“Yes, I’m sure it is tasty,” Aaron said, growing impatient. He was quite sure it was not tasty, and the eel liver crisp had sounded positively vile, but didn’t see any point in arguing the matter. “But what about Garmley’s enemies? Are there enough skunks to make a difference?”
“Skunks, no. But when you throw in squirrels, beavers, opossums, raccoons...well, you saw what those gnomes could do when working together.” Skunk nodded. “But most importantly, there are badgers.”
The bears stopped arguing. “Did you say badgers?” Brumbles asked.
“Yes, badgers. They live in the Grassmere Plains. Hardy beasts, fierce. The Plains are sitting right there in the middle of Garmley’s lands, but he’s never been able to subdue them.”
Brumbles nodded, “Yes, I know the badgers. There is some history between our two people. Do you think they might help us?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Selfish beasts. Don’t like to share their food. But they don’t go out of their way to bother people, either. I know they detest Garmley. The thing is, they aren’t too happy with the bears, either.”
“Why ever not?” Dermot asked.
Princess Sylvia added, “We have no quarrel with the badgers. My father always told us to leave them alone.”
“And you’ve done a good job of it. They may be grumpy,” Skunk said, “but nobody likes to face an enemy alone. They think the bears should have come to help them some time ago.”
“They’re probably right,” Brumbles agreed. “Ah, well, it was worth considering.”
“Wait a minute,” Aaron said. “It’s still the best thing we’ve got. We have to go to the badgers.”
“But you heard Skunk,” Brumbles said. “These badgers are angry with us. We never helped them.”
“But we still have to try. We’ll go to them, apologize, and promise to help them rid their own lands of the weasels.”
“It would be risky,” said Sylvia.
“True,” said Brumbles. “What if the badgers attack us? What if they take us prisoner and use us to bargain with Garmley?”
Dermot shrugged. “But so has been every step we’ve taken. No, it’s not the risk, but that it smells of desperation.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, brother,” Brumbles put in. “We are desperate.” He fell silent while the others watched to see what he would say next. At last, he nodded. “Okay, we’ll go. It’s time to take this fight to the enemy.”
Aaron was seized by a sudden hope. No longer would they be running, searching for some mythical army to give them aid.
Live or die, they would make their stand.
Chapter Thirteen: Death of the Greencloaks
Captain Brownia had become a storm. Like lightning from the heavens, she would sweep down from the mountains to wreak havoc upon the enemy. Her Greencloaks had burned three wagons yesterday and killed a weasel and two mink. Three days earlier they had surprised a patrol marching through the Apple Valley, inflicting losses. The day before that they had defeated an enemy patrol on Onion Hill.
The caravan below was the most tempting target yet. It had lingered for several hours just down the hillside from her mountain hideaway. She had never before attacked anything so close, afraid of revealing her hideaway to the enemy. But no target had been so tempting as this one.
Word had reached Brownia that Captain Pawson had fallen in the battle at River’s Edge. That made her First Captain of the Greencloaks, as had been her grandfather, known as the Storm Hammer for his victory against the grizzlies, when they’d finally been driven back into the north country. Once, when Brownia had been just a cub, her grandfather had told her about his own grandfather, who had gone claw to claw with a grizzly bear nine feet tall. It was during the days of the westward retreat, and had it not been for bears like her great-great grandfather, the kingdom would no longer exist. She swore she would uphold that legacy.
I am a whirlwind. I am a storm. Tonight, the enemy will feel my icy bite.
She climbed down from the tree. Lieutenant Blacksnout was waiting for her. He was a good bear, strong and not afraid, as were so many these days.
“Any movement?” he asked.
“It’s quiet.”
“And the wagons?”
“They’re guarded. If they weren’t, we’d be long gone. Even so, I’m half suspecting a trap.”
“How many weasels?” Blacksnout asked.
“Three. One for each wagon. A weak enough guard to be suspicious, but not so weak that I am sure it’s a trap.”
Blacksnout nodded. The others would be urging her to retreat, were they here. Even a possible trap was just what they were trying to avoid. But Blacksnout knew that risks must be taken, dangers faced. He would not flinch if she ordered an attack.
She said, “I’ve made a decision. Tonight we attack. But I want no chances. We will send scouts to watch the road, others to search the woods around the caravan. And we must have an escape route. Alert the others.”
He put a paw to his breast. “As you command, my captain.”
Brownia watched him go, pleased at the quickness in his stride, then turned her thoughts back to the caravan. Tonight, the storm would fall.
#
Youd the Half-Paw waited, and watched. The wagon was filled with barrels. Each barrel held not grain or ale, but a weasel or mink. The largest two held wolverines. Youd joined the other two weasels around a campfire. His hands were gloved, so as to hide his missing fingers should sharp eyes be watching.
The barrels were grumbling.
“We’ve been here all day,” said one. “Are we to spend all night in these wretched things, as well?”
“This is a fool’s errand,” said another. His voice had an oily tone and Youd recognized him as the white mink. That one was dangerous. He’d bite out your throat in the night if he thought it would give him an advantage. Youd would just as soon lock that barrel and toss it into the river.
“I’m hungry,” came a whining voice from the front of the first wagon. “Is that sausage?”
Naturally, the three weasels outside the barrels were eating. No need for them to go hungry. And yes, it was sausage. Nice, sizzling chunks, cooked in the finest mushrooms: the kind stolen from a gnome’s garden. The other two weasels at the fire grinned and plopped pieces of the sizzling meat into their mouths. No doubt they would be whining just as hard if they were trapped in the barrels with the others.
“Youd,” came another whine from the barrels. “We’re hungry.”
Half-Paw had had enough. He snarled, “The next weasel who talks will be serving up his own kidneys for dinner.”
He half expected someone to complain one last time and test whether he was serious. There was no sound. Good.
Youd softened his tone. “There will be plenty to eat when we return in triumph to River’s Edge and they throw a feast in our honor. Now shut up and listen for the signal.”
He looked into the woods. Firelight flickered into the shadows, making it seem as though bears were hiding behind every tree. It was just up in those hills where Captain Brownia hid with her band of renegades, or so had claimed the captured Greencloak. If so, then he was presenting an irresistable target.
Suddenly, his patience paid off. He caught a glimpse of movement, heard a twig snap. “Get ready,” he said to the two weasels eating sausage. In a louder voice, meant for other ears, he said, “We should reach River’s Edge tomorrow. The weasel lord will be glad to see this shipment, I can tell you.”
Youd drew his dagger slowly from its hilt, keeping hand and blade hidden under his cloak. From the trees came the hoot of an owl, and he smiled. The bears were on the move.
Tonight, his blade would drink bear blood.
#
Captain Brownia remained hidden in the trees, waiting for the perfect moment. The weasels below were eating and talking, suspecting nothing. The Greencloak scouts had returned one by one, saying that there were no weasels on the road or hiding in the ravine to the south.
&nbs
p; This had emboldened her men. There was a swagger in their step that had been missing after the fall of River’s Edge, when everything had looked so bleak. It would take many victories to give them enough confidence to win this war, but for now she would take whatever jolt of courage she could get.
Lieutenant Blacksnout approached. “The men are ready,” he whispered.
She nodded. Below, one of the weasels leaned back, tucking his hand inside his cloak to rest it on a full belly. “Time for the hammer stroke.”
Blacksnout’s eyes gleamed in the sliver of moonlight as he cupped his hands to his mouth. He hooted like an owl. Further into the trees came an answering hoot. Black shapes slipped downhill, slowly at first, then breaking into a charge. Brownia lifted her club and let out a shout. Other voices joined in.
The storm falls.
Brownia knew something was wrong almost at once. At the last attack, the weasels–there had been ten of them, then–had fallen over themselves in fear. The Greencloaks had dispatched those foolish enough to fight and had scattered the rest. These weasels, however, were on their feet at once, with blades in hand. They were only three, but showed no fear. Indeed, they seemed to be expecting the attack. She could see it in their eyes. The biggest of the weasels, she saw with horror, was missing two fingers on his right paw. Half-Paw!
Brownia pulled up and cried for a retreat. But a storm, once unleashed, cannot be stopped. Her bears poured into the encampment, seeing only easy prey.
Half-Paw shouted, “Now!”
Weasels boiled from the barrels in the wagons. Each was armed with a knife. The first bear, who had just reached the light of the weasel fire, stopped up short. He had expected to see three opponents, caught in surprise. Instead, he faced thirty.
He was a good bear, young, but brave. From a good family. His father had served under Brownia’s grandfather. He didn’t stand a chance. Weasels swarmed him. He disappeared under their weight with a cry of pain.
Captain Brownia let out a cry of sorrow and rage. She swung her club, blasting one weasel out of the way as if it weighed no more than a pine cone. She brought it back for another swing, but her next target ducked nimbly, then stabbed at her legs. She narrowly blocked the knife.
Greencloaks fought desperate battles throughout the weasel camp. Two wolverines took down another bear, biting at his throat and tearing at his belly. A third bear fell with weasels crawling over its back.
Brownia threw back her head. “To me! All bears, to me!”
Her words were like a trumpet call. The bears, previously fighting in stunned silence, roared as one. Weasels fell back, doubt and fear on their faces. The eleven remaining bears pressed into a wedge. There were three more bears holding the road to the north. If they could only reach those others, they might yet escape. Together, they laid waste to the weasels about them, opening a path to freedom.
And then Half-Paw, the cursed enemy, snarled at his men, and the weasels and their kin stiffened. Brownia was fighting the weasel captain himself, and though she swung again and again, her blows fell wide. Half-Paw ducked in and thrust his dagger into her thigh. It was like the sting of a thousand hornets. She stumbled with a cry.
The weasels were on her, biting, tearing, stabbing. She fought on, even as they took her club, then pinned her to the ground. A ferret threw a noose around her neck and choked the breath from her. Others roped her ankles, and twisted her arms behind her back. She snapped with her teeth, but they stayed out of range. At last, air taken, bleeding, tied, she could fight no more.
A small knot of bears had broken free, and were fleeing north, led by Lieutenant Blacksnout. The weasels were too busy dispatching the wounded or tending to their own injuries to give chase. By the Sky Stone, she was glad to see them escape. But the carnage around her was enough to break her heart. Half a dozen bears lay dead. Three others lay on the ground, tied, wounded, struggling or already subdued. Brownia, curse the day she was born, was one of them.
Half-Paw strode over to check her knots. He thrust his torch in her face, then nodded to the others. “This is her. Garmley will be pleased.” Then, to Brownia, he said, “Soon, bear, you too will bow to the weasel lord.”
She snarled. “I will die first.”
Half-Paw called to the others, “Our work here is done. Let’s move out.” He turned back to Brownia and sneered. “Yes, maybe you will die first.” He held a dagger just below her jaw. “If so, may Garmley give me the privilege of cutting your throat myself.”
Captain Brownia closed her eyes and wished she were already dead. She had failed the king and had failed her people.
Chapter Fourteen: The Badgers
Five days after leaving the city of Shar La, Aaron had a dream about bears.
It was one of those dreams where he knew he was asleep, even though he might be flying, or sitting in class and suddenly realizing that he wasn’t wearing pants. But in most dreams, events were just a random jumble. First he would do one thing, then another, totally unrelated. If he woke, he could remember what had just happened, and a little bit of what had happened earlier. And if he tried to explain his dream to Bethany, it would make no sense, and she’d soon be staring off into space, waiting for him to hurry up and finish.
This was not a dream like that. He knew he was asleep, but he could see and hear everything just as if he were awake. Smells, sights, and sounds were crisp and vivid.
In his dream, he was being chased by a bear through the ruins of Shar La. It was the wild bear from the woods in Vermont. Aaron pushed through vines and into rotting houses, then fled through windows and into the streets. The bear was right behind him, roaring, biting, and clawing. Its claws tore a gash in his shoulder.
“Help!” he screamed, but the streets were deserted.
At last he found himself in the great hall where they had seen the statue of the ancient bear king and his war hammer. He was surprised to see the three bears laid out upon the ground: Sheriff Brumbles, Dermot Strongpaw, and Princess Sylvia. Bethany was there, too. They were crying out in pain as wild bears stood over them, tearing into their flesh. Aaron turned and lifted his hands to protect himself from the bear that had pursued him into the hall.
It was gone. In its place was the statue come to life, King Prestor. He stood tall and straight. He wore a crown on his head and held a war hammer in his right paw. The Sky Stone in his left hand glowed like a coal from a fire.
Prestor spoke. “Now, my bears. It is time.”
To Aaron’s surprise, the three bears rose to their feet, covered in wounds. They thrust their claws into their own flesh and peeled away skin and fur. It sloughed off and fell to the floor. And yet they were still bears beneath the outer skins, but wild bears.
“You, too,” Prestor told Aaron and Bethany. “You must become one of us.”
Aaron found himself peeling away his own skin, starting at the gash where the bear had clawed his shoulder. It burned as it came away in great, peeling chunks. Beneath it was a coat of black fur. Bethany, too, peeled away her skin like it was no more than a wet swimming suit. Beneath the skin, they were bears.
“Now roar, my bears. Roar!”
Together, they lifted their voices into roars. It shook the roof. Power coursed through Aaron’s limbs. He was alive!
And then he was waking from this dream. Skunk stood over him, smelly as ever, and gave him a nudge with her nose. He opened his eyes and blinked. The light was just rising to the east. His mind was still clouded from what he had seen and he lifted his hand, half expecting to discover a paw instead.
“Bad dreams?” Skunk asked. She was already chewing on something, no doubt pilfered from the bags, as the bears were just stirring and hadn’t yet started cooking breakfast.
Aaron shook his head again. “Hmm? What?”
“You were growling and twitching. It was rather amusing.”
“Aaron,” Bethany said. She was just sitting up a few feet away. She wore a confused look. “I...there were these bears...”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You were dreaming about bears? Were you a bear?”
Brumbles grunted. He was sitting, now, shuffling off his blanket. “What’s this, now? Did you see the bear king?”
It turned out they had all shared the same dream. All except Skunk, which she found irritating. “But you’re not a bear,” Bethany said. “Maybe that’s why–”
Skunk laughed. “Take a look! You’re not a bear either.”
Aaron looked at his hands and felt his face. He half expected to feel fur, the dream was so fresh. But he was still a boy.
The bears were reluctant to talk about the dream as they broke camp and stoked the coals of the previous night’s fire to cook breakfast. Not Aaron. He was itching to figure it out. He went to talk to Brumbles, who was pouring acorn pancakes onto a flat stone he’d placed over the fire. “What does it mean?”
The bear grunted and just shook his head.
Dermot had been looking for trout in the brook. Failing that, he splashed some water on his face, then looked back to the camp. “Maybe it means nothing, my young friend.”
Sylvia took the first of Brumbles’s pancakes and poured some honey that they’d taken from a tree two days earlier. She handed it to Aaron and put a paw on his shoulder as he started to eat. “We may have had the same dream, but what does it mean for a boy or girl to change into a bear? What does it mean for one of us to turn wild?”
“Oh,” Aaron said. He hadn’t thought of it in that way before. “You mean, it might mean something different to each of us?”
“Exactly, Aaron. And it might take time to figure that out.”
They ate, then crossed the stream and into the stony fields that marked the beginning of badger country. There were gnomes in this land, they’d been warned, so they were to be on their guard. Aaron thought he heard a whisper or two, but they passed through the land without disturbance.
It was drier here, warmer, with fewer trees. Lizards sunned themselves on rocks, and crows flew overhead, squawking at the intruders. One in particular seemed to be following them, watching first from atop a rock, then circling in the sky before resting on the branch of a tree, just out of reach. It cocked its head and watched.
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