Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  Then there was nothing left but silence.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The ice gave another lurch, jolting Torak to his senses.

  He had to get away from the edge, or he’d be next.

  The fog was so thick that he could hardly see; or were his eyes getting worse? Even this weak light felt like hot needles drilling into his skull.

  In a blur he cast about for their remaining gear. Apart from what he had on him, there was a snow-knife, the sleeping-sacks, and no food. He thought he remembered seeing Renn stowing a food pouch in the skinboat, and hoped he was wrong, hoped she had it with her -

  The sleeping-sacks? He had both?

  Oh, Renn.

  At least she had her bow with her, but . . .

  He stopped short. She had the fire-opal. The demons would be after her.

  As he recalled how he’d shouted at her, he burned with shame. Taking the fire-opal had been the bravest thing she could have done. Then she’d stayed awake all night, keeping watch. ‘And all you could do was shout,’ he said in disgust.

  The fog whirled before his eyes, melting into a searing red blur. He squinted. Put his hand before his face. The red blur didn’t change. He couldn’t see.

  ‘Snow-blind,’ he said aloud – and the fog reached icy fingers down his throat. He’d never felt so vulnerable.

  He did the only thing he could. He put his hands to his lips and howled.

  Wolf didn’t come. Nor did he send back an answering howl. Which must mean that he was out of earshot – and knowing Wolf’s ears, that was a long way away off, indeed.

  Again Torak howled. And again.

  Silence. No wind. Just the insidious lapping of the Sea, and a horrible, waiting stillness. He pictured dark shapes flitting from ridge to ridge. He sensed that he was not alone.

  ‘Get away from me,’ he whispered to the demons.

  He thought he heard laughter.

  ‘Get away!’ he shouted, waving his arms.

  More laughter.

  With a sob, he sank to his knees. Tears stung his eyes. Angrily he dashed them away.

  If Renn were here, she’d be reaching for her medicine pouch.

  That kindled a tiny spark of courage. Slipping off his mittens, he fumbled for his own pouch, found some elder leaves by their smell, and chewed them. They stung terribly when he pressed them to his eyes, but he told himself they were doing him good.

  Then he had another idea. He found his mother’s medicine horn, and shook a little powdered earthblood into his palm.

  Suddenly, the air around him crackled with tension. Maybe the demons didn’t like earthblood.

  Mixing the red powder to a paste with spit, he daubed what he hoped was the sign of the hand on his forehead – remembering too late that he should have rubbed off the owl blood first. He didn’t know if that would stop it working. He only knew that you made the sign of the hand to protect yourself, and he needed all the protection he could get.

  He struggled to his feet – and this time he heard a hiss, and the scrabble of claws. Maybe they were shrinking back from the mark of power.

  ‘Get away from me,’ he told them shakily. ‘I’m not dead yet. Neither is Renn.’

  Silence. He didn’t know if they were listening or mocking.

  On hands and knees, he found the sleeping-sacks and strapped them on his back; then stuck the snow-knife in his belt. He forced himself to think. The thaw was coming, so he had to get further inland. Then head off and find Renn.

  The day before, the current and the wind had carried them south. The ice floe, too, had carried Renn south.

  ‘Head south,’ he said out loud. And maybe the floe would get stuck in landfast ice, and she’d find her way ashore.

  But where was south?

  He took a few steps, but kept stumbling. The ice was so uneven, all these little ridges . . .

  Ridges. The wind blowing the snow into ridges. Blowing mainly from the north!

  ‘Thank you!’ he shouted. He thanked Inuktiluk, too, for advising him to make an offering. The wind must have liked those boar tusks, or it wouldn’t be helping him now.

  Groping with his mittens, he felt the shape of the ridges.

  Then he stood up, and squared his shoulders. ‘Not dead yet,’ he told the demons. ‘Not dead yet!’ he shouted.

  He started south.

  It was agonisingly slow going. At times he heard a juddering crunch, and the sea ice bucked beneath him. He probed the way ahead with the snow-knife. But if he did hit a patch of thin ice, it would probably be too late.

  What had Inuktiluk said? Grey ice is new ice, very dangerous . . . keep to the white ice. Not much use when he couldn’t see; when his next step might take him onto thin ice, or down a tide crack.

  He struggled on. The cold sapped his strength, and he began to feel weak with hunger. How he was going to find food when he had neither harpoon, bow, nor sight, was beyond him.

  After a while, he heard the sound of approaching wings. The sky was a pinkish blur, he couldn’t even make out a darker blur flying towards him.

  Owls fly silently, so it couldn’t be the eagle owl; and these wingbeats had a strong, steady rustle that he recognized.

  ‘Wsh, wsh, wsh.’ The raven flew lower to inspect him. Then, with a short, deep caw, it flew away.

  His belly tightened. That caw had sounded muffled, as if the raven had food in its beak. Maybe it had found a carcass, and was flying off to hide its cache. Maybe it would be back for more.

  Not long afterwards, he heard it return. He strained to listen. He ran towards it.

  Just when he was giving up hope, he heard the bark of a white fox, and the sonorous caws of ravens at a kill-site. Meat! From the clamour, there were lots of them, so it must be a big carcass. Maybe a seal.

  His foot struck something solid, and he fell. The ravens erupted into the sky in a wild clatter of wings, and the white fox uttered short barks that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

  Torak groped for what had tripped him. It wasn’t a wind ridge, but a smooth hummock of ice, twice the size of his head. Puzzled, he found another, a little further off. Then more of them, in a curving double line.

  His heart began to thud. These weren’t hummocks. They were tracks. The tracks of an ice bear. Inuktiluk had told him how the bear’s weight packed the snow hard, then the wind blew away the surrounding snow, leaving perfect, raised paw-prints.

  In his mind, Torak saw the seal basking in the sun beside its breathing-hole, oblivious of the ice bear stalking it downwind. Noiselessly the bear creeps closer, hiding behind every ridge and hummock. It is patient. It knows how to wait. At last the seal slips into a doze. The bear gathers itself for the silent charge . . . The seal is dead before it knows what struck.

  At the carcass, the ravens had noisily resumed their feast, having apparently decided that Torak posed no threat.

  They wouldn’t be feeding if the bear was still close – would they? He was desperate to believe that. And by the sound of it, there were a great many ravens, as well as that fox; which must mean that the bear had left plenty of meat. Inuktiluk had said that when the hunting was good, ice bears take only the blubber, and leave the rest.

  But what if it was hungry again? What if it was stalking him right now?

  Suddenly the ravens burst skywards. Something had frightened them.

  Torak’s breath hammered in his chest. Reaching inside his parka, he drew his father’s knife.

  He pictured the great bear hunting him: placing its huge, furred paws soundlessly on the ice.

  He got to his feet. The silence was deafening. He braced himself, and waited for the White Death to come for him.

  Wolf knocked him backwards into the snow, and covered his face in snuffle-licks.

  Wolf loved surprising his pack-brother. No matter how often he did it, Tall Tailless never knew he was coming, and Wolf never tired of it: the stalk – the pounce – the head-over-paws tumble.

  Now, in an ecstasy of play-biting an
d tail-lashing – with his newly shortened tail, that he was fast getting used to – he clambered over his pack-brother. He was so happy he could howl! All thought of demons and bad taillesses and stranger wolves was chased away. After being crushed and cramped for so long, he was free to stretch and leap and lope! To feel the Bright Soft Cold beneath his pads, and clean wind in his fur! To play with his pack-brother!

  As often happened when Wolf ambushed him, Tall Tailless was both cross and delighted. But Wolf sensed that this time, he was also in pain.

  Where was the pack-sister? She’d been with Tall Tailless when they’d set off in the floating hide. Had she got lost on the Great Wet?

  And Tall Tailless was being strangely clumsy. After his first joyful greeting, he’d made an awkward lunge at Wolf’s muzzle, missed, and tried to lick his ear. Which was odd. Now his forepaw swung out and biffed Wolf hard on the nose. Wolf was startled. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Going down on his forelegs, he asked Tall Tailless to play.

  Tall Tailless ignored him.

  Wolf gave an aggrieved whine, and cast his pack-brother a questioning glance.

  Tall Tailless stared – he actually stared – right past Wolf.

  Wolf began to be worried. To stare like that must mean that Tall Tailless was extremely displeased. Perhaps Wolf had done something wrong without knowing it.

  Then he had an idea. Loping over to the fish-dog kill and scattering the ravens, he bit off a scrap of hide, raced back with it, and tossed it at Tall Tailless’ feet, looking at him expectantly. There! Let’s play toss-and-catch!

  Tall Tailless did nothing. He didn’t even seem to know the hide was there.

  Wolf padded closer.

  Tall Tailless reached out a forepaw, and clumsily touched his muzzle.

  Wolf studied the beloved, furless face. The beautiful wolf eyes were crumpled shut, and streaming wet. Delicately, Wolf sniffed them. They smelt wrong. He gave them a tentative lick.

  Tall Tailless gulped, and buried his face in Wolf’s scruff.

  Suddenly, Wolf understood. Poor, poor Tall Tailless. He couldn’t see.

  To reassure him, Wolf rubbed himself against his shoulder, covering his overpelt in comforting Wolf smell. Then he nudged his head under Tall Tailless’ furry forepaw.

  Tailless rose unsteadily to his hind legs, and Wolf waited until he was ready, then walked forwards as slowly as a newborn cub.

  He would look after Tall Tailless. He would lead him to the fish-dog kill, and wait patiently while he ate – because he was still the lead wolf, so he got to eat first. Then, when Wolf had also eaten, he would lead Tall Taillesss in search of the pack-sister.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the Forest, the coming of spring is welcomed; in the Far

  North, it’s feared. Now Renn understood why.

  An ice mountain floated towards her out of the fog – tilted, and crashed into the Sea, sending out a wave that rocked the floe on which she huddled. She threw herself flat, and waited till the lurching eased.

  Up ahead, two huge slabs smashed into each other: the larger grinding over the smaller, forcing it under.

  That could have been me, thought Renn.

  She had no idea where the Sea was taking her. She couldn’t see any land. Only fog and looming ice in lethal black water. The din of the thaw was all around her. The trickle and gurgle of meltwater. The crunch and grind of ice.

  Her floe was about twenty paces across, and she crouched in the middle, staring at the edge which the Sea Mother was gradually gnawing away. The wind moaned, and despite the White Fox visor, her eyes watered with cold. In the distance, but getting closer, she heard the thunderous voice of the ice river.

  She wondered what she would do without a sleeping-sack, when night came. She remembered a story Tanugeak had told her of how her grandmother had survived a blizzard. ‘She took off her mittens and sat on them, to stop the cold coming up from below; then she drew her arms inside her parka and hunched forward with her chin on her knees, so that if she fell asleep, she wouldn’t topple over.’

  Renn did as Tanugeak’s grandmother had done, and felt warmer; but she was in no danger of falling asleep. She had to keep watch in case the fog cleared, and she got a glimpse of the shore. She had to stay on guard against Soul-Eaters in skinboats. And demons.

  Hunger and thirst tormented her, but she was determined not to touch her provisions. Provisions! A morsel of frozen seal meat, and a bladder of water on a thong around her neck. She tried not to think of the food pouch she’d stowed in the skinboat, moments before it happened; just as she tried not to think about the demon.

  It was here on the ice floe, she could feel it. But she only ever caught a flicker of darkness, a clatter of claws.

  It would have come closer if she hadn’t scrubbed off the Mountain Hare “tattoo” on her forehead, and daubed on the sign of the hand, remembering to add the lines of power emanating from the middle finger. She’d thought about adding Death Marks, too; but not yet.

  In the swansfoot pouch, the fire-opal throbbed with cold fire against her breastbone. Casting it into the Sea would be the coward’s way out. Who knew what evil it might do down there. And there was no earth or stone in which to bury it.

  A sudden honking of geese overhead. Thrusting her arms into her sleeves, she drew her bow from its seal-hide carrier.

  Too late. They were out of range.

  ‘Stupid!’ she berated herself. ‘You should’ve been ready! You should always be ready!’

  She sat and waited for more prey. She watched till her eyes hurt. At last, her head began to nod.

  The demon was so close she could smell it. Its tongue flickered out to taste her breath. Its glare drew her down into seething black flame . . .

  With a cry she jolted awake. ‘Get away from me!’ she shouted.

  A flock of gulls lifted off from a nearby ice mountain. She fumbled for her bow – but the gulls were gone.

  Somewhere behind her, the demon cackled.

  ‘There will be more gulls,’ she told it. There would have to be more gulls.

  None came.

  Her hand crept to her medicine pouch. Inside, nestling in her dwindling supply of herbs, lay the pebble on which Torak had painted his clan-tattoo last summer; she wondered if he even knew she’d kept it. And here was the grouse-bone whistle for calling Wolf. She longed to blow it. But even if he heard, he couldn’t swim out this far. She’d only be endangering him.

  Her thoughts drifted to the previous autumn, when Torak had tried to teach her to howl, in case she ever lost the whistle. She hadn’t been able to keep a straight face, and he’d got cross and stalked off; but when she’d tried to summon him back with a howl, she’d sounded so odd that he’d laughed till he cried.

  Now she attempted a wobbly howl. It wasn’t loud enough to summon Wolf, but it made her feel a bit better.

  If any more gulls came, she ought to be ready. She checked the fletching on her best flint arrow, then took all the lengths of sinew thread from her sewing pouch, knotted them together, and tied the line to the arrowshaft. Next she oiled her bow and bowstring by rubbing them with the seal meat, resisting the temptation to gobble the lot. As she worked, she seemed to see Fin-Kedinn’s rough hands overlaying her own. He’d made this bow for her, and it held not only the endurance of the yew from which it came, but some of his strength, too. It wouldn’t let her down.

  With the arrow nocked in readiness, she pushed up her visor, and settled down to wait.

  Behind her the demon clawed the ice to distract her. Her lip curled. Let it try! Fin-Kedinn had taught her to concentrate. When she was hunting, nothing could distract her; like Torak when he was tracking.

  In the distance, she heard the strange, neighing cries of guillemots. They were coming her way.

  Doubts flooded her mind. They’re too far away, the line isn’t long enough. Your hands are frozen, you can’t shoot straight . . . She ignored the demon, and concentrated on the prey.

  Th
ey were flying low, as guillemots do, beating the air with their stubby black wings. Renn chose one, and fixed her eye on it, waiting out the gusts of wind.

  The arrow flew straight, and the guillemot plopped into the Sea. With a shout of triumph, Renn hauled it in on the line.

  Her shot had only caught the tail, and the bird was struggling. Murmuring thanks and praise, she slipped her hand beneath its wing and held its heart between her fingers, to still it. Then she cut off the wings, and gave one to the Sea Mother and one to the wind, to thank them for not killing her yet. The head she threw to the end of the floe for her clan-guardian, and she thanked her bow by smoothing on a little of the fat.

  Finally, she slit the belly, drew out the warm purple breast, and crammed it in her mouth. It tasted oily and wonderful. The guillemot’s strength became hers.

  She plucked the carcass, keeping the feathers for fletching, and tied it to her belt. The demon had fled. She spat out a fleck of guillemot down, and grinned. Clearly it preferred her hungry and miserable to well-fed and defiant.

  A raven swooped low, snatched the guillemot’s head, and flew away. Renn felt a surge of pride. Ravens are one of the few birds tough enough to winter in the Far North. She was proud to be its descendant, a member of its clan.

  Drawing back her hood, she rubbed snow on her hair to wipe away the last traces of Tanugeak’s black stain. She was herself again. Renn of the Raven Clan.

  She was trying so hard to spot the coast that she nearly missed it.

  One moment the ice floe was slowly turning, and the next there was a crunch that nearly tipped her into the Sea, and it ground to a halt.

  Back on her feet, she saw that she’d been looking the wrong way. Her floe had crashed into a jumble of pack ice. Then the fog parted – and the ice river towered above her.

  The floe had become stuck at its northern edge. Before her stretched a glaring expanse of landfast ice, and beyond that, a swathe of jagged, shadowy hills which cowered beneath the vast blue cliffs of the ice river.

  If she could get across the pack ice, if she could reach that landfast ice . . .