The Kingdom of the Bears

by Michael Wallace

  “I know why,” Aaron said. He kept his hands cupped around the fragment of sky stone, so he could see its light, but nobody else could. “Dermot, Sylvia, and Brumbles all have pieces of the stone. If it will protect the bears, why not us? We are here to fight for the Kingdom of the Bears, too.” He was still thinking. “Maybe that’s what the dream meant. Maybe it’s the bits of sky stone that made us dream about becoming bears. Skunk didn’t have a dream, remember. She’s the only one without a piece of the stone.”

  “We’d better put these away,” Bethany said. “Before someone asks what we’re doing.”

  The argument continued among the badgers. Aaron’s and Brumbles’s speeches hadn’t ended the discussion, but the tide had clearly turned in their favor. The Ash Clan came over first, followed by the Midnight Clan. Only the Red Clay Clan was holding out. They had numerous arguments, which the other badgers answered one-by-one. At last, the Red Clay chieftain brought his bowl of red clay, which he added to the other talismans already on or surrounding Jarr’s white stone.

  Badgers, bears, humans, and skunk all joined in a cheer. More food appeared, heaped on platters. The animals set into it as if they had not yet begun to eat. The feasting continued at a furious pace.

  Skunk waddled past just as the party was finally winding down. She had eaten so much that her sides were bulging out like a giant balloon, just about to pop. She groaned, “Oh, oh. Ow! Ouch.” Nevertheless, when a badger walked by with a platter of blackberry tarts, she couldn’t help but take one, then a second. The first, she stuffed into her mouth, but the second she just eyed, as if not quite able to find enough room.

  Bethany laughed. “Are you sure you can manage that last tart?”

  Skunk said, “It would be a sorry day if I...” She paused to hiccup, then swallowed hard and continued. “It would be a sorry day if I couldn’t find room for just one more tart.” She shuffled past, nibbling at one corner.

  Aaron and his sister rose wearily to their feet. Someone pointed them toward their tents. He put his hand into his pocket. The piece of sky stone was still warm. As his fingers touched, he thought he heard someone whispering, but then it was gone.

  The feast was ending, but though it was nearly dawn, few were retiring to their tents. All around them, the badgers were packing gear and gathering weapons. When he realized why, a knot of fear settled into his stomach.

  Tomorrow they would go to war.

  Chapter Seventeen: The March to War

  Two armies marched from the White Stone Clan’s village at dawn. The larger group, led by Jarr the Stout, numbered ninety-five badgers, bears, and humans, together with one sleepy, groaning skunk. The second force numbered twenty badgers from the Ash Clan, together with Dermot Strongpaw and Princess Sylvia. Their plan was to move swiftly and seize the Alonus Bridge, to prevent the weasels from moving forces up and down the river from River’s Edge, a hundred and fifty miles to the north. They would curl around to the northwest to meet the main army. Dermot had a horn that he could blow when approaching; short blasts meant help was on the way, long blasts meant send help at once.

  Meanwhile, the larger force would march up through the south, disrupting the weasel’s own settlements and hopefully building their forces from the ranks of Garmley’s slaves as they fought their way through the Apple Valley. Brumbles and the children were to go with this group.

  Their first target was Brick Hill, fourteen miles from White Stone village. Jarr and Brumbles wanted to take it by nightfall. They set off at a trot.

  Spring was giving way to summer. The land was dry and stony, with few trees to give shade. The Merley children were in a sweat by the end of the first mile. But they were not the kids who’d left Vermont a few weeks earlier. There was no complaining or begging for rest. By the time they reached five miles, Aaron felt a second wind coming on. At ten miles, he scarcely remembered that they’d started the march exhausted from the feasting the night before.

  Jarr and Brumbles called a halt just after noon. Badgers, bear, and humans sank gratefully to the ground. They were marching through a meadow and Aaron lay on his back, letting the cool grass envelop him. For several minutes there was no sound but panting and the sound of flowing water from a nearby brook. And then Jarr was barking orders, food was distributed, water skins refilled, and the army was on the march again.

  Late afternoon, orders came to march in silence. They’d entered weasel lands; nobody wanted to give early alert to the enemy. Even so, Aaron was surprised at how loud they sounded. There was the padding of dozens of feet on the ground, the creak of leather and backpack, the labored breathing, and the occasional grunt or cough.

  They reached Brick Hill exhausted, panting. The Merleys were dead on their feet; the badgers and bears little better. Skunk had actually dropped off some miles earlier, turning north to where some cousins lived. She said she would catch up with them in a couple of days.

  Brick Hill was an ugly place. The houses were shacks made of bricks too deformed or broken for shipping. The weasels had stripped away the vegetation, replacing it with mud pits, piles of straw, and endless row of drying bricks. Brick kilns spit smoke into the air, giving it a gritty, hot flavor. The road was littered with brick shards and clumps of rotting straw. An overturned wheelbarrow lay to one side, clay spilled and dried. Here and there were discarded tools.

  The army paused to look up toward the settlement, scanning for trouble. When they saw no weasels, Jarr ordered them to take the hill.

  “We are in no shape for a fight,” Aaron told Brumbles. Badgers marched up the road, summoning the last of their strength. They had no choice but to follow.

  “We won’t need to,” Brumbles said. “Look.

  There were no weasels on Brick Hill. A collection of rabbits, beavers, and marmots approached. They were thin and underfed. Mud caked their fur and they wore the stripes of many beatings. Most were quite happy to see the army, while others worried that the badgers had just come to take the place of the weasels as overlords. Jarr assured them that they had not. Now, what had happened to the enemy?

  Seems the weasels had seen them coming, or been warned by a crow. Details were hazy. In any event, they had fled earlier in the day.

  “So we win our first victory,” Brumbles said. “Not too bad, eh?”

  “I’m glad we didn’t have to fight,” Aaron said. “But it feels oddly unsatisfying.”

  Jarr came walking over. The badgers were making a quick camp, passing around bread and cheese to the hungry army and to the newly freed slaves. He nodded at Brumbles. “Your strategy was sound, Sheriff. I’ll take this kind of victory over the kind where badgers die in battle.”

  “The next one won’t be so easy,” Brumbles said. He put a paw thoughtfully to his chin. “Garmley will know by now that we’re here.”

  “Are you thinking of that crow?” Aaron asked.

  “Exactly. Assuming it was a spy, Garmley would have learned that we were seeking the White Stone Clan. Probably yesterday, if the crow flew directly to River’s Edge. He’ll send forces right away.”

  “That still gives us time,” Jarr said, “But we’ll need to stay alert. Come on. The men are exhausted and we have a lot to do.”

  Aaron looked around Brick Hill as he followed the badger. It seemed secure enough. And they’d won a victory, which seemed a miracle in and of itself after so many losses. It was cause for celebration, for new hope.

  So why did he still feel unsettled?

  Because, you fool, he thought, Garmley hasn’t yet made his move.

  #

  It was a vicious job, requiring cunning, strength, and a ruthlessness that few possessed. Certainly not that whining, incompetent Half-Paw. Youd needed a field of battle and fifty weasels at his side. Look how miserably he’d failed on the King’s Road or at the Fords of Nivum.

  This was a job for Snark, the Ferret. Right hand of the weasel lord. It was his cunning that had taken River’s Edge. It was he who had captured King Greatclaw. It was under his co
mmand that the king’s eyes had been put out. And it was his plan that would end this pathetic attempt by badgers and bears to turn the course of the war. But it wouldn’t be decided on the field of battle. No, it would take cunning and ruthlessness. A knife to the heart, thrust before battle even began.

  He’d picked four trusted companions. Three were white mink, vicious little weasels, they, all brothers. The fourth was a big wolverine named Mudruss, from the northlands where the wolves howled. Nobody knew his story, because he rarely spoke. He was an angry brute, who would just as soon pull your arms out as share a meal with you. Mudruss would come in handy in if one of the bears gave them trouble.

  Snark had floated south on the Alonus with thirty weasels and wolverines. When word came that badgers had taken the Alonus Bridge, he’d known his force wouldn’t be enough. When they’d landed their boats at Muddy Fork instead, some two miles upstream from the bridge, more grim news had awaited. A second army of badgers had taken Brick Hill, then marched north and surprised the garrison at Broken Keep. The keep was not far from Muddy Fork.

  It was here that Snark had seen his opening.

  The night was dark, the moon a sliver in the sky, covered by clouds as often as not. There was a light rain. Snark and his four companions crawled on their stomachs through a drainage ditch, half-filled with rain running off the hilltop. It was cold and muddy but nobody complained or spoke. Twice, badger patrols marched by on the road to their left. They froze in place until the threat passed.

  Broken Keep had been built of granite by some proud people, long gone. War and nature had eroded the outer wall, leaving only a single tower standing. The tower itself had taken damage; the stones around the base were battered with scars and covered with lichen. Even in its weakened state, the location of the keep along the frontier between weasel lands and the Kingdom of the Bears had led Garmley to garrison its tower. Since the attack on River’s Edge, he’d used it to store supplies and house men on their way toward the river or north along the Apple Valley.

  Badgers had dug burrows and pitched tents around the perimeter of the tower. The camp was quiet, but for a handful of sentries. The rest would be asleep, exhausted after a hard march and the battle to take Broken Keep. Snark allowed himself a smile. It was all as he’d imagined. Perfect for delivering a crippling surprise blow.

  One of the mink tapped him on the shoulder. Just ahead was a makeshift prison, a fence encircling eight or ten weasels, probably captured during the fighting. A single badger guarded the gate.

  It was a tempting target. They could dispatch the guard and triple their numbers in moments. Fifteen of them could create plenty of havoc before the badgers even awoke to the danger. But, no. The others could be freed in due time. Snark shook his head at the others and gestured forward.

  They were behind the sentries now, and free to roam among the tents and dens at will. The three mink drew daggers. One blade each for the three badger clan chieftains. The wolverine needed no weapons to accomplish his task, but the ones he’d been born with. Mudruss bared his claws and showed his teeth. The wolverine would kill Sheriff Brumbles. Snark’s four companions slipped into the darkness to search for their quarry.

  Snark smiled for a second time. All went according to plan.

  He tested his blade on one finger. It drew a thin line of blood. His own knife was reserved for the humans, meddlers from another land. He didn’t know why they’d come, and didn’t care. Their meddling would soon come to an end.

  Chapter Eighteen: A Bear Awakes

  The wild bear had returned to Aaron’s dreams. It caught him and threw him to the ground. Even in his dream he remembered that you should always fight back against a black bear. And he had become strong in the dream, almost as strong as the bear itself. Over and over they rolled, tearing at each other with claws and teeth and Aaron realized that he was not just strong like a bear, he was a bear.

  “What do you want from me!” he cried. His words came out in a roar.

  The bear answered. “I want you to wake up, you fool. Wake up, now!” It slapped him across the face with its paw and though it was just a dream, the blow hurt.

  Aaron woke at that moment. He was overcome with that horrible feeling that he got when the flu came without warning in the middle of the night. He felt as though he’d been lying under a pile of electric blankets, all hot and sweaty. And then, like someone had flipped a switch, he was freezing, instead. He sat up, but the blood drained from his head. He felt like he was going to throw up all over himself and he desperately needed to get to a bathroom.

  There was no bathroom nearby. He and Bethany were at Broken Keep, sharing a tent. They’d taken the keep in battle the previous day, and he’d taken a slight wound on his right leg. His first thought was the wound, that the dagger that had scratched through his leggings had been dipped in poison. But his leg didn’t hurt.

  Aaron crawled from bed and collapsed to the floor, drenched in sweat. Struggling to his feet, he lurched toward the door. Bethany was groaning in her own bed, sounding as sick as he felt. Suddenly the tent flaps parted and someone slipped inside. It was dark, but he could see that it was too small for a bear or badger. A knife glinted in its hand.

  Aaron opened his mouth to cry out a warning. His stomach was roiling, and he could only manage a groan. Where was his dagger? There, in his pack. He reached for the pack where it lay on the floor, but bending was too much for his weakened body. He collapsed.

  The weasel let out a triumphant hiss as it crossed the tent. It raised its dagger, while Aaron lifted his arms to protect himself. The weasel brought the dagger down hard.

  #

  It was night in the foul cellars beneath King Greatclaw’s manor. Captain Brownia knew it was night because there was a cool breeze blowing down through the window overhead. It was like a gentle kiss, drawing away the poisonous airs. She drew it into her lungs. With it came an unfamiliar stir of hope. It was an emotion she had not felt in some time.

  Each passing day had been worse than the one before. The only food was a crust of wormy bread, and the only drink a bowl of water with an oily, metallic taste. It was only enough to keep them clinging to life. She thought the diet was crueler than nothing, for it would only prolong their agony.

  Meanwhile, they grew weaker. The king had developed a wet, dangerous-sounding cough. Brownia was not yet sick herself, but with the food and the foul air, it could only be a matter of time. Her joints ached, her stomach rumbled constantly, and her mouth was always parched. Worst of all, her mind was growing sluggish. She feared she would slip into a stupor or begin to wrestle with ghosts in her sleep, like King Greatclaw.

  But today, her mind was as clear as it had been since she’d entered the cell. She’d been sleeping and had been having a peculiar dream. There was a wild bear in the dream, like the kind that lived in the wilderness, only he could talk. She’d been chasing the bear through the woods when it had ambushed her. She wrestled it to the ground, staying clear of its snarling jaws, when it suddenly stopped fighting. “Very good, Captain. There is fight in you yet.”

  “Of course there is,” she had snapped. “What, did you think I would curl up and die?”

  “It would seem that you are doing just that. Why, you are asleep right now, aren’t you?”

  “‘There’s nothing else to do but sleep. My paws are chained. The weasels have cast me into the pit.”

  The wild bear roared until the limbs shook on the trees. It threw her clear and was on top of her in an instant. Within moments it had her pinned and its jaws were at her throat.

  “Leave me alone!” she cried. “Let me be!”

  “Hah!” the other bear shouted. It lifted its head and glared into her eyes. “You have been tracking me. You are the one who tried to wrestle with me. Leave you alone?”

  Brownia was confused. “But I...but I needed to find you.”

  “Well now you have found me. What now? Will you sleep until it is too late? Hurry, now. I am busy. There are others who
need my help. Who are not asleep.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded. She stared into his eyes, unafraid.

  “I am King Prestor,” the wild bear said. His eyes were blazing. “Now awake! Or be gone and never trouble me again.”

  But that’s impossible, she had thought as she woke to find herself in the prison below King Greatclaw’s manor. Everybody knows that King Prestor is a human.

  And so, as she sat with her back against the wall, breathing the cool night air, she felt a surprising strength in her limbs, and though she was hungry and thirsty, she found she could think clearly for the first time in days. There were weasels in the street outside, and through the grating on the window, she could hear bits of their conversation “...and sending us back down the river. Whatever for? Those badgers can’t...” and here the voice faded out, replaced by the sound of marching feet. There were quite a few of them, by the sounds of it.

  She didn’t fully understand what she’d heard, but she suddenly realized that it had been some time since she’d heard the changing of the guard outside her door. She’d counted the changes and knew that when the new guard arrived, another eight hours had passed. But she’d last heard the change before dusk, and now it was twilight.

  Something was drawing the weasels out of River’s Edge. Something about badgers. Whatever the reason, Greatclaw’s manor would be short of guards. Unrelieved since morning, the guards to the dungeon would be tired. She began to work out a plan.

  Brownia made her way to the king’s side. He was lying in the same bed of rags where she’d first discovered him. Ever thinner, he was a gaunt shell of the bear he had once been. He was asleep and murmuring, his breath raspy.

  She put her hand on his forehead. It was hot. “My king?” She gave him a gentle shake. “Are you awake?”

  He stirred. “Yes, I am awake.” His voice was tired but clear. “Or at least as awake as I ever am these days. Has the time come? Is it time to leave?”