,” he said to the Shaman-Mother. “Enough of this game. Let me take her away from here!” He shook Mullein, and would have shaken her harder except that Clovermead tore his hands from the girl’s shoulders.

  “Let her be,” said Clovermead. “You’ll just hurt her worse.”

  “A curse upon the Shaman-Mother,” said Sorrel. He crouched, picked up Mullein, and slung her over his back. Her arms curled around his chest. “I will carry Mullein. You look ahead and lead us through this town.” He tried to smile. “Look for the big hole in the mountain, and there we are.”

  “Thank you so much.” Clovermead rolled her eyes, then bit her lip. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me the end of that story about the red fox?”

  “For a while I did not think I would ever want to,” said Sorrel. “But perhaps I was wrong. Not now.” He smiled a little. “I am sure that Our Lady will not let you die until you hear it told, so I think it is better that I wait until we are out of the mines before I tell it to you. Does that make sense to you?”

  “I’d rather hear the story,” said Clovermead. Sorrel shook his head. “If I die without hearing it end, I’m never going to forgive you.” She crept away from the tunnel and Sorrel came after, carrying Mullein.

  They crept through the dark streets, slinking from shadow to shadow. They passed a few bear-priests, striding arrogantly along, but saw more slave-traders, silver merchants, and other people who traded in Barleymill. The people of Barleymill walked with a cautious, cringing air, but with the confidence that comes from usefulness. Most of the city-dwellers, however, were slaves. Some walked by themselves—with metal collars around their necks and metal cuffs that tied their hands together—and carried heavy loads of water and food from one part of the town to the other. Others, chained together in gangs, and guided by foremen with whips, lugged heavy timbers or carts filled with stones. Still others trudged along with pickaxes in their hands and no shackles—miners, too weary to think of escape, staggering at the end of their shifts back to barracks in the city.

  The miners glowed. Silvery dust was ingrained in their ragged clothes and etched into the folds of their skin. Beneath the glow their flesh was oddly dark. All were emaciated, and the teeth of the thinner ones had fallen out.

  “They look like Mother did when Mallow’s venom was in her arm,” whispered Clovermead, horrified. “Poisoned and dying.”

  “People do not last long in the mercury mines,” said Sorrel. He glanced over his shoulder at Mullein. She was not yet as emaciated as the miners, but she was not much better. “It is a miracle of Our Lady that she is still alive,” he whispered.

  “No miracle,” Mullein whispered back. For a second she was awake. “Shaman-Mother.” Her head drooped against Sorrel’s back once more.

  They walked on. Clovermead saw metal rings on every wall, where slaves could be tied. They passed a huge square where lines of people were being sold to the bear-priests, despite the late hour. These were still-healthy peasants from the Thirty Towns. The bear-priests bought them by the score, gathered up their chains, and jerked them toward the mines. A few bear-priests manned each entrance to the square: Great barricades stood by them, which could be lowered at a moment’s notice. The whole city was a prison, divided into a honeycomb of smaller prisons.

  Clovermead saw a bent-over slave loaded with a basket full of loaves of bread hurry toward them, then trip on a crack between two stones. He scrabbled on the ground for the fallen loaves. As he looked in the darkness, he saw Clovermead and Sorrel crouched, their knives drawn and ready to stab forward. He stared at them for a moment, then put his finger t
o his lips. His eyes dropped, and he finished tossing loaves back into his basket. Then he stood up and scrambled onward.

  “I would not trust him,” said Sorrel, as the slave scurried away. “Let us hurry, before he thinks to turn us in to the bear-priests.” They pressed forward.

  As they came closer to the mines, the buildings became a mixture of slave barracks and buildings whose insides glowed an ever brighter silver, a ghastly parody of moonlight. Here the mercury ore was refined into glistening pools of the pure liquid. In an open doorway Clovermead saw wooden caskets filled with the bright substance, waiting to have lids put on them. They hurried through the eerie half-light toward the mines.

  The flat stones of the city streets ended, to be replaced by a rough trail up a shallow slope. Scattered barracks and buildings filled with mining equipment covered the broken land, but with large areas of open space between each of them, and a larger belt of flat ground before the entrance to the mines. Lone bear-priests loped through the open ground; more stood on high towers that overlooked the city, others guarded the tunnel-mouths. Chains of slaves trailed in and out of the mines. They were hollow-eyed skeletons.

  “How long until dawn?” asked Clovermead.

  Sorrel glanced at the sky. “At least five hours. I think we can get closer to the mine entrance. Do you see that little ridge of rock running toward that tower?” Clovermead nodded. “Follow me. If we go very slowly in its shadow, and keep our heads down, we should not be seen.” Sorrel got onto his stomach and began to wriggle forward, his head down low by the ground and Mullein clinging to his back. Clovermead followed after him as they went agonizingly slowly from shadow to shadow, hugging the darker-colored patches of rock and coming closer to the towers that rose where the hills emerged abruptly from the plain. Sorrel circled around the nearest tower and led Clovermead to a patch of broken ground in the shadow of the towers. The main entrance to the mines gaped before them.

  “Look,” said Clovermead. She pointed at an empty cart that had stopped thirty feet away. The slaves around it had slumped to the ground while the two bear-priests guarding them argued with each other about something. Both bear-priests had turned their backs to Clovermead while they swore at each other. “They’re going back to the mine. Quick, Sorrel, let’s go. We’ll never get a better chance than this.” Sorrel nodded and they dashed toward the cart.