But how could he ever go back?
It wasn’t only the thought of leaving his pack which stopped him. It was the Thunderer. The Thunderer would never let him go.
The Thunderer could attack at any time: even now, when the Up was bright and clear, and there was no sign of its angry breath. It could flatten the Forest with storms, and send down the Bright Beast-That-Bites-Hot to blast trees, rocks, wolves. It was all-powerful. Wolf knew that better than most, because it had taken his pack when he was a cub.
He’d gone off to explore, and when he’d come back, the Den had been gone. His whole pack – mother, father, pack-brothers – had lain wet and cold and Not-Breath in the mud. The Thunderer hadn’t needed to come close to destroy them. It had sent the Fast Wet roaring down from the Mountains.
Wolf had been lonely and frightened, and very hungry. Then Tall Tailless had come. Tall Tailless had shared his kills with him, and let him curl up on top of him to sleep. He had howled with him, and played tag with bits of hide. Tall Tailless had become his pack-brother.
Tall Tailless was a wolf, of course, anyone could smell that; but he wasn’t a normal wolf. The fur on his head was long and dark, but the rest of him was without fur, and instead had a loose overpelt – which he could take off. His face was flat, and his poor little teeth were hopelessly blunt; and strangest of all, he had no tail.
But he sounded wolf, even if he never hit the high yips. And his eyes were true wolf eyes: pale grey, and full of light. Above all, he had the heart and spirit of a wolf.
As Wolf stood on the ridge, sadness filled his chest. He put up his muzzle and howled.
That was when the new smell hit his nose.
Not hunter or prey; not tree or earth or Fast Wet or stone. This was bad. Something bad, blowing through the Forest.
Wolf whimpered with anxiety. His pack-brother was down there in the badness.
Suddenly everything was clear. The Thunderer might come after him, but Wolf couldn’t let that stop him any longer. Tall Tailless needed him.
Wolf leapt down from the ridge, and started for the Forest.
He ran for two Darks and Lights, keeping the Mountains at his tail, and heading for where the Hot Bright Eye sinks down to sleep.
Fear snapped at his hindpaws.
He feared the anger of the stranger wolves whose ranges he crossed; if they caught him, they might tear him to pieces.
He feared the wrath of the Thunderer.
But worse than that, he feared for his pack-brother.
As he ran, the smell grew stronger. Something stalked the Forest.
Tirelessly Wolf wove between the trees, seeking the taillesses. Some of their packs smelt like boar, some like otter, but the one he sought smelt like raven. That was the pack Tall Tailless had joined.
At last he found it, on the banks of a furious Fast Wet.
As he’d expected, nobody knew he was here. That was one of the odd things about taillesses. Although in many ways they were like true wolves – being clever and brave, with a fondness for talking and playing, and a fierce love for their pack – they couldn’t smell at all, and they were practically deaf. So Wolf went unobserved as he roamed the edge of the Den, seeking his pack-brother.
He couldn’t find him.
It had rained the previous Light, and many scents had been washed away; but if Tall Tailless had been here, Wolf would have smelt him.
Then he caught the scent of the lead wolf, who sat by the Bright Beast-that-Bites-Hot, as taillesses love to do. Beside him crouched the half-grown female who was pack-sister to Tall Tailless. She was speaking to the lead wolf in the yip-and-yowl of tailless talk, and she sounded both angry and sad.
Wolf sensed that the female was worried about Tall Tailless.
Running up and down, Wolf sought his pack-brother. He found a big bare patch that smelt of new ash; and some strange, straight trees from which hung many fish. He paused only to gulp down a few before heading back into the Forest to seek Tall Tailless.
Maybe his pack-brother had gone hunting. Yes, that must be it. And he couldn’t have gone far, because like all taillesses, he ran on his hind legs, which made him slow.
But though Wolf searched and searched, he found nothing.
The awful truth crashed down on him like a falling tree.
Tall Tailless was gone.
EIGHT
To avoid meeting the Ravens, Torak stayed off the clan paths and kept to the hidden deer trails that wound up the Widewater valley.
The prey soon sensed that he wasn’t hunting them, and relaxed. An elk munched willowherb as he passed. Forest horses flicked up their tails and cantered into the trees, then turned to stare till he was gone. Two boar sows and their fat, fluffy piglets raised their snouts to watch him go by.
The new leaves were still crinkled from the bud, and letting in plenty of sunlight. He made good speed. Like all Forest people he travelled light, carrying only what he needed for hunting, fire-making and sleep.
All his life he’d wandered the Forest with Fa, pitching camp for a night or so, then moving on. Always moving on. That had been the hardest part about living with the Ravens. They only broke camp every three or four moons.
And there were so many of them! Twenty-eight men, women, and children. And babies. Until last winter, Torak had never even seen one of those. ‘Why can’t it walk?’ he’d asked Renn. ‘What does it do all day?’ She’d laughed so much she’d fallen over.
At the time, that had made him cross. Now it made him miss them all the more.
He left the valley of the Widewater south of the Thunder Falls, and headed east into the next valley. There he had a brief encounter with two Willow Clan hunters in dugout canoes. To his relief they were in a hurry, and didn’t ask where he was going, pausing only to give him a warning before heading downriver.
‘A sick man escaped from our camp last night,’ said one. ‘If you hear howling, run. He doesn’t know he’s a man any more.’
The other shook his head grimly. ‘This sickness. Where did it come from? It’s as if the very breath of summer is poisoned.’
As mid-afternoon wore on, Torak began to feel watched.
Many times he stopped to listen, but he never heard anyone, and whenever he doubled back, he found nothing. And yet – the follower was there. He could sense it. As the shadows lengthened, he pictured madmen roaming the Forest; small malevolent creatures with sharp claws and faces of leaves.
He pitched camp near a noisy river where the damselflies were blue darts of light, and the midges nearly ate him alive until he rubbed himself with wormwood juice.
It was the first time in six moons that he’d slept on his own in the Forest, and he took care to choose the right spot. Flat ground, high enough above the river to avoid flash floods, and away from ant-nests and obvious prey trails; and no overhanging deadwood or storm-weakened trees to fall on him in the night.
After the Ravens’ reindeer-hide shelters, he was keen to get back to the way he’d lived with Fa, so he built a shelter of living trees. He found three beech saplings and bent them inwards, lashing them together with pine root to make a snug sleeping-space. This he thatched with fallen branches, and covered with leafmould, weighing that down with more branches. In the morning he would untie the saplings, and they would spring back unharmed.
After making a mattress of last autumn’s crunchy beech mast, he dragged his gear inside. The shelter had a rich, earthy tang. ‘A good smell,’ he said out loud. His voice sounded uneasy and forced.
It was a warm night with a southerly breeze, so he made only a small fire, walling it in with stones to stop it escaping into the Forest, and waking it up with his strike-fire and a handful of birch-bark tinder.
He remembered nights with Fa when they’d sat over the embers, wondering about this mysterious, life-giving creature who was such a good friend to the clans. What did the fire dream of as it slept inside the trees? Where did it go when it died?
For the first time, too, he thought
of the bone kin he might soon encounter. Maybe with the Red Deer Clan he would feel that he belonged. After all, if things had been different, he could have been Red Deer. When he was born, his mother could have named him for her own clan, rather than Fa’s; and then he would have grown up in the Deep Forest, and Fa might not have been killed, and he would never have met Wolf . . .
It was too much to think about. He went off to find food.
He dug up some sweet orchid roots and baked them in the embers, and made a hot mash of goosefoot leaves flavoured with crow garlic. It tasted good, but he wasn’t hungry. He decided to keep it for daymeal.
He was hanging his cooking-skin in a tree out of the way of foragers, when a cry echoed through the Forest.
He froze.
It was not the yowl of a vixen, or a lynx seeking a mate. It was a man. Or something that had once been a man. Far in the west, by the sound of it.
With a creeping sense of dread, Torak watched the light between the trees begin to fail. Midsummer was not far off, so the night would be brief. Just long enough for his spirits to falter.
Dusk deepened, and still the Forest rang with the chatter of thrushes and the raucous laughter of woodpeckers. The birds would sing all night. He was glad of the company.
He thought of the Ravens sitting round their long-fire. The smell of woodsmoke and baked salmon; Oslak’s rumbling laugh . . .
The very breath of summer is poisoned.
Quickly he unrolled his sleeping-sack, crawled in and laid his weapons by his side. A moment ago he’d been wide awake. Now he was exhausted.
He slept.
Shrill laughter tore through his dreams. Hazily he became aware of a loud groaning – both familiar and deadly . . .
He was alert in an instant. It was the sound of a falling tree – and it was falling his way.
His sleeping-sack was twisted round his legs, he couldn’t get free. Wriggling like a caterpillar, he squirmed through the entrance hole. Struggled to his feet – hopped – fell – narrowly missed the fire – and threw himself sideways into the ferns just as the tree crashed onto the shelter.
Sparks shot upwards. Dark branches swayed and came to rest.
Torak lay among the ferns: heart pounding, sweat chilling his skin. He’d checked for storm-weakened trees, he knew he had. Besides, there was hardly any wind.
That laughter. Malevolent, yet horribly childlike. It hadn’t been only in his dreams.
Not daring to move, he waited till he was sure that nothing else was coming down. Then he went to inspect the ruins of the shelter.
A young ash had fallen across it, killing the three saplings and trapping his gear inside. With luck he could salvage the gear, which – by firelight at least – appeared undamaged. But if he hadn’t woken when he had, he would have been killed.
And yet – if the Follower had wanted to kill him, why warn him by laughing? It was as if it was playing with him. Putting him in danger, to see what he would do.
The fire was still burning. With a glowing brand in one hand and his knife in the other, he took a look at the ash tree.
He found axe-marks. Small, crude blows. But effective.
This was odd, though. No tracks on the ground. No sign that someone had braced themselves to hack at the tree.
Again he swept the ground with firelight. Nothing. Maybe he’d missed something, but he didn’t think so. The one thing he knew about was tracking.
With his finger he touched the oozing tree-blood. It was thickening. That meant the tree-trunk had been cut some time before, then pushed over while he slept.
He frowned. It’s impossible to fell a tree in silence. Why hadn’t he heard anything?
Then it came to him. He’d filled his waterskin at the river – which had drowned out other sounds.
As he stood there amid the dark and dying trees, he wished Wolf was with him. Nothing would get past Wolf. His ears were so keen that he could hear the clouds pass. His nose was so sharp that he could smell the breath of a fish.
But Wolf isn’t here, Torak told himself savagely. He’s far away on the Mountain.
For the first time in six moons, he couldn’t howl for his lost friend. He didn’t like to think of who – or what – might answer his call.
It was past middle-night by the time he’d salvaged his gear and built another shelter, and he was numb with fatigue. He was also uneasily aware that he’d caused the deaths of three saplings. He could feel their souls hanging in the air around him: wistful, bewildered; unable to understand why they’d been robbed of their chance of becoming trees.
It’s your fault, the older trees seemed to whisper. You bring evil with you . . .
This time, he didn’t risk getting into his sleeping-sack. Instead he woke the fire, and sat in his new shelter with the reindeer hide around his shoulders and his axe on his knees. He didn’t want sleep. He just wanted dawn to come . . .
He awoke with a start. Again he had that feeling of being watched – but this time it was different. There was a smell in the air: hot, strong and familiar, a little like hedge mustard, although his sleep-fuddled mind couldn’t place it.
Then he saw the gleam of eyes on the other side of the fire. His hand tightened on his axe. ‘Who are you?’ he said hoarsely.
The creature grunted.
‘Who are you?’ Torak repeated.
It moved into the light.
Torak tensed.
A boar. An enormous male, fully two paces from snout to tail, and heavier than three sturdy men. Its large, furry brown ears were pricked, and its small clever eyes met Torak’s warily.
Torak forced himself to stay calm. Boars don’t usually attack unless they’re wounded or defending their young; but an angry boar can move as fast as a deer, and is invincible.
‘I mean you no harm,’ he told the boar, knowing it wouldn’t understand, but hoping his tone would carry his meaning.
The large ears twitched. Firelight gleamed on its yellow tusks. Then the boar gave an irritable grunt, lowered its massive head, and started rooting around in the wreck of the shelter.
All it wanted to do was eat. Summer is a lean time for boars, with last autumn’s berries and acorns long gone. No wonder it was busy grubbing up roots, beetles, worms; anything it could find.
The boar took no more notice of Torak, and after a while, he got into his sleeping-sack and curled up, listening to the comforting sound of snuffling. His new companion was gruff and none too friendly, but welcome all the same. Boars have keen senses. While it stayed close, no sick man or malevolent Follower could get near him.
But soon it would be gone.
As Torak stared into the red heart of the embers, he wondered if Fin-Kedinn had been right; if he’d let himself be tricked into leaving the Ravens. Maybe whoever – whatever – was after him had got him exactly where it wanted. Alone in the Forest.
Whoever it was, they’d been busy in the night.
It was raining when Torak crawled out of the shelter. The boar had gone, the fire was cold, and someone had rolled away the stones and smoothed out the ashes. Someone had taken Torak’s arrows – had crept inside the shelter while he slept, withdrawn them from the quiver by his head, and planted them in the ash to make a pattern.
Torak recognised it at once. The three-pronged mark of the Soul-Eaters.
He went down on one knee and yanked out an arrow.
‘All right,’ he said aloud as he got to his feet. ‘I know you’re clever, and I know you’re good at sneaking up on me. But you’re a coward if you don’t come out and face me right now!’
No-one emerged from the dripping undergrowth. ‘Coward!’ shouted Torak.
The Forest waited.
His voice echoed through the trees.
‘What do you want? Come out and face me! What do you want?’
Rain pattered on the leaves and ran silently down his face. His only answer was the rattle of a woodpecker far away.
The morning passed, and still it rained. Torak lik
ed the rain: it kept him cool, and the midges away. His spirits rose as he crossed two more valleys. The feeling of being watched lessened. He heard no more demented howls.
Maybe that was because the boar was keeping him company. He didn’t see it, but he kept finding traces of its presence. Big patches of churned-up earth where it had rooted for food. A muddy wallow beside a much-rubbed oak tree, where it had had a good scratch after taking a bath.
Torak found this reassuring. He had a new friend. He wondered how old the boar was, and if it was the father of the piglets he’d seen the previous day.
As the afternoon wore on, their paths crossed. They drank at the same stream, and rested in the same drowsy glade. Once, as they were both searching for wood-mushrooms, the boar gave a tetchy grunt and chased Torak away, then stamped on the mushroom he’d been about to eat. When Torak went to look, he saw why. It wasn’t a wood-mushroom at all, but a poisonous lookalike, as its bruised red flesh showed. In the boar’s bad-tempered way, it had been warning him to be more careful.
Next morning it was still raining, and the Forest slumbered beneath a mantle of cloud. But as Torak trudged further east, he realised that it wasn’t only the clouds that were shutting out the light. The Forest itself was growing darker.
He was used to the Open Forest, where the trees let in plenty of sun, and the undergrowth is usually fairly light; but now he had reached the hills which guarded the Deep Forest. Towering oaks reared before him with mighty limbs spread wide to ward him back. The undergrowth was taller than he was: dense stands of black yew and poisonous hemlock. The sky was hidden by an impenetrable canopy of leaves.
There had been no sign of the boar all day, and Torak missed him. He began to fear not only what followed him, but what lay ahead.
He thought of the tales his father had told him. In the Deep Forest, Torak, things are different. The trees are more watchful; the clans more suspicious. If you ever venture in, be careful. And remember that in summer, the World Spirit walks in the deep valleys, as a tall man with the antlers of a deer . . .
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 23
