Greyfax Grimwald (34 page)

“I don’t know what in the crown of Bruinthor it means,” he grumbled, “except that hare I still sit without my supper, freezing my fool self to the bone in an ill-fitting suit of man skin.” He returned to his bear form hurriedly to warm up, having been too weary to remember to do so before he slept.

“Here now, what’s this?” he growled, hearing the sound of many heavy steps thudding over the soft fresh blanket of snow somewhere near him. He raised a cautious bear muzzle, testing the wind. An ugly odor filled his mind with the scent of Worlugh soldiers. A large company of them were passing not a hundred paces from where he lay hidden. He waited until the last of the troops had clumped heavily by, scarring and turning the fresh white snow a muddy brown with their passage, and crept quietly away in the early night shadow, pausing at the rim of a low hill to catch his breath and find his bearings.

Below him, the enemy army moved, the pale trine moon glinting at times on dark helmet or rifle barrel, and Bear counted until he grew weary of numbers. This, however many there were, was no small raiding party. Their movement cut off the course he had chosen to take, and he now had either to skirt the foothills that led upward toward the open pass into the higher mountains, or follow along in their muddy wake, a choice he didn’t like, for fear of being overtaken from behind by more of their comrades. To leave the foothills and swing around far out of his way didn’t suit his fancy either, so he sat down heavily beneath an outcropping boulder, his paws to his muzzle.

“Ummph,” he muttered, lamenting his unsettling dilemma.

“Ummph urgh,” came the reply. Bear’s ears flattened, his hackles bristling.

“No sneaking off, you dung tread,” growled a dimly outlined shape, towering menacingly above him. “Gets back to your march.” A heavy, coiling pain seared Bear’s back as the thick hide of the whip bit deeply.

He leapt forward to quash this new enemy, but something turned in his mind, and he halted in mid paw blow.

If I go as one of them,” he thought, “I won’t have to travel out of my way, and with any luck at all, I’ll give them the slip before first light, and be on my way again.”

Bear gave out a low, snarling growl, turned, and caught up the trailing end of the long line of Worlughs. He saw in the pale, dim light that he appeared only another misshapen, huge shadow moving quickly along in the darkness. No challenge was offered, and only the panting grunts from the near running beast told him he was seen as he joined the galloping line.

“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.

W
eary 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 happened, 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.