Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  Torak stared at him. ‘Made? What do you mean?’

  But Hord had gone.

  Middle-night passed, the dying moon rose, and still the clan meet went on. Still Wolf licked and nibbled at the rawhide. But Oslak had tied the knots securely, and Wolf couldn’t seem to get his jaws around them. Don’t stop, Torak begged him silently. Please don’t stop.

  He was too scared to be hungry, but he felt bruised and stiff from the fight with Hord, and his shoulders ached from being tied up for so long. Even if Wolf managed to gnaw through the bindings, he wasn’t sure that he’d have the strength to run away, or slip through the guards.

  He kept thinking about what Hord had said. ‘I saw it made . . .’

  There was something else, too. Hord had been with the Red Deer Clan, and Torak’s mother had been Red Deer. He’d never known her, she’d died when he was little; but if the Ravens were friendly with her clan, then maybe he could persuade them to let him go . . .

  Outside, boots scuffed the dust. Quick. They mustn’t catch Wolf at his wrists.

  Torak just had time for a swift warning ‘Uff!’ – which luckily Wolf obeyed – before Renn appeared in the doorway, chewing a leg of roast hare.

  Her sharp eyes took in Wolf sitting innocently behind him, then fixed on Torak – who stared back, willing her not to come any closer.

  He jerked his head at the clan meet and asked if any Wolf Clan were present.

  She shook her head. ‘Not many Wolf Clan left these days. So you’re not going to be rescued, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Torak did not reply. He’d just pulled at the rope around his wrists, and felt it give a little. It was beginning to stretch, as rawhide does when it gets wet. If only Renn would go away.

  She stayed exactly where she was. ‘No Wolf Clan,’ she said with her mouth full, ‘but plenty of others. Yellow Clayhead over there is from the Auroch Clan. They’re Deep Forest people; they pray a lot. That’s how they think we should deal with the bear, by praying to the World Spirit. The man with the axe is Boar Clan. He wants to make a fire-wall to drive the bear towards the Sea. The woman with the earthblood in her hair is Red Deer. Not sure what she thinks. With them it’s hard to tell.’

  Torak wondered why she was talking so much. What did she want?

  Whatever it was, he decided to go along with it, to keep her attention away from Wolf. He said, ‘My mother was Red Deer. Maybe that woman over there is my bone kin. Maybe –’

  ‘She says not. She’s not going to help you.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Your clan are friendly with the Red Deer, aren’t they? Your brother said he learnt Magecraft with them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He – he told me he saw the bear “made”. What did he mean?’

  She gave him her narrow, mistrustful stare.

  ‘I need to know,’ said Torak. ‘It killed my father.’

  Renn studied the hare’s leg. ‘Hord was fostered with them. You know about fostering, don’t you?’ Her voice held a touch of scorn. ‘It’s when you stay with another clan for a while; to make friends, and maybe find a mate.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Torak. Behind him, he felt Wolf snuffling at his wrists again. He tried to bat him away with his fingers, but it didn’t work. Not now, he thought. Please not now.

  ‘He was with them for nine moons,’ said Renn, taking another bite. ‘They’re the best at Magecraft in the Forest. That’s why he went.’ Her mouth curled humourlessly. ‘Hord likes to be the best.’ Then she frowned. ‘What’s that cub doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Torak said too quickly. To Wolf he said in a stilted voice, ‘Go away. Go away.’

  Wolf, of course, ignored him.

  Torak turned back to Renn. ‘What happened next?’

  Another look. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Why are you talking to me?’

  Her face closed. She was as good at keeping things back as Fin-Kedinn.

  Thoughtfully she picked a shred of hare from between her teeth. ‘Hord hadn’t been with the Red Deer long,’ she said, ‘when a stranger came to their camp. A wanderer from the Willow Clan, crippled by a hunting accident. Or so he said. The Red Deer took him in. But he -,’ she hesitated, and suddenly looked younger and much less confident. ‘He betrayed them. He wasn’t just a wanderer, he knew Magecraft. He made a secret place in the woods, and conjured a demon. Trapped it in the body of a bear.’ She paused. ‘Hord found out. By then it was too late.’

  Beyond the shelter, the shadows seemed to have deepened. Out in the Forest, a fox screamed.

  ‘Why?’ said Torak. ‘Why did he do it, this – wanderer?’

  Renn shook her head. ‘Who knows? Maybe to have a creature to do his bidding? But it went wrong.’ The firelight glinted in her dark eyes. ‘Once the demon got inside the bear, it was too strong. It broke free. Killed three people before the Red Deer could drive it away. By then the crippled wanderer had disappeared.’

  Torak was silent. The only sounds were the trees whispering in the night breeze, and the rasp of Wolf’s tongue as he licked the rawhide.

  Wolf accidentally caught Torak’s skin in his teeth. Without thinking, Torak turned and gave him a sharp warning growl.

  Instantly Wolf leapt back and apologised with a grin.

  Renn gasped. ‘You can talk to him!’

  ‘No!’ cried Torak. ‘No, you’re wrong –’

  ‘I saw you!’ Her face was paler than ever. ‘So it’s true. The Prophecy is true. You are the Listener.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What were you saying to him? What were you plotting?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I can’t –’

  ‘I won’t give you the chance,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t let you plot against us. Neither will Fin-Kedinn.’ Drawing her knife, she cut Wolf’s leash, scooped him up in her arms, and raced across the clearing towards the clan meet.

  ‘Come back!’ yelled Torak. Furiously he yanked at the bindings, but they held fast. Wolf hadn’t had time to bite them through.

  Terror washed over him. He’d put all his hopes in Wolf, and now Wolf was gone. Dawn was not far off. Already the birds were stirring in the trees.

  Again he tugged at the bindings round his wrists. Again they held tight.

  Across the clearing, Fin-Kedinn and the old woman called Saeunn rose to their feet and started towards him.

  ELEVEN

  ‘How much do you know?’ said Fin-Kedinn.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Torak, eyeing the jagged bone knife at the Raven Leader’s belt. ‘Are you going to sacrifice me?’

  Fin-Kedinn did not reply. He and Saeunn crouched at either side of the doorway, watching him. He felt like prey.

  Behind his back, he scrabbled around for something – anything – that he could use to cut the rawhide. His fingers found only a willow-branch mat: smooth and useless.

  ‘How much do you know?’ Fin-Kedinn said again.

  Torak took a deep breath. ‘I am not your Listener,’ he said as steadily as he could. ‘I can’t be. I’ve never even heard of the Prophecy.’ And yet, he wondered, why was Renn so certain? What does speaking wolf talk have to do with it?

  Fin-Kedinn turned away. His face was as unreadable as ever, but Torak saw his hand tighten on his knife.

  Saeunn leaned forwards and peered into Torak’s eyes. In the firelight, he saw her closely. He’d never encountered anyone so old. Through her scant white hair, her scalp gleamed like polished bone. Her face was sharp as a bird’s. Age had scorched away all kindly feelings to leave only the fierce raven essence.

  ‘According to Renn,’ she said harshly, ‘you can talk to the wolf. That’s part of the Prophecy. The part we didn’t tell you.’

  Torak stared at her. ‘Renn’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I can’t –’

  ‘Don’t lie to us,’ said Fin-Kedinn without turning his head.

  Torak swallowed.

  Again he groped behind him. This time – yes! A tiny flake of flint, no bigger than his t
humbnail: probably dropped by someone sharpening a knife. His fingers closed over it. If only Fin-Kedinn and Saeunn would return to the clan meet, he might be able to cut himself free. Then he could find wherever Renn had taken Wolf, and dodge between the guards and . . .

  His spirits sank. He’d need a lot of luck to manage all that.

  ‘Shall I tell you,’ said Saeunn, ‘why you can talk to the wolf?’

  ‘Saeunn, what’s the use?’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘We’re wasting time –’

  ‘He must be told,’ said the old woman. She fell silent. Then, with one yellow, claw-like finger, she touched the amulet at her breast, and began tracing the spiral.

  Torak watched her talon going round and round. He started to feel dizzy.

  ‘Many summers ago,’ said the Raven Mage, ‘your father and mother left their clan. They went to hide from their enemies. Far, far away in the Deep Forest, among the green souls of the talking trees.’ Still her talon traced the spiral: drawing Torak down into the past.

  ‘Three moons after you were born,’ Saeunn went on, ‘your mother died.’

  Fin-Kedinn got up, crossed his arms over his chest, and stood staring out into the darkness.

  Torak blinked, as if waking from a dream.

  Saeunn didn’t even glance at Fin-Kedinn. Her attention was fixed on Torak. ‘You were only an infant,’ she said. ‘Your father couldn’t feed you. Usually when that happens, the father smothers his child, to spare it a slow death from starvation. But your father found another way. A she-wolf with a litter. He put you in her den.’

  Torak struggled to take it in.

  ‘Three moons you were with her in the den. Three moons to learn the wolf talk.’

  Torak gripped the flint flake so hard that it dug into his palm. He could feel that Saeunn was telling the truth. This was why he could talk to Wolf. This was why he’d had that vision when he’d found the den. The squirming cubs. The rich, fatty milk . . .

  How could Saeunn possibly know?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is a trap. You couldn’t know this. You weren’t there.’

  ‘Your father told me,’ said Saeunn.

  ‘He can’t have done. We never went near people –’

  ‘Oh, but you did once. Five summers ago. Don’t you remember? The clan meet by the Sea.’

  Torak’s pulse began to race.

  ‘Your father went there to find me. To tell me about you.’ Her talon came to rest at the heart of the spiral. ‘You are not like others,’ she said in her raven’s croak. ‘You are the Listener.’

  Again Torak’s grip on the flint tightened. ‘I – I can’t be. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Fin-Kedinn over his shoulder. He turned to Torak. ‘Your father told you nothing about who you are. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Torak nodded.

  The Raven Leader was silent for a moment. His face was still, but Torak sensed a battle raging beneath his mask-like features. ‘There is only one thing you need to know,’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘It’s this. It is not by chance that the bear attacked your father. It’s because of him that it came into being.’

  Torak’s heart missed a beat. ‘Because of my father?’

  ‘Fin-Kedinn –’ warned Saeunn.

  The Raven Leader shot her a sharp glance. ‘You said he should know. Now I’m telling him.’

  ‘But,’ said Torak, ‘it was the crippled wanderer who –’

  ‘The crippled wanderer,’ cut in Fin-Kedinn, ‘was your father’s sworn enemy.’

  Torak shrank back against the roofpost. ‘My father didn’t have enemies.’

  The Raven Leader’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Your father wasn’t just some hunter from the Wolf Clan. He was the Wolf Clan Mage.’

  Torak forgot to breathe.

  ‘He didn’t tell you that either, did he?’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘Oh yes, he was the Wolf Mage. And it’s because of him that this – creature – is rampaging through the Forest –’

  ‘No,’ whispered Torak. ‘That isn’t true.’

  ‘He kept you ignorant of everything, didn’t he?’

  ‘Fin-Kedinn,’ said Saeunn, ‘he was trying to protect –’

  ‘Yes, and look at the result!’ Fin-Kedinn rounded on her. ‘A half-grown boy who knows nothing! Yet you ask me to believe that he is the only one who can –’ He stopped short, shaking his head.

  There was a taut silence. Fin-Kedinn took a deep breath. ‘The man who created the bear,’ he told Torak quietly, ‘did it for a single purpose. He created the bear to kill your father.’

  The sky was lightening in the east when Torak finally cut the rope round his wrists with the flake of flint. There was no time to lose. Fin-Kedinn had just gone back to the clan meet with Saeunn, where they were locked in heated argument with the others. At any moment they might reach a decision and come to get him.

  It was an effort to saw through the binding at his ankles. His head was reeling. ‘Your father put you in the den of a she-wolf . . . He was the Wolf Mage . . . He was murdered . . .’

  The flake of flint was slippery with sweat. He dropped it. Fumbled for it again. At last the binding was cut. He flexed his ankles – and nearly cried out in pain. His legs burned from being cramped for so long.

  Worse than that was the pain in his heart. Fa had been murdered. Murdered by the crippled wanderer, who had created the demon bear with the sole aim of hunting him down . . .

  It wasn’t possible. There had to be some mistake.

  And yet, deep down, Torak knew it was true. He remembered the grimness in Fa’s face as he lay dying. It will come for me soon, he had said. He had known what his enemy had done. He had known why the bear had been created.

  It was too much to take in. Torak felt as if everything he’d ever known had been swept away: as if he stood on day-old ice, watching the cracks spreading like lightning beneath his feet.

  The pain in his legs wrenched him back to the present. He tried to rub some feeling into them. His bare feet were cold, but there was nothing he could do. He hadn’t been able to see where Oslak had taken his boots.

  Somehow, without being spotted, he had to get out of the shelter, across to the hazel bushes at the edge of the clearing. Somehow, he had to evade the guards.

  He couldn’t do it. He’d be seen. If only he could find some way to distract them . . .

  At the far end of the camp, a lonely yowl rose into the misty morning air. Where are you? cried Wolf. Why did you leave me this time?

  Torak froze. He heard the camp dogs taking up the howl. He saw people leaping up from the clan meet and running to investigate. He knew that Wolf had given him his chance.

  He had to act fast. Quickly, he edged out of the shelter and dived into the shadows behind the hazel bushes. He knew what he had to do – and he hated it.

  He had to leave Wolf behind.

  TWELVE

  Cold air burned Torak’s throat as he tore through a willow thicket towards the river. Stones bloodied his bare feet. He hardly noticed.

  Thanks to Wolf, he’d got out of the camp unseen, but not for long. Behind him came a deep, echoing boom. Birch-bark horns were sounding the alarm. He heard men shouting, dogs baying. The Ravens were coming after him.

  Brambles snagged his leggings as he skidded over the riverbank and splashed down into a bed of tall reeds. Knee-deep in icy black mud, he clamped his hand over his mouth to stop his steamy breath betraying him.

  Fortunately, he was downwind of his pursuers, but the sweat was pouring off him, and he was still clutching the rawhide rope from his ankles; the dogs would easily pick up his scent. He didn’t know whether to toss it away or keep it in case he needed it.

  Confusion swirled in his head like an angry river. He had no boots, no pack, no weapons – and nothing with which to make any more, apart from the knowledge in his head and the skill in his hands. If he managed to escape, what then?

  Suddenly, above the horns, he heard a yowl. Where are you?

  A
t the sound, Torak’s doubts cleared. He couldn’t leave Wolf. He had to rescue him.

  He wished there was some way he could howl back – I’m coming. Don’t be afraid, I haven’t abandoned you - but of course there wasn’t. The yowling went on.

  His feet were freezing. He had to get out of the river or he’d be too numb to run. He thought fast.

  The Ravens would expect him to head north, because that was where he’d said he was going when they’d captured him; so he decided to do exactly that – at least for a while – and then double back to the camp, and find some way of reaching Wolf, hoping that the Ravens would be tricked into continuing north.

  Further downstream, a branch snapped.

  Torak wheeled round.

  A soft splash. A muttered curse.

  He peered through the reeds.

  About fifty paces downstream, two men were stealing down the bank towards the reed-bed. They moved carefully, intent on hunting him. One held a bow that was taller than Torak, with an arrow already fitted to the string; the other gripped a basalt throwing-axe.

  It had been a mistake to hide in the reed-bed. If he stayed where he was, they’d find him; if he tried to swim the river he’d be seen, and speared like a pike. He had to get back into the cover of the Forest.

  As quietly as he could, he started clambering up the bank. It was thick with willows which gave good cover, but very steep. Red earth crumbled beneath him. If he fell back into the river, they’d hear the splash . . .

  Pebbles trickled into the water as he clawed at the dirt. Luckily the booming of the birch-bark horns masked the noise, and the men didn’t hear.

  Chest heaving, he made it to the top. Now to head north. The sky was overcast, so he couldn’t get his bearings from the sun, but since the river flowed west, he knew that if he kept it directly behind him, he’d be heading roughly north.

  He set off through a thick wood of aspen and beech, taking care to trail the rawhide behind him so as to leave a good strong scent.

  A furious baying erupted behind him, terrifyingly close. He’d trailed the rope too soon. Already the dogs had picked up his scent.