The day was not yet over, but it had ended for Ser John. The pages and archers had to fight off a pair of bargests that came—too late to turn the tide of the rout—out of the setting sun. They caught the pages on horseback and killed two, but their interest in feeding on the horses gave the archers time to drive them off.

Ser John lay in the roots of a great tree, his back against its old bole. They were just at the edge of the woods.

The old bear was as tall as the troll, and just as heavy. He wore a great bag dense with red and black porcupine quillwork, and had an axe—a heavy soldier’s axe—from far-off Etrusca.

He sat—very like a man—back curved in fatigue, legs splayed. A very cautious Jamie the Hoek brought the bear water.

“I am called Flint,” the old bear said.

Around them, in amongst the old maples at the edge of night, moved two dozen other bears. Even covered in mud—and they were caked in the stuff—they gave off the occasional gleam of gold.

Ser John extended his good hand. “I’m Ser John Crayford,” he said. “The Captain of Albinkirk.”

“You are the lord of the stinking houses,” the bear said.

Ser John swallowed his pain. “I suppose. And you?”

“I lead the Crooked Tree clan,” Flint said. “I have for fifty summers.”

“You saved us,” Ser John said.

“More than you know!” Flint nodded. “But in the winter, you and the Light that Shines came to the deep woods and saved me. And many of my people.” He looked away—again, a very human head movement, but Ser John could not read the thing’s face. “That was an army—going to raid all the way around your stinking houses.”

Ser John bit his lip. When he could master the pain, he said, “Yes.”

“The sorcerer is marching on Ticondaga with all his force,” the old bear said. “We have refused to submit. But most of my people hate men—all men—more than they hate the sorcerer. Or at least as much.”

Another bear came and squatted by the old bear. Ser John had the sense that the second bear was much younger—lithe, almost thin from winter.

“We awoke to find his spies in our dens. He had massacred a clan, merely to show that he could.” Flint seemed to be talking to himself.

“How can I help?” Ser John asked.

The old bear looked at him, its muzzle weaving side to side. “Let us pass west,” he said. “We have friends to the west.”

“The Abbess?” asked the wounded knight.

“Is the Light that Shines not one of her mates?” asked the old bear.

Ser John groaned with a desire to laugh that conflicted with his obviously broken rib. Or ribs.

“The Abbess is a nun. Nuns are women who do not take mates.” Ser John took a careful breath.

“Yes—some bears are the same, loving only their own, she-bear with she-bear,” Flint said.