She sighed. What she wanted to say was: ‘I’m really, really missing my clan; I’m terrified that Fin-Kedinn will never forgive me for helping you escape; I think we’re mad to be deliberately tracking the bear; I’ve got a horrible feeling that we’re going to end up at the one place I don’t ever want to go; and I’m worried that I shouldn’t even be here, because unlike you, I’m not the Listener and I’m not in the Prophecy, I’m just Renn. But it’s no use saying any of this, because all you can think about is finding Wolf.’ So in the end she simply said, ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’
Torak threw her a disbelieving look and started stamping out the fire.
All morning, they followed the trail through the beech wood and then through a spruce forest, turning north east and steadily climbing. As always, Renn was unsettled by Torak’s skill at tracking. He seemed to go into a trance, scanning the land with endless patience, and often finding some tiny sign that most full-grown hunters would have missed.
It was mid-afternoon and the light was beginning to fail when he stopped.
‘What is it?’ asked Renn.
‘Sh! I thought I heard something.’ He cupped his hand to his ear. ‘There! Do you hear it?’
She shook her head.
His face broke into a grin. ‘It’s Wolf!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d know his howl anywhere. Come on, he’s up that way!’ He pointed east.
Renn’s heart sank. Not east, she thought. Please not east.
As Torak followed the sound, the ground got stonier, and the trees shrank to waist-high birch and willow.
‘Are you sure he’s here?’ said Renn. ‘If we keep going, we’ll end up on the fells.’
Torak hadn’t heard her; he was running ahead. He disappeared behind a boulder, and a few moments later she heard him excitedly yelling her name.
She raced up the slope and rounded the boulder into the teeth of an icy north wind. She staggered back. They had reached the very edge of the Forest. The edge of the fells.
Before her stretched a vast treeless waste, where heather and dwarf willow hugged the ground in a vain attempt to avoid the wind; where small peat-brown lakes shivered amid tossing marsh grass. Far in the distance, a treacherous scree slope towered above the fells, and beyond it rose the High Mountains. But between the scree slope and the Mountains, glimpsed only as a white glitter, lay what Renn had been dreading.
Torak, of course, was unaware of all that. ‘Renn!’ he shouted, the wind whipping his voice away. ‘Over here!’
Dragging her gaze back, she saw that he was kneeling on the bank of a narrow stream. Wolf lay beside him, eyes closed, the ravenskin pouch at his head.
‘He’s alive!’ cried Torak, burying his face in the wet grey fur. Wolf opened one eye and feebly thumped his tail. Renn stumbled through the heather towards them.
‘He’s exhausted,’ said Torak without looking up, ‘and soaking wet. He’s been running in the stream to throw the bear off the scent. That was clever, wasn’t it?’
Renn glanced around her fearfully. ‘But did it work?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Torak. ‘Look at all the marsh pipits. They wouldn’t be here if the bear was near.’
Wishing she could share his confidence, Renn knelt and fumbled in her pack for a salmon cake to give to Wolf. She was rewarded with another, slightly stronger, tail-thump.
It was wonderful to see Wolf again, but she felt oddly cut off. Too much else was crowding in on her; too much that Torak didn’t know about.
She picked up the ravenskin pouch and loosened its neck to check inside. The river eyes were still in their nest of rowan leaves.
‘Yes, take it,’ said Torak, lifting Wolf in his arms and laying him gently on a patch of soft marsh grass. ‘We need to hide it from the bear right away.’
Renn untied the rowan-bark box that held the stone tooth, and tipped in the river eyes; then she refastened the box, put it back in the pouch, and tied it to her belt.
‘He’ll be all right now,’ said Torak, stooping to give the cub’s muzzle an affectionate lick. ‘We can make a shelter over there in the lee of that slope. Build a fire, let him rest.’
‘Not here,’ said Renn quickly. ‘We should get back to the Forest.’ Out on this windswept fell, she felt exposed, like a caterpillar dangling on a thread.
‘Better if we stay here,’ said Torak. He pointed north towards the scree slope and the white glitter. ‘That’s the fastest way to the Mountain.’
Renn’s belly tightened. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Wolf told me. That’s where we’ve got to go.’
‘But – we can’t go up there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because that’s the ice river!’
Torak and Wolf looked at her in surprise, and she found herself facing two pairs of wolf eyes: one amber, one light-grey. It made her feel very left out.
‘But Renn,’ said Torak patiently, ‘that’s the shortest way to the Mountain.’
‘I don’t care!’ She tried to think up some reason that he’d accept. ‘We’ve still got to find the third piece of the Nanuak, remember? “Coldest of all, the darkest light.” We’re not going to find it up there, are we? It’ll be cold all right, but there’s nothing up there!’ Nothing but death, she added to herself.
‘You saw the red eye last night,’ said Torak. ‘It’s getting higher. We’ve only got a few days –’
‘Aren’t you listening?’ she shouted. ‘We cannot cross the ice river!’
‘Yes we can,’ he replied with terrifying calm. ‘We’ll find a way.’
‘How? We’ve got one waterskin and four arrows between us! Four arrows! And winter’s coming, and you’ve only got summer clothes!’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That’s not why you don’t want to go up there.’
She leapt to her feet and stalked off; then marched back again. She said, ‘My father died on an ice river just like that one.’
The wind hissed sadly over the fells. Torak looked down at Wolf, then back to her.
‘It was a snowfall,’ she said. ‘He was on the ice river beyond Lake Axehead. Half an ice cliff came down on him. They only found his body in the spring. Saeunn had to do a special rite to get his souls together.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Torak. ‘I didn’t –’
‘I’m not telling you so that you’ll be sorry for me,’ she cut in. ‘I’m telling you so that you’ll understand. He was a strong, experienced hunter who knew the mountains – and still the ice river killed him. What hope – what chance – do you think we’d have?’
TWENTY-THREE
Be very, very quiet,’ whispered Renn. ‘Any sudden noise and it might wake up.’
Torak craned his neck at the ice cliffs towering over them. He’d seen ice before, but nothing like this. Not these knife-sharp crags and gaping gullies, these icicles taller than trees. It was as if a great, overarching wave had been frozen by one touch of the World Spirit’s finger. And yet, when he’d caught sight of the cliffs from the scree slope, they’d seemed just a wrinkle in the vast, tumbled river of ice.
After letting Wolf rest for a day by the lake, they’d plodded over the marshes and up the scree, where they’d camped in a hollow that had given scant shelter from the wind. There had been no sign of the bear. Perhaps the masking charm had worked; or perhaps, as Renn pointed out, the bear was in the west, wreaking havoc among the clans.
Next morning, they’d climbed the flank of the ice river and started north.
It was madness to walk beneath the ice cliffs when at any moment a snowfall might obliterate them, but they had no choice. The way to the west was blocked by a torrent of meltwater that had carved a deep blue gully.
It was impossible to move quietly. The snow was crisp, and their boots crunched loudly. Torak’s new reed cape crackled like dead leaves; even his breath sounded deafening. All around, he heard weird creaks and echoing groans: the ice river murmuring in its sleep. I
t didn’t sound as if it would take much to waken it.
Strangely, that didn’t seem to bother Wolf. He loved the snow: pouncing on it and tossing lumps of ice high in the air, then skidding to a halt to listen to lemmings and snow-voles burrowing under the surface.
Now he stopped to sniff at an ice chunk, and patted it with one paw. When it didn’t respond, he went down on his forepaws and asked it to play, whining invitingly.
‘Sh!’ hissed Torak, forgetting to speak wolf.
‘Sh!’ hissed Renn up ahead.
Desperate to quieten Wolf, Torak pretended to spot some distant prey, by standing very still and staring intently.
Wolf copied him. But when he caught no scent or sound, he twitched his whiskers and glanced at Torak. Where is it? Where’s the prey?
Torak stretched and yawned. No prey.
What? Then why are we hunting?
Just be quiet!
Wolf gave a small, aggrieved whine.
‘Come on!’ whispered Renn. ‘We’ve got to get across before nightfall!’
It was freezing in the shadow of the ice cliffs. They’d done what they could while camping by the lake: stuffing their boots with marsh grass, making mittens and caps from Renn’s salmon skin and the rest of the rawhide, and a cape for Torak from bunches of reeds tied with marsh grass, then stitched with sinew. But it wasn’t nearly enough.
Their supplies were getting low, too: one waterskin and only enough dried salmon and deer meat for a couple of days. Torak could imagine what Fa would say. A journey in snow is no game, Torak. If you think it is, you’ll end up dead.
He was painfully aware that he didn’t actually know much about snow. As Renn had said with her usual unflinching accuracy, ‘All I know is that it makes tracking a lot easier, it’s good for snowballs, and if you get caught in a snowstorm you’re supposed to dig yourself a snow cave and wait till it stops. But that’s all I know.’
The snow deepened, and soon they were wading up to their thighs. Wolf dropped behind, cleverly letting Torak break the trail so that he could trot in his footsteps.
‘I hope he knows the way,’ said Renn, keeping her voice down. ‘I’ve never been this far north.’
‘Has anyone?’ said Torak.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, yes. The Ice clans. But they live out on the plains, not on the ice river.’
‘The Ice clans?’
‘The White Foxes. The Ptarmigans. The Narwals. But surely you –’
‘No,’ he said wearily, ‘I don’t. I don’t even –’
Behind him, Wolf gave an urgent grunt.
Torak turned to see the cub leaping for cover beneath an arch of solid ice. He glanced up. ‘Look out!’ he cried, grabbing Renn and yanking her under the arch.
An ear-splitting crack – and they were overwhelmed by roaring whiteness. Ice thundered around them, smashing into the snow, exploding in lethal shards. Huddled under the arch, Torak prayed that it wouldn’t collapse. If it did, they’d be splattered over the snow like crushed lingonberries . . .
The ice-fall ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Torak blew out a long breath. Now all he could hear was the soft settling of snow.
‘Why did it stop?’ hissed Renn.
He shook his head. ‘Maybe it was just turning over in its sleep.’
Renn stared at the ice piled around them. ‘If it wasn’t for Wolf, we’d be under that right now.’ She was pale, and her clan-tattoos showed up lividly. Torak guessed that she was thinking of her father.
Wolf stood up and shook himself, scattering them with wet snow. He trotted a few paces, took a long sniff, and waited for them to join him.
‘Come on,’ said Torak. ‘I think it’s safe.’
‘Safe?’ muttered Renn.
As the day wore on and the sun travelled west through a cloudless sky, puddles of meltwater appeared in the snow, more intensely blue than anything Torak had ever seen. It grew steadily warmer. Around mid-afternoon, the sun struck the cliffs, and in the blink of an eye, the freezing shadows turned to a stark white glare. Soon Torak was sweating under his reed cape.
‘Here,’ said Renn, handing him a strip of birch bast. ‘Cut slits in this and tie it round your eyes. Otherwise you’ll go snow-blind.’
‘I thought you’d never been this far north.’
‘I haven’t, but Fin-Kedinn has. He told me about it.’
It made Torak uneasy to be peering through a narrow slit, when he needed to be on his guard – when every so often a slab of snow or a giant icicle thudded down from the cliffs. As they trudged on, he noticed that Renn was lagging behind. That had never happened before. Usually she was faster than he was.
Waiting for her to catch up, he was startled to see that her lips had a bluish tinge. He asked if she was all right.
She shook her head, bending over with her hands on her knees. ‘It’s been coming on all day,’ she said. ‘I feel – drained. I think – I think it’s the Nanuak.’
Torak felt guilty. He’d been concentrating so hard on not waking the ice river that he’d forgotten that all this time she’d been carrying the ravenskin pouch. ‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘We’ll take turns.’
She nodded. ‘But I’ll carry the waterskin. That’s only fair.’
They swapped. Torak tied the pouch to his belt, while Renn looked over her shoulder at how far they’d come. ‘Much too slow,’ she said. ‘If we don’t make it across by nightfall . . .’
She didn’t need to add the rest. Torak pictured them digging a snow cave and cowering in darkness, while the ice river heaved and groaned around them. He said, ‘Do you think we’ve got enough firewood?’
Again Renn shook her head.
Before heading for the scree slope, they’d each gathered a faggot of firewood, and prepared a little piece of fire to bring with them. To do this, they’d cut a small chunk of the horsehoof mushroom that grows on dead birch trees, and set fire to it, then blown it out so that it was just smouldering. Then they’d rolled it in birch bark, pierced the bark a few times to let the fire breathe, and plugged the roll with beard-moss to keep it asleep. The fire could be carried all day, slumbering quietly, but ready to be woken with tinder and breath when they needed it.
Torak judged that they had enough firewood to last for maybe a night. If a storm blew up and they had to dig in for days, they would freeze.
They trudged on, and soon Torak understood why the Nanuak had tired Renn. Already he could feel it weighing him down.
Suddenly Renn stopped, yanking the birch bast away from her eyes. ‘Where’s the stream gone?’ she breathed.
‘What?’ said Torak.
‘The meltwater! I’ve just noticed. That gully’s gone. Do you think that means we can get out from under the cliffs?’
Taking off his own birch bast, Torak squinted at the snow. He couldn’t see for the glare. ‘I can still hear it,’ he said, moving forwards to investigate. ‘Maybe it’s just sunk further under the –’
He got no warning. No crack of ice, no ‘whump’ of collapsing snow. One moment he was walking; the next, he was falling into nothingness.
TWENTY-FOUR
Torak jarred his knee so painfully that he cried out.
‘Torak!’ whispered Renn from above. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I – think so,’ he replied. But he wasn’t. He’d fallen down an ice hole. Only a tiny ledge had stopped him tumbling to his death.
In the gloom he saw that the hole was narrow – he could touch its sides with his outstretched hands – but fathomless. Far below, he heard the rush of the meltwater torrent. He was inside the ice river. How was he going to get out?
Renn and Wolf were peering down at him. They must be about three paces above. It might as well be thirty. ‘Now we know where the meltwater went,’ he said, struggling to stay calm.
‘You’re not that far down,’ said Renn, trying to encourage him. ‘At least you’ve still got your pack.’
‘And my bow,’ he replied, hopin
g he didn’t sound too scared. ‘And the Nanuak.’ The pouch was still securely tied to his belt. The Nanuak, he thought in horror.
What if he couldn’t get out? He’d be stuck down here, and the Nanuak would be stuck with him. Without the Nanuak, there would be no chance of destroying the bear. The entire Forest would be doomed: doomed because he hadn’t watched his step . . .
‘Torak?’ whispered Renn. ‘Are you all right?’
He tried to say yes, but it came out as a croak.
‘Not too loud!’ breathed Renn. ‘It might send down another snowfall – or – or close up the hole with you inside . . .’
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Here, try to catch hold of this.’ Leaning perilously over the edge, she dangled her axe head first, with the shaft strap wound around her wrist.
‘You couldn’t take my weight,’ he told her. ‘I’d pull you down, we’d both fall . . .’
‘Fall, fall,’ echoed the ice around him.
‘Is there any way you can climb out?’ said Renn, beginning to sound shaky.
‘Probably. If I had the claws of a wolverine.’
‘Claws, claws,’ sang the ice.
That gave Torak an idea.
Slowly, terrified of slipping off the ledge, he unhitched his pack from one shoulder and checked that he still had the roe buck antlers. He did. They were short, and their roots had jagged edges. If he could tie one to each wrist and grip the tines, he might be able to use the roots as ice picks to claw his way out.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Renn.
‘You’ll see,’ he said. He didn’t have time to explain. The ledge was getting slippery beneath his boots, and his knee was hurting.
Leaving the antlers in his pack until he needed them, he took his axe from his belt. ‘I’ve got to cut notches in the ice,’ he called to Renn. ‘I just hope the ice river doesn’t feel it.’
She did not reply. Of course it would feel it. But what choice did he have?
The first axe-blow sent splinters of ice rattling into the chasm. Even if the ice river didn’t feel that, it must have heard it.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 14
