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And that was how Mama became the busiest bear in history.
Training.
Sounds so innocuous, doesn’t it? Let’s all line up and learn how to defeat murderously experienced, masked opposition with ten minutes talk from an aged, bearded mentor and a bit of swinging about with swords.
Now I might have some upper lip fluff after the menopause, but I haven’t a clue how to defeat an enemy, unless I talk them to death or sit on them. Gulid pointed out I’m as lethal with a plank of wood as my cuisine, so I might have to resort to that, since wielding any kind of sharp pointy weapon is more likely to result in severance of my own leg.
Anyway, after the meeting, a zoo full of teeth, claws and fangs had at it for two days, trying to bring each other down with thinly veiled revenge under the guise of sparring, until matron Mama, overrun by injuries needing treatment, lost her temper and bellowed, “At this rate there’ll be none of you left standing by the time they come.”
Thankfully, Alpha and Big Wolf were still too injured or sick to take part. Not that they wouldn’t have given it a try, but Dulcis and Audira put their paws down and the boys both made do with directing traffic from the front porch. Unfortunately, Curt never listens to a word I say and threw himself into the thick of it. I spent those two days constantly massaging his aching hip and picking bits of snapped tooth and claw out of his nose. I even cried at one point. Probably because I got an eyeful of snake venom and kept seeing multicoloured halos around everyone.
In the end, General Ursid called a halt to the chaos with a thundering growl that scared the excrement out of us all, except the monster cub, Beetus, who took to creeping up behind me and imitating the sound. I threatened to tie the little snot to a tree, if he made me drop one more plate of food.
Thankfully, after that, they all calmed down and tried engaging brain cells instead of overwrought hormones, spending the winter running various scenarios and training bouts. I have no idea whether any of it will work with giant serpents, but at least nobody’s killed anyone else in the process.
We put together emergency packs of food, bedding and clothing in case we need to flee at short notice. Nobody talks about that. The livestock have already been moved further down the valley into hastily erected pens near the caves.
It all got a tad too real for me on the morning I awoke to the drip, drip of icicles melting outside my window. Spring was suddenly upon us and the serpents would soon join it.
Fear being a stupendous motivator, you now find the wolf and me up and about at dawn, as we are every day. Braving the wind chill, we head outside to a town bathed in golden sunrise, its rays glinting in the patches of snow yet to melt. The last of the ice left the river yesterday and it now gurgles merrily on its peaceful way, unaware of the impending carnage. Purple snowdrops snuggle against chalet walls and Curt tucks one into my grey hair with a romantic flourish. I return his smile, but an undercurrent of tension clouds our every waking thought and haunts our dreams.
“Morning,” says Alpha, limping towards us, minus his crutch.
More than ever, he reminds me of his brother. Both worked hard over the winter to build strength and stamina into ailing bodies. I’m pleased to say my personal fetish, Curt’s biceps, increased in size to my whimpering delight. Even I managed to lose the odd pound or two – not that I’m much use to anyone in fight club terms.
Unable to battle as he’d wish, a recovering Big Wolf strides past, juggling a makeshift wooden clipboard, nose deep in today’s training schedule and organising everyone within an inch of their lives. His mate, Audira, gives him a swift hug from behind and lifts a horn to her lips. She liberated that foul excuse for a musical instrument from a snake and the notes could raise the dead.
A mercifully short, high-pitched screech sounds forth and echoes across the town, carried on the cold wind. After a breath of silence, slamming doors and the pad and shuffle of foot and paw herald the arrival of a swarm of furry pups, cubs, scaly mini-snakes and kids, descending upon their very own Pied Piper and streaming into their set groups, barely making a noise. This display of junior discipline always impresses me, no matter how many times I’ve witnessed this test. The days of fur and fluff running wild may not have ended, but they’ve definitely been postponed.
Once assembled, the groups form a line and jog out of town, Audira at their head. Hurrying towards the valley and their designated hiding places, they weave through the outskirts, following a memorised safe route. There’s still bounce and joy in their bodies, but the older ones keep the toddlers in line, aware of a day when it’ll no longer be a game. Beetus waves a paw at me as he dashes past.
Another blow of the horn and they all pick up the pace, sprinting for the cover of trees at full pelt. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I find the sight more disturbing than taking part in my own emergency escape drills, even though I ran headlong into one of Ursid’s log swings and nearly nosedived into a pit. He made me run the course a dozen times after that, including three at night, much to Curt’s amusement.
“I’m only saying, you don’t have to do this.”
That’s Adamo on the heels of Dulcis with her ever increasing girth. He wants her to join those euphemistically called the ‘human warriors,’ of which I’m one, consisting of those not training to fight in their animal form. Good luck with that one. She’s given up bickering with her prospective mate, and her father for that matter, and already pads across the town in her slightly pudgy wolf form. Despite arguing into the void, Adamo keeps going.
“You’re a wonderful fighter as a human. Think of all the ways you could teach the others. The machine needs operators. You could join Audira with protecting the children. And keep our pup safe at the same time.”
She turns on him, delivering a hefty bite to his right boot.
“Ow. Alright, let go. OWW,” he hollers, hopping around with her teeth firmly attached to his heel. “Dulcis, stop. I care about you and our pup.” She worries at his boot, savagely swinging her head from side to side, until he overbalances and lands on his backside with a thud. “Fine. Do what you want.”
Oh dear, now he’s angry too.
She finally lets go and adds a snarl for good measure. He jumps to his feet. “Do what you want,” he repeats. “You always do anyway.”
And off he stomps, leaving behind a heavy breathing wolf, her head swivelling between him and a crowd of wolves, watching the proceedings. She sticks out her tail and marches over to them, growling at any who dare to look askance. Primus’ wolf gives her a gentle nudge and she nudges him back with a grumble.
“Just like her mother,” Alpha mutters, waving at her.
She growls at him and looks away.
“And her grandmother,” I add.
“Much as I hate to say it, she should listen to Adamo,” says Alpha, turning to me. “Can’t you talk to her?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s her decision. Besides, you’ve got a nerve. You and your brother are both limping ruins, yet you still join the fighting wolves.”
“Go throw your rocks,” says Curt, plastering a kiss on me before I can give him a mouthful. By the time I’m able to breathe again, the brothers have already scampered off in their furry skin, leaving me to pick up their discarded clothes. I’d be offended, only it’s a waste of energy.
I’m bending over when a set of claws appear out of thin air, scrape past my backside, grasp the clothes and take to the air again, leaving me to squeal with shock. A raucous mocking caw accompanies a flapping of wings, courtesy of Gulid, exhibiting another of his divebombing runs. A length of rope, with rock weights tied to either end, whips past my face and catches the eagle around his hanging legs, forcing him to flap harder to maintain height. He drops the clothes just as a second bolas wraps around the first and Gulid falls, hopping along the ground, digging up divots of earth with his claws.
Cheering echoes from the assembled group of ‘Human Warriors,’ clapping an elderly woman on the back. Luva and her famous posse’s scrawny arms can still swing a bolas with some gusto. Good for them.
“Look at what’s happening,” says Luva, drawing their attention as she marches over to a swaying Gulid, the eagle’s knees knotted together. “He’s not badly injured, but he might suffer a broken claw or wing. Hopefully nothing that can’t be treated.”
Gulid’s eagle nods, despite his discomfort. He extracted a promise that we would do everything possible to prevent hurting his mesmerised friends, held in thrall to the serpents, and if that means playing prey for the trainees, he’s prepared to put up with it.
“However, watch,” Luva continues, as Gulid uses his beak to unravel and peck the rope. “We’ll have to tie them down using the nets quickly, or they’ll escape. Understand?” The elderly crew nod. Gulid breaks free of his bonds and takes to the air, soaring into the clouds, alone.
Wings hasn’t returned, as yet, from his latest spy mission. The eagle duo take it in turns to fly over the mountain, checking for any sign of our enemy. Thus far, the serpents remain firmly in the north.
I envy the bolas squad. They did give me a go at flinging one, but I wrapped it around Yelena’s neck by mistake. I know what you’re thinking, but if I could wield it that accurately, I would have taken credit for the manoeuvre. Anyway, the upshot was a swift sideways promotion to the newly constructed wooden ‘machine’ mentioned by Adamo earlier. Much to my chagrin, it’s a glorified rock slingshot. It took me weeks to dig out enough big rocks for ammunition, freezing my hands in the snow and ice, and I’m still not convinced lobbing them at the serpents will do much good. My worst nightmare involves a boulder landing on Curt and flattening him like the old cartoons, but beggars can’t be choosers and I need to do something other than hide with the cubs.
Gearing up to endure yet another round of rock and lever induced muscle spasms, I pass the scuffling defensive circle of wolves, about to surround their latest mock prey. Today’s batch of volunteer snakes slither towards them, dredging up as much villainy as they can muster. Granted, they’re not the size of Serpen (or the coming reptile mob), but it’s better than nothing.
By now, Adamo’s joined Ursid at the edge of town, leading the bears in facing down their own group of slithering enemies, training to keep them at bay from the inner circle. If the eagles breach from the sky, dropping serpents into our midst, the wolves and bears will merge, crushing the enemy between them. That’s the idea, at least.
Which leads me to the last group of trainees: the remaining snakes and their beleaguered former king. Since Serpen is the only full serpent we have, he’s insisted on being abused day after day in an attempt to give his new pack a true sense of what they face – and that doesn’t even take into account the reputed horrors of our enemy’s fire breathing leader.
Every snake and bear has, at some point, re-enacted the takedown of Serpen in that mouldy castle, more than eighteen months ago: Anguis demonstrating the stranglehold and Adamo blocking the nostrils so the serpent can’t breathe. Imagine being asphyxiated, over and over. Battered and wavering, Serpen struggles on, determined to achieve redemption through trial by combat.
“That’s enough for now,” calls Anguis to his trainees, noticing his king’s exhausted condition. “Take a break.”
Serpen’s bravery doesn’t go unrewarded. I can hear his consolation coming up the valley now. Sospa marches at the head of the returning children, chattering happily to Audira. They’re always more vocal on the route home. As soon as they catch sight of Serpen’s bruised snake, they swarm his scaly length with hugs and an outpouring of total adoration. Sospa lands a kiss on her uncle’s blue scaled head as he wraps up the laughing children, squidging them together in a coil.
Having collected Curt and Alpha’s dropped clothes, I deposit them inside the mansion and quietly emerge behind Yelena, who’s been watching all the training groups alongside her recovering son and his clipboard. She waves at Sospa, who scrambles over her uncle’s scaly bulk and jogs towards her.
“How did you do?” Yellfire trumpets, leaning over to scowl into the mini snake’s face.
“Faster today,” Sospa solemnly reports. “Even the little cubs.”
Yelena glances at Audira, who nods.
“Good,” the matriarch announces, tapping on Big Wolf’s clipboard. “Write that down.” He won’t do anything of the sort, since he only has a few sheets of tatty paper borrowed from the snakes, but it makes the child smile.
“Nana Yelena,” Sospa whispers, beckoning for the wolf to come closer.
Yelena glances at her son, who diplomatically wanders over to his mate, leaving them together. Neither realise I’m lurking back here and I merge into the doorway, since I plan on eavesdropping. Like you wouldn’t do the same.
“Can I tell you something?” Sospa asks. Yelena kneels down, bringing her head to the child’s level. “It’s a secret.” The wolf leans in further, but I can still just about hear and lip read. “I don’t want the other pups to know and beat me at fighting,” Sospa whispers, glancing at her furry friends, still cuddling her uncle.
“I understand,” Yelena whispers back.
She probably does, better than most, given her unsavoury family history.
“If a snake strikes at you,” Sospa tells her, “run forwards, not back and they’ll go over your head and miss you.”
Yelena sits back to peer into the child’s sapphire eyes, a replica of her uncle’s. “Thank you. I’ll try that on Anguis later.” Sospa beams in response. “And you should be practising with your rocks,” Yelena announces, turning her head to glare straight at me. “Listening at doors isn’t very honourable.”
“Like you know anything about that,” I quip, flouncing past.
Since there’s no more delaying the inevitable, I approach the dreaded machine. Aches and pains start twanging in sympathy with the hinges as I squeeze behind the rickety wooden weapon and drag a rock the size of my head from the heap. I brace myself, bend creaking knees and heave the missile up into the waiting bowl.
“Rooooooock,” I holler.
Any pack member vaguely training within the proposed line of shot immediately scarpers to safety, yelling “Yikes. Take cover,” or some such pithy remark. The sarcasm would usually be valid, since most of my shots tend to go up in the air and land barely a few feet away but, on this occasion, I’m flinging a heavy bit of rockery and they might get a surprise.
With a swift yank on the handle, the mechanism unleashes, hurling the projectile in a wide arc over the furry and scaly heads of surprised shifters and straight into a chalet. The house groans and that pulverised wall crashes down in a pile of splintered wood.
“Edi,” bellows the bereaved ursine homeowner.
I’m yelling, “Sorry,” when the lever ricochets back and whacks me on the forehead, laying me out in the mud.
From that supine position, I’m the first to notice Wings hurtling across the sky. As I sit up, rubbing the new lump above my eye, the eagle comes into land, changing so fast that he runs, stark naked, across the snow to slow down.
“Eagles,” he pants, fighting to draw in breath. “Dropping people on the other side of the mountain. They’ve crossed the river.”
I hear my own voice whisper the nightmare pronouncement, “They’re coming.”
