Greyfax Grimwald

by Niel Hancock

  “So the sergeant caughts you,” came the grating snarl of laughter. “Ain’t no needs in trying to give that scab tongue the slips. He’s got a nose that can smells thunder a mile off.”

  Bear snarled back, moving along in stride with the foul-smelling body beside him. His nostrils filled with the evil scent, but he grew accustomed to it after a time, and held back the strong desire to flee.

  Hour after hour passed by, and still the column moved onward at a fierce pace. Bear’s limbs began to tire, but there was no halt called, no break in the weary, fast trot that jolted his numbed brain with every stabbing intake of the frozen air.

  At last, toward dawn, the column halted and took cover under the surrounding, scraggly, gnarled trees. Bear, falling down exhausted, looked about him, panting hard. If it had not been for the odor of the foul ‘ sweating bodies, it would have appeared no one at all was about

  After a few minutes of steady breathing, he sat upright and found he was alone under his tree. He remained motionless for a time, listening, and having only the fast-fading faint cover of night left for his move, he cautiously began edging away from the reeking scent of the Worlugh encampment. Hardly daring to breathe, he moved with every ancient trick of bear cunning he could muster, and after ten minutes had gone by, he found himself overlooking a small stream that lay frozen before him, cutting the hills into two shallow depressions invisible to each other. Bear quickly passed down, trotted noiselessly along the frozen stream bed for a while, made his way up and over another low, snow-covered hillock, looked back, and saw with failing hopes, the broad, deep tracks of his passing growing clear in the rapidly nearing dawn.

  “Well, they’re there, that’s all, but I’ll give them a thing or two to turn over in their morning soup,” he muttered aloud. At the mention of soup, he groaned, making a terrible face. “But there’s nothing for it,” he added, sighing, and making the sign, he returned to the body of a man.

  “Let the foulbreaths unravel this one,” he chuckled, turning to look back at where the huge paw prints ended, then began again in the shape of a booted man’s heavy tread.

  Bear quickly checked his course, and aiming at a high snow-glistening peak ahead in the general direction he thought would not again cross the progress of the Worlugh column, he set off briskly, away upward into the growing reddish glow of the sun, appearing slowly over the crowns of the lofty peaks.

  “I hope those beasts don’t travel by day,” he muttered wearily, trying to muster his weary body for one last desperate burst of speed to outdistance the Worlugh troop.

  At the second hour after full light his legs failed him, and he collapsed, giving himself an hour to rest, then go on. He awakened from a fitful, unhealing sleep as the last dull golden glow passed into night. He jumped up, fearing he had been overtaken, but no sound broke the silent, show-covered stillness.

  Not knowing what a great distance he had covered on the forced march, Bear returned to his natural form, and loped away at a great bear galloping gait. He had gone forward only a short while when the snapping report of a rifle bullet crackled close by over his ears. “Halt and identify,” growled a piercing voice. Bear’s great heart failed him. “Eek, but I’ve run myself right back into their grasp.” He sat dejectedly down to await his fate, whatever it might be. Two dark shadows approached him, the blunt outlines of firearms pointed menacingly toward him. Remembering his natural form, he decided he would at least make a fight of it. No enemy could slay Bruinlen, Bruinthor’s distant descendant, without knowing they were dealing with a mighty warrior bear king from beyond the “Great River.

  “What seek you at the camp of General Greymouse?” demanded the voice from the darkness. Bear’s ears jerked straight up from his head. These were no Worlughs by the sound of them. If only men, there would be another unending line of questions, but at least he would have food and a place to sleep, even if it were another prison cell. He hastily repeated the words, and stood.

  The two men searched him, found nothing, and saying no more, they marched him away to their check post, where another sleepy soldier was awakened “and ordered to march Bear down into the camp where the officers would be waiting to interrogate him.

  Bear marched glumly along, with only the thought of a hot bowl of soup to cheer the dark picture that began with the grueling all-night tramp with the beast army and ended with his capture by these others, less cruel, perhaps, but no less unkind with their forever questioning minds. He vowed under his breath to answer nothing, and after the brave warmth that flowed through him cooled, “At least until after I’ve had my supper,” he said aloud, sternly.

  His guard, in reply, poked him roughly in the ribs, urging him hurriedly along.

  “Good Health

  and

  Well Met”

  Weary soldiers trudged slowly by, the snow beneath their slow feet trampled and ground into a brown, muddy slush. General Greymouse’s armies had successfully routed the invaders from the north-lands, slaying or capturing many, but a stiff pocket of resistance still held out upon a well-fortified hill, and had informed the officer sent to treat with them that they would never surrender, but fight on until the last man was unable to fire a shot or throw a bomb. The soldiers that slowly wound their way past Otter and Flewingam’s tent wore the ones who had been relieved in that siege. Heavy guns had filled the early evening with a continuous booming, making the dark sky alive with the red flaming tails of the big shells as they screeched and wailed away toward the enemy-held hill.

  “Is this really a victory, friend?” asked Otter of Flewingam, looking at the worn, staling faces of the men as they moved by, oblivious of all about them.

  “For bookkeepers, yes,” said Flewingam, coming to stand by the tent flap beside his friend. “For those .that fought it, no.” He sighed.

  Otter searched each empty face as it loomed out, shown up by dim light from the lantern behind him, the dull glow flowing past him onto the muddy company street. Two men appeared from the slow-moving column, one supporting the other.

  “We gots to get out of here,” the wounded man screamed over and over. “They’ll kill us all. Run, you fools, run.” The man’s voice was choked back by a fit of wailing tears. His comrade helped him on, and the cries fingered a moment, then were swallowed in the darkness.

  “Were you ever in battles like this?” asked Otter softly.

  Flewingam looked across his shoulder, his eyes filled with the same dead light as the eyes of the men marching by outside.

  “I have seen my share of them,” he said quietly.

  Otter placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, friend. I’ve reminded you of things better left alone.”

  The empty stares and lifeless tread had also recalled something to Otter, although he could not remember exactly what. It was a feeling that had something to do with the disquieting visions of the great animal kings he had seen so long ago by the Great River, when Greyfax Grimwald had shown them his wizard’s fire, and all the histories there had been. Perhaps in a time before he had crossed Calix Stay, he himself had seen battles such as this. Perhaps that was why he had crossed the River then. He wished aloud he could cross it now.

  “Have you ever heard of Calix Stay, friend?” he asked Flewingam.

  “Not to my recollection,” the man answered, still lost in dream terrors of past battles.

  “It’s called that in my tongue, but you might know it as the Great River.”

  “Yes, I have heard of a river called that.” “Across it lies the Meadows of the Sun, and Gilden Tarn, and the Beginen Mountains, where Dwarf dwelled for so long, and my own holt was upon Cheerweir, as nice a pond as any I’ve ever heard of or read about. Bear of old had his cave there, too.” Otter lingered as he recalled all the pleasant hours he had spent swimming and playing.

  Flewingam, his mind turned away from the remembered horrors, was taken up by Otter’s voice, droning on softly of his strange homeland and travels.

  “All this happ
ened, Otter? Or are you daft a bit? Where is this river you speak of?”

  “Calix Stay?” Otter repeated, absentmindedly taking out the fine reed pipe he had fashioned for himself from living plants that grew about the banks of Cheerweir. When it was played upon, the music and laughter of growing things filled the air about those who heard it, and the soft dream of lingering summers passed over minds like the cool breezes that were forever playing over the Meadows of the Sun. Otter put the pipe to his lips and played a short swimming tune, then continued on dreamily with his tale.

  “Calix Stay is everywhere. Here, too, perhaps, if it wasn’t for the wars. I’m not sure, but I rather think everyone used to know where it lay.”

  “I remember tales of some sort about a river that guarded the shores of the underworld,” mused Flewingam, the music having made him drowsy.

  “Calix Stay guards no underworld. I have heard the story you speak of, but it reeks of man. It is all spoiled that way, for crossing the River is very beautiful.” Otter fell silent, remembering each detail anew in his home upon Cheerweir.

  A heavy battery of cannons broke in rudely upon Otter’s reveries.

  “Great Weir of Baccu, don’t they ever tire of shooting those things off?” Otter clasped his hands over his ears.

  “Not likely,” offered Flewingam, leaning back upon his cot. “Come, play me another bar, Otter. The music puts me to an easy sleep.”

  Otter began a tune about oak trees chuckling deep in the forest, and notes bubbled with merriment and soothing breezes snoring lightly through green leaves. Flewingam began to mumble his thanks, but was asleep before the words passed his lips. Otter finished out the tune, and feeling much better himself from playing the old songs of his homeland, decided to take a short walk before sleeping. He remembered then the soldiers passing outside, went to check, and found the company street now deserted of all save the posted sentries. The sky was a distant, dark velvet blue cloak, sprinkled with many flickering dim star lanterns. Otter saw the pale, shimmering halo of Dracu, mother of Baccu, and just over the high peaks of the mountains before him, he saw the mighty steed of Augia raise a twinkling forefoot, poised to break forth into pursuit of a speeding moon. (These were constellations in the southern skies of Atlanton Earth during the Fourth or Iron Age, of the second cycle.)

  Otter walked out onto the deserted street, whistling to himself a tune he had made up about silver-armored water bugs darting about above a dark, fish-sleeping river. He wandered as far as the checkpoint that guarded the edge of the camp’s outer perimeter, then turned to go back. He had exchanged greetings with the drowsy sentries, and as he moved away, one of them called out into the darkness.

  “Halt and identify.”

  Otter, without thinking, stopped in his tracks and blurted out his name. Out of the cover of night came another voice.

  “Private” Kranz, with a prisoner for our intelligence corps.”

  “Pass in,” replied the sentry.

  Otter stopped a few paces off the road to see these new arrivals. A rather large, stout fellow came into the dim lantern glow of the guard post, followed by a soldier with his firearm at his captive’s back.

  “Oww,” complained Bear, feeling the sharp bite of the rifle barrel in his now tender ribs. “I’m going on as quickly as “I’m able. No need poking me about like that”

  There was something curiously familiar about the voice, Otter decided, and fell into step with the guard as he passed.

  “Here, stand away. I’ve got a dangerous spy here,” growled the guard.

  “He looks harmless enough to me,” said Otter, and whistling one of Bear’s old songs, he continued on beside the man.

  The prisoner stopped dead, and the guard bumped headlong into him.

  “Offf you oaf, I’ve banged my nose,” snarled the guard, and started to give Bear a good nudge with his rifle.

  “Otter?” said Bear, squinting closely at the strange man shape of his old friend.

  “Bear? Is that you, you silly ass?” giggled Otter, holding down the great urge to fast-nose-scamper between Bear’s legs to bowl him over.

  “Get on, you,” snapped the soldier, raising his weapon, menace growing thick in his voice.

  “I can explain everything if you’ll hold a moment, friend,” said Otter, twirling twice around and repeating the words. The guard looked stupidly down at the small gray creature standing on its hind paws before him, addressing him politely.

  “You see,” Otter went on, “you have my friend Bear here, held captive, when he’s of no mind to harm anyone, and comes only in search of me.”

  The guard looked up, directly into the great open jaws of the fully upright bear, who was rumble-chuckling low in his broad chest.

  The soldier’s firearm clattered to the ground at his feet, his eyes wide, mouth pumping furiously open and closed.

  “You see, I’m not a spy, but a bear,” carefully explained Bear, moving one huge forepaw in a general explanation of his large animal shape.

  “And he’s found me, and we’re together now, and General Greymouse knows all about it, so thank you kindly for escorting my friend here,” went on Otter. “And now we’ve much to mull over and decide on, so we’ll leave you with our thanks.”

  Bear bowed low. “One small courtesy before you return to your duties, friend,” said Bear, and he picked the stunned figure of the man up in one great paw, lifted him briskly off the ground, and landed a resounding thwack to the man’s backside.

  “Our accounts are even, friend,” said Bear, depositing the man back on his feet and gingerly rubbing his own sore ribs.

  “Now I think you had best return the way you came, friend. Your duty is done,” said Otter, placing the weapon back into the man’s clenched hands.

  Bear and Otter dropped to all fours, and quickly trotted away toward the camp, leaving the numbed guard staring unbelievingly after them.

  “Gor,” he said, trying to shake away the disturbing nightmare visions. “I’d better get right down to sick call. My mind has got the battle sickness.” he said, walking slowly after the now invisible figures of Otter and Bear, dragging his rifle along beside him by the barrel.

  Passing quickly the sentries posted at the beginning of the company street, and leaving them standing and wiping then: eyes to dear away the standing sleep they had lapsed into, Otter and Bear entered the tent where the sleeping Flewingam lay.

  Bear studied the man, growling. Who’s he? Another of the poke-ribs?”

  Otter was frolicking about the floor at Bear’s feet, turning first one way, then the other, then under the bed. From over the sleeping Flewingam’s stomach, Otter’s gray-whiskered face popped up.

  “He’s a friend,” chirped Otter, then scampering hard about the entire floor twice, he raced over and gave Bear a quick nip just above the big animal’s hind paw.

  “Oooch, you little beast,” bellowed Bear, trying to catch and hold the scurrying gray creature. Otter giggled from his hiding place under a cot.

  “So you followed along, after all,” he sniggered. “And where do I find you? Trapped as neatly as a silly ass of a bear could be, with a tin soldier marching you around on a string.”

  “Otter,” growled Bear, swiping away the cot with a quick paw blow. The noise awakened Flewingam, who sat up quickly, thinking a shell had landed close by.

  Otter’s head appeared from beneath the blanket that had been flung to the floor.

  “Hullo, friend. Here’s Bear.” The head disappeared, leaving Flewingam wide-eyed with astonishment and terror, staring at Bear’s huge form.

  Otter appeared from behind him, in man form once more.

  “No need to worry, friend. He’s my comrade of old I was telling you of.”

  Bear hastily returned to his clumsy man shape. “Bruinlen, friend,” he said, forgetting his anger at Otter for the moment and extending a hand-paw out to Flewingam.

  “As I live and breathe,” gasped Flewingam. “I thought all your stories just tales to c
heer me up, Otter.” He gingerly took Bear’s hand, looking down at what but a moment before had been the huge fur-covered paw of a great animal.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” he echoed.

  Otter interrupted the two men.

  “I’m sure you must be half starved, Bear, and thirsty, so I’ll run out and see what I can find for your supper. I think there’s still a pot or two of tea about here somewhere, so you two make yourselves acquainted, and I’ll be back in a wink.” Otter disappeared through the tent flap.

  “So he was telling me truly all along,” went on Flewingam, watching as Bear carefully searched the tent for the tea Otter had mentioned.

  “How came you to know my pesky little comrade, friend?” asked Bear between lifting or lowering anything that might conceal the promised drink.

  Flewingam at last rose, put the small kettle on the camp stove, found the tea left over from their own supper, and quickly poured out a cup to the warmly grateful Bear. He related the story of their meeting as he worked about the stove.

  “Ah, but that eases my pain a bit,” he said, sighing, and feeling the warmth slowly returning to his chilled body. “That’s a nasty business,” he continued. “Trolls and half-men roaming at will over the countryside. It’s a wonder you made it here. I myself brushed into some ugly fellows of that sort not more than a day ago, and only escaped by my wits, with the help of the darkness. I’ve seen fire and j destruction enough in all my travels, though I’ve never met a friend of any kind. Otter is fortunate to have you for a comrade.”

  “Thank you, good Master Bear. Otter has spoken many times of you. I’m sure it is my good fortune to have the friendship of both of you.”

  Bear quietly studied the man, who met his gaze evenly, not once looking away, or down, or in short, showing any symptoms or signs at all of an underlying meanness that might be covered over by a mannerly veneer. Bear decided he liked this man, Flewingam, and that perhaps Otter did, after all, have the sense to seek aid from a well-meaning sort. As a rule, Bear trusted no one who went about in the thin skin of a man, but Flewingam had something about him, something different he could not quite put his paw on.