Raumsdalians didn’t define themselves in those terms. Bizogots did. Marcovefa, whose people sprang from Bizogot stock, must have known as much. “I will ask among the folk who come from the free plains,” Trasamund said. Then his blunt-featured face clouded. “The plains that once were free, I should say.”
If Marcovefa noticed the amendment, she paid no attention to it. “Find one of them,” she said. “Bring him to me. I will see what I can do. I promise nothing. But I will try.”
Off Trasamund went. He came back half an hour later with a scarred Bizogot he introduced as Grimoald. “He is of the Bear Claws clan,” he said. Sure enough, Grimoald wore a necklace of claws.
“Good,” Marcovefa said. “These are the claws of the short-faced bear?” She sounded like—and was—someone making sure.
“They are,” Grimoald said.
“Those are the only bears in the Bizogot country,” Trasamund said. “They have others down here, and we saw still others beyond the Glacier. But if a man is of the Bear Claws clan, they are the claws of the short-faced bear.”
“All right. Fine,” Marcovefa said. “Shall we move these bears against our foes?”
“If you know how, shaman, I would like to do that,” Grimoald said. “If I can help you do it, I will.”
“You can,” Marcovefa told him. “Are you allowed to take off those claws? May I hold them?”
“You may.” Grimoald lifted the necklace off over his head and handed it to her. “I would not do this for any stranger, but for a foe of the Rulers I will do anything I can.”
“I am a foe of the Rulers,” Marcovefa said. “You may doubt many things, but you should not doubt that.”
She gave the bear claws an oddly tender look as she held them in her hand. She might almost have been holding a newborn baby, not these souvenirs of one of the most dangerous beasts the world knew. Of course, a baby would grow up to be a creature that made a souvenir of short-faced bear claws. Hamnet scowled, wishing that hadn’t crossed his mind.
The song Marcovefa crooned was also oddly tender. It sounded more like a lullaby than a charm. Off in the distance, though, Hamnet heard growls and snarls that didn’t seem at all soothing.
“You’re sure this spell is aimed at the Rulers?” Grimoald asked, so Hamnet wasn’t the only one that chorus alarmed.
Marcovefa gave the man from the Bear Claws clan a bright-eyed, almost carnivorous smile. “I am almost sure,” she said.
“Almost?” Now Grimoald sounded genuinely frightened. “That’s not good enough. If they come after us—”
“She’s having you on,” Count Hamnet told him.
“Are you sure?” The Bizogot sounded anything but convinced. Then he took a long look at Marcovefa’s face. Her smile, plainly, was hiding a laugh. Grimoald saw as much. He looked as sheepish as a Bizogot was ever likely to. “Well, I guess you are,” he said to Hamnet.
“He is,” Marcovefa agreed. She handed back the necklace. Grimoald made haste to put it on again. Marcovefa added, “What these short-faced bears can do to the Rulers, they will do.”
“That’s good.” Grimoald clutched some of the claws. They clicked together, almost like worry beads. Hamnet Thyssen hoped the invaders would soon be the ones doing the worrying.
If they were, it didn’t show right away. Skirmishing between the Rulers and the Raumsdalians and Bizogots went on every day. Sometimes Hamnet’s men had the advantage, sometimes they didn’t. A week after Marcovefa’s magic, they were farther north than they had been when she tried the spell. Overall, then, the Rulers had advanced more than they’d retreated.
“Maybe I should go climb the Glacier again,” Ulric Skakki said. “We could use more fancy shamans.”
“Well, so we could,” Hamnet said. “But we need you around here, too, you know.”
“You say the sweetest things.” Ulric batted his eyelashes at Hamnet. “How do I know I can believe you, though? You probably say them to everybody.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Hamnet exploded. “I’m not trying to seduce you.”
“A good thing. I’m as dull and normal as you are—I like women, too,” Ulric said.
“I’m sure all the women are delighted to hear it,” Hamnet said.
“Well, now that you mention it, so am I.” Ulric was undeniably—and annoyingly—smug.
Hamnet might have gone on harassing him, but a white-faced Bizogot came into the encampment calling his name. “I’m here,” Hamnet said, standing up to let himself be seen. “What’s gone wrong now?” By the fellow’s tone, he was sure something had.
All the fellow said was, “You’d better come with me.”
Count Hamnet had to saddle his horse before he could. That did nothing to make him any more enthusiastic, especially when the horse didn’t want to exhale to let him tighten its girths. He kicked it in the ribs. That did the trick. Ulric was saddling his mount, too. “Can’t let ’em play games with you,” he said.
“No.” Hamnet nodded. He asked the Bizogot, “Should Marcovefa see this, too, whatever it is?”
The man didn’t need long to think about that. He nodded. “By God, she should.”
“All right—go get her,” Hamnet told him. “She can ride double with me. That way, we won’t waste any more time.” Nodding again, the Bizogot hurried away.
“What do you suppose it is?” Marcovefa asked as they started to ride. “He didn’t want to say anything much to me. Only that it was important.”
“That’s more than he told me,” Hamnet Thyssen answered. “I figured it out myself, though—I will say that.”
They followed the Bizogot across snow-covered fields toward a stand of pines ahead. Hamnet wondered if they were riding into an ambush. He made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. Maybe Marcovefa would scent that kind of danger ahead. He could hope so, which didn’t mean he was sure of it. He checked the sword again.
Marcovefa gave no sign of sensing trouble. But that was not to say that she seemed happy. “Oh,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down.
“Do you know what this is about?” Hamnet asked.
“I have a pretty good notion, anyhow,” she answered, and fell silent again. Hamnet muttered under his breath, which did him no good at all.
They rode into the woods. The Bizogot seemed to be following the trail he’d made riding back to the camp. All of a sudden, he reined in. “There,” he said, and pointed between two pines.
Something lay in the snow behind them, though branches obscured the view. Whatever it was, Hamnet’s horse didn’t like it. The beast sidestepped and snorted, nostrils flaring.
“What is it?” Ulric asked—exactly the question in Hamnet’s mind.
“See for yourselves,” the Bizogot answered, his face all screwed up. When Hamnet glanced back at Marcovefa, he saw she was wearing the same expression. Yes, sure enough, she had an idea of what was going on.
He got down from his horse and tied the reins to a branch. Marcovefa slid down, too. Ulric Skakki also tethered his horse. “I always love a little excursion during the day,” the adventurer said brightly. “Don’t you?”
“No.” Hamnet’s voice might have come from a talking boulder.
He drew his sword before pushing past the pines in the way. So did Ulric. Marcovefa let them take the lead. Maybe that meant she thought she needed protection. More likely, it meant she thought they thought she needed protection. She was alarmingly good at taking care of herself.
Hamnet stopped in his tracks. Behind him, Ulric made an involuntary noise full of disgust. A short-faced bear’s head lay in the snow, its blood staining the white with red. No footprints led away from it. Neither did a trail of blood drops. It might have been dropped there by magic. As soon as that thought crossed Hamnet’s mind, he realized the bear’s head probably had been.