Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  The Raven Leader stroked his beard and sighed. ‘I first met them twenty-eight summers ago,’ he said. ‘I was eleven, your father was nine. Wolf Clan, like his father. His brother – who was my age – was Seal Clan, like their mother. We spent five moons together, fostered with the Wolf Clan.’

  ‘With the Wolf Clan?’ Torak said, surprised. ‘But I’ve never even seen them, so how -’

  ‘They weren’t always as elusive as they are now. Times change. People grow mistrustful.’ With a length of withe he tied the pile of bark into a bundle. ‘The three of us became friends,’ he went on. ‘I lived for hunting; but with the others it was always Magecraft. Your father was eager to learn the ways of trees, hunters, prey. His brother . . .’ He gave the knot a sharp tug. ‘His brother wanted only to control. To dominate.’

  Hoisting the bundle on his shoulder, he stepped down into the stream and set it to soak beneath a stone. ‘Ten winters came and went, and we stayed good friends. The eleventh winter changed all that.’ Water swirled round his calves as he bent to retrieve another bundle which had been soaking for days. ‘Your father was named the Wolf Mage,’ he said, tossing it on the bank. ‘His brother – although the older and some said the more skilled – was not named the Seal Mage.’ He shook his head. ‘It was a bitter blow. None of us knew how bitter until it was too late. He left his clan, and wandered alone.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ asked Torak.

  Sadness shadowed Fin-Kedinn’s face. ‘I don’t know. I never saw him again. But six summers later, I heard from your father that his brother had reappeared. Joined a group of Mages called the Healers.’

  ‘But – he wasn’t a Mage,’ said Torak.

  Fin-Kedinn’s mouth curled. ‘He was persuasive. You of all people should know that.’ Climbing back onto the bank, he knelt by the bundle. ‘I told you once how the Healers became the Soul-Eaters. How they brought terror to the Forest.’ He paused. ‘Then came the great fire that broke them. Some were terribly wounded. All were scattered, in hiding.’

  ‘He was burned,’ murmured Torak. ‘On his face and down his side.’

  ‘What none of us knew,’ said Fin-Kedinn, ‘was that he’d found his way back to his clan. All we knew was that the Seals had become – separate. Ceased their dealings with the Open Forest, traded only with the Sea clans. And they had a new Mage.’

  Torak tossed the grass in the stream, and watched it sucked under by the current. He thought of Tenris, dragged down into the deep. He said, ‘He was after me because I’m a spirit walker. Because he wanted that power.’ He stared into the water. ‘The other Soul-Eaters will want it too.’

  Fin-Kedinn hesitated. ‘They may not know about you yet. Maybe the Seal Mage acted alone.’

  ‘And maybe he didn’t,’ said Torak. ‘Maybe he had help.’

  Suddenly the Forest seemed to close in around him. The buzzing of the bees became strangely menacing. In his mind, Torak saw again the yellow eyes of Tenris the Seal Mage. He thought of the other Soul-Eaters – the faceless ones whose names he didn’t know, but who were out there somewhere. Waiting.

  He said, ‘They’ll find out what I can do. They’ll come after me.’

  The Raven Leader nodded. ‘You could make them more powerful than they ever dreamed. Or you could destroy them utterly.’

  Torak met his eyes. ‘Is that why you’ve never offered to foster me? Because I’m dangerous?’

  Something flickered in the blue gaze. ‘I must look to the safety of the clan, Torak. You could help us defeat them. Or you could be our ruin.’

  ‘But I would never harm the Ravens!’ cried Torak, leaping to his feet.

  ‘You don’t know that!’ Fin-Kedinn said fiercely. ‘You don’t know what you will become. None of us does!’

  ‘But -’

  ‘Evil exists in us all, Torak. Some fight it. Some feed it. That’s how it’s always been.’

  With a cry Torak turned away.

  Fin-Kedinn made no move to comfort him. Instead he cut open the bundle, chose a strip of bark, and began peeling off the bast.

  Torak felt giddy and frightened. He felt as if he stood at the edge of a cliff, about to jump off into the unknown.

  Mustering his courage, he asked the question that had been eating away at him ever since Tenris had met his end. ‘Last winter, when you told me about the Soul-Eaters, you said there were seven. But you only described five.’

  The Raven Leader’s strong hands stilled.

  ‘The Seal Mage was the sixth,’ said Torak. ‘I need to know about the seventh.’ His fists clenched. ‘My father had a scar on his chest. Here.’ He touched his breastbone. ‘That made it hard when I – when I put the Death Marks on him.’ He tried to swallow. ‘Something the Seal Mage said made me think that – the seventh Soul-Eater . . .’

  Fin-Kedinn rubbed a hand over his face. Then he laid the lime bast in the grass.

  ‘My father,’ said Torak. ‘It was my father.’

  A gust of wind shivered the branches, hazing the air with drifting sweetness. The trees were trying to soften the blow.

  ‘No,’ said Torak, sinking to his knees. ‘No.’

  He read his answer in the Raven Leader’s eyes.

  After a while, Fin-Kedinn came and sat beside him. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘when I told you that in the beginning they were not evil? Your father believed that. That’s why he joined them. To heal the sick, to chase away demons.’ His gaze became distant and full of pain. ‘Your mother never believed it. She knew. But by the time he saw the truth, it was too late.’ He spread his hands. ‘He tried to leave. They wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘Is that why they killed him?’ said Torak.

  Slowly the Raven Leader nodded.

  Torak sat with his head bowed to his knees, shaken by dry, wrenching sobs. Fin-Kedinn sat beside him: not touching, not speaking, but steadying by his presence alone.

  At last the Raven Leader rose to his feet. ‘I’m going back to camp now. You stay here. Peel the rest of this bundle. Wash the bast in the stream. Hang it up to dry.’

  Torak nodded, too numb to speak.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Fin-Kedinn, ‘I’ll teach you how to make rope.’

  Torak had run till he could run no further, but his thoughts would not be stilled. Fa had been a Soul-Eater. Fa, his own Fa . . .

  There was a tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe. A storm of rage and grief and fear.

  He came to a halt by a boisterous stream that tumbled over big, mossy boulders. A squirrel shot up a sycamore tree. An otter stopped eating a trout and fled into the ferns.

  Torak knelt to drink, and his name-soul stared back at him. Torak of the Wolf Clan. Torak the spirit walker.

  With a cry he snatched a clump of yellow suncups, and tore them to pieces. He didn’t belong with the Ravens. He didn’t belong anywhere . . .

  After a while, the otter came back for its half-eaten trout, and settled down to finish its meal. In the sycamore, the squirrel started nibbling bark to get at the sweet, sticky tree-blood.

  Torak sat with his back against the trunk, watching them – and some of his tumult eased. They didn’t care that his father had been a Soul-Eater. They didn’t care that he was a spirit walker. As long as he left them in peace, they were content for him to remain.

  He placed his palm on the tree’s rough bark, and felt its power coursing through him. The power of the Forest.

  Deep within him, he felt a stirring of resolve. This was where he belonged: here in the Forest. Through all the bad things that had happened, the Forest had given him strength. Strength to defeat the bear. Strength to survive Tenris and the Sea Mother. Strength to face his destiny. And maybe Fa’s spirit – wherever it was – knew that, and was proud.

  Above him the sycamore stirred in the breeze: spreading wide its arms, watching over him. Torak raised his head and stared at the glowing green leaves. With the help of the Forest, he would face his destiny. He would do whatever lay in his power to vanquish the Soul
-Eaters.

  ‘I will do this,’ he said out loud. ‘I will do this.’

  Wolf found his pack-brother sitting by the little Fast Wet, tearing up shiny grey petals in his forepaws.

  Wolf splashed into the wet to cool his pads, then ate some of the flowers to be companionable. He wagged his tail. Tall Tailless did not smile back. Wolf smelt his sadness, and was puzzled.

  Wolf was feeling very happy. His confusion was gone. He knew what he was for. When he’d been a cub, he’d helped Tall Tailless fight the demon bear. Then on the island of the fish-birds, he’d chased the demons out of the half-grown taillesses. This was what he was for: to help Tall Tailless fight demons.

  It meant never returning to his pack on the Mountain, but Wolf didn’t mind too much, because he would be with his pack-brother. If only Tall Tailless wasn’t so sad.

  To make him feel better, Wolf leaned against him, and rubbed his scent into his pelt.

  Tall Tailless turned to him and said, Do you know what I am?

  Wolf was surprised. My pack-brother.

  But do you know what creature I am? What I can do?

  Yes, I know, Wolf replied a little impatiently. He’d always known.

  To his surprise, Tall Tailless stared at him hard – which was scarcely polite. Then he began to smile. You know? he said.

  Wolf wagged his tail.

  He decided they’d had enough talk, and went down on his forepaws, barking and asking Tall Tailless to play. When his pack-brother still didn’t move, Wolf pounced.

  His pack-brother gave a startled yowl and toppled backwards onto the bank. Wolf nose-nudged him in the flanks. His pack-brother grabbed Wolf’s scruff and play-bit him on the ear.

  Soon they were rolling about in the grass, and Tall Tailless was making the odd, breathless yip-and-yowl that was his way of laughing.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Torak’s world is the world of six thousand years ago: a time after the Ice Age and before farming, when the whole of north-west Europe was covered by Forest.

  The people in Torak’s time looked just like you or me, but their way of life was very different. They didn’t have writing, metals or the wheel, but they didn’t need them. They were superb survivors. They knew all about the animals, trees, plants and rocks of the Forest. When they wanted something, they knew where to find it, or how to make it.

  They lived in small clans, and many of them moved around a lot: some only staying in camp for a few days, like Torak of the Wolf Clan; others staying for a whole moon or a season, like the Raven and Boar Clans; while others stayed put all year round, like the Seal Clan. And in case you’re wondering, the Ravens and the Boars have moved a bit since the events in Wolf Brother, as you’ll see from the slightly amended map.

  When I was researching Spirit Walker, I spent time in the Lofoten Islands of north-west Norway, and also in Greenland. I studied the traditional ways of life of the Sami and Inuit peoples, and learned about their ways of building boats, hunting seals and making clothes.

  The inspiration for the Crag came from a visit to the ancient rock carvings of the Dyreberget at Leiknes in north-west Norway.

  The inspiration for the Hunters came from swimming with wild killer whales in Tysfjord, north Norway. I

  couldn’t have written about Torak’s experiences in the water without having been there too; and like Torak, I found that swimming in the sea with killer whales altered for ever my perception of these amazing creatures.

  I want to thank the people at the Polaria in Trømsø, Norway, for helping me understand what it’s like to be a seal; the people of western Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some unforgettable times with some wonderful wolves; the people of Tysfjord for helping me get close to killer whales and white-tailed eagles; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Raven Master of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. Lastly, as always, I want to thank my agent Peter Cox and my editor Fiona Kennedy for their unfailing enthusiasm and support.

  Michelle Paver

  London, 2005

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I want to thank the people at the Polaria in Trømsø, Norway, for helping me understand what it’s like to be a seal; the people of western Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some unforgettable times with some wonderful wolves; the people of Tysfjord for helping me get close to killer whales and white-tailed eagles; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Raven Master of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. Lastly, as always, I want to thank my agent Peter Cox and my editor Fiona Kennedy for their unfailing enthusiasm and support.

  Michelle Paver

  London

  Contents

  Cover

  Map

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  A Word About Wolf

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  Torak didn’t want it to be an omen.

  He didn’t want it to be anything more than an owl feather lying in the snow. So he ignored it. That was his first mistake.

  Quietly, he went back to the tracks they’d been following since dawn. They looked fresh. He slipped off his mitten and felt them. No ice in the bottom. Yes, fresh.

  Turning to Renn, further uphill, he tapped his sleeve and raised his forefinger, then pointed down into the beech wood. One reindeer, heading south.

  Renn gave a nod, whipped an arrow from her quiver, and nocked it to her bow. Like Torak, she was hard to see in a pale reindeer-hide parka and leggings, with wood-ash smeared on her face to mask her scent. Like him, she was hungry, having eaten nothing since a slip of dried boar meat for daymeal.

  Unlike him, she hadn’t seen the owl feather.

  So don’t tell her, he thought.

  That was his second mistake.

  A few paces below him, Wolf was sniffing at a patch where the reindeer had scraped away the snow to get at the lichen. His ears were pricked, his silver fur fluffed up with excitement. If he sensed Torak’s unease, he didn’t show it. Another sniff, then he raised his muzzle to catch the scent-laden breeze, and his amber gaze grazed Torak’s. Smells bad.

  Torak tilted his head. What do you mean? he asked in wolf talk.

  Wolf twitched his whiskers. Bad muzzle.

  Torak went to examine what he’d found, and spotted a tiny bead of yellow pus on the bare earth. Wolf was telling him that the reindeer was old, its teeth rotten after many winters of munching gritty lichen.

  Torak wrinkled his nose in a brief wolf smile. Thank you, pack-brother. Then he glanced at Renn, and hea
ded downhill as silently as his beaver-hide boots would allow.

  Not silently enough for Wolf, who flicked a reproachful ear as he moved over the snow as soundlessly as smoke.

  Together they crept between the sleeping trees. Black oaks and silvery beeches glittered with frost. Here and there, Torak saw the crimson blaze of holly berries; the deep green of a wakeful spruce standing guard over its slumbering sisters. The Forest was hushed. The rivers were frozen. Most of the birds had flown south.

  Except for that owl, thought Torak.

  He’d known it was an owl’s feather as soon as he’d seen its furry upper side, which muffled the sound of flight when the owl was hunting. If it had been the dusky grey of a forest owl, he wouldn’t have worried, he’d simply have given it to Renn, who used them to fletch her arrows. But this feather was barred with black and tawny; shadow and flame. That told Torak it belonged to the greatest, the fiercest of owls: the eagle owl. And to find one of those – that was bad.

  Wolf’s black nose twitched.

  Torak was instantly alert.

  Through the trees, he glimpsed the reindeer, nibbling beard-moss. He heard the crunch of its hooves, saw its misting breath. Good, they were still downwind. He forgot the feather, and thought of juicy meat and rich marrowfat.

  Behind him, the faint creak of Renn’s bow. He fitted an arrow to his own, then realized he was blocking her view, and dropped to one knee, since she was the better shot.

  The reindeer moved behind a beech tree. They’d have to wait.

  As Torak waited, he noticed a spruce, five paces below him. The way it spread its snowladen arms . . . warning him back.

  Gripping his bow, he fixed his gaze on the prey.

  A gust of wind stirred the beeches around him, and last summer’s leaves rustled like dry, dead hands.

  He swallowed. It felt as if the Forest were trying to tell him something.

  Overhead, a branch shifted, and a flurry of snow hissed down. He glanced up. His heart jerked. An eagle owl. Tufted ears as sharp as spearpoints. Huge orange eyes like twin suns.

  With a cry he leapt to his feet.

  The reindeer fled.