Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Eat.’

  Torak ate – and discovered that he was ravenous. He’d finished off most of the bream before he realized that the Raven Leader had eaten little.

  It was the first time they’d been alone together since Fin-Kedinn had rescued them on the ice. Torak wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and said, ‘Are you angry with me?’

  Fin-Kedinn cleaned his knife in the snow. ‘Why should I be angry?’

  ‘Because I went off to seek Wolf without your leave.’

  ‘You don’t need my leave. You’re nearly a man.’ He paused, then added drily, ‘You’d better start acting like one.’

  That stung. ‘What was I supposed to do, let the Soul-Eaters sacrifice Wolf? Let them overrun the Forest with demons?’

  ‘You should have come back and sought my help.’

  Torak opened his mouth to protest, but the Raven Leader silenced him with a glance. ‘You survived by luck, Torak. And because the World Spirit wanted you to. But luck runs out. The World Spirit turns its favour elsewhere. You need to stay with the clan.’

  Torak remained stubbornly silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘What tracks can you see around you?’

  Torak stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Puzzled, Torak told him. The deep, dragging hoof-prints of an auroch. A few raggedly bitten-off twigs left by a red deer. A cluster of barely visible hollows, each with a tiny pile of frozen droppings at the bottom, where some willow grouse had huddled together for company.

  Fin-Kedinn nodded. ‘Your father taught you well. He taught you tracking because it teaches you to listen: to stay open to what the Forest is telling you. But when he was a young man, he never listened to anyone. He was convinced he was right. Tracking, listening – that was your mother’s gift.’ He paused. ‘Maybe by teaching you tracking, your father was trying to prevent you making the same mistakes he did.’

  Torak thought about that.

  ‘If you left now,’ Fin-Kedinn went on, ‘it would be you against three Mages of enormous power. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  On the riverbank, Wolf had finished the hare’s leg, and now stood wagging his tail at his name-soul in the water.

  Fin-Kedinn watched him. ‘A young wolf,’ he said, ‘can be foolhardy. He may think he can bring down an elk on his own, but he forgets that it only takes one kick to kill him. And yet if he has the sense to wait, he’ll live to bring down many.’ He turned to Torak. ‘I’m not telling you to stay. I’m asking you.’

  Torak swallowed. Fin-Kedinn had never asked him anything before.

  Leaning towards him, the Raven Leader spoke with unaccustomed gentleness. ‘Something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is.’

  Torak wanted to. But he couldn’t. At last he mumbled, ‘The knife that you made for me. I lost it. I’m sorry.’

  Fin-Kedinn read the evasion in his face, and sighed. ‘I’ll make you another,’ he said. With the aid of his staff, he rose to his feet. ‘Watch the catch. I’m going up the hill to check the snares. And Torak . . . Whatever it is that’s wrong, you’re better off here, with people who – with your friends.’

  When he’d gone, Torak remained by the fire. He could feel the Soul-Eater tattoo burning through his parka. You will never be free of us . . .

  In the shallows, Wolf had found fresh prey: the battered carcass of a roe buck which had drowned further upstream, and was now drifting slowly past. He pounced on it, and it sank beneath his weight, taking him with it. He surfaced, scrambled onto the bank, shook the water from his fur, and tried again. Again the buck sank. After the third attempt, Wolf sat down, whining softly. A raven alighted on the carcass, and laughed at him.

  Maybe the Viper Mage was right, thought Torak. Maybe I will never be free of her.

  He sat up straighter. But she will never be free of me.

  You know who I am now, he told the Soul-Eaters silently, but I know you, too. I know who I’m fighting. And I’m not alone. I can tell the Ravens what’s happened. I will tell them. Not today, but soon. I can trust them. Fin-Kedinn will know what to do.

  The breeze loosed a flurry of snow from the branches overhead, and at the same moment, the sun came out, and turned the falling flakes to tiny slivers of rainbow.

  Wolf came loping up the bank, bringing the fresh, cold smell of the river. They touched muzzles. On impulse, Torak pulled down the neck of his parka, and showed Wolf the Soul-Eater tattoo. Wolf gave it a sniff and a lick, then wandered off to snuffle up the fish-scales around the fire.

  He doesn’t mind, thought Torak in surprise.

  With a new sense of hope, he glanced about him. Signs of spring were everywhere. Fluffy silver catkins bursting out on the willow trees. Sunlight gleaming on the sharp buds of beechlings pushing through the snow around their parents.

  He remembered the offering he’d made on the night that Wolf was taken. He’d asked the Forest to watch over Wolf. It had heard him. Maybe now it would watch over him, too.

  Around mid-afternoon, Fin-Kedinn returned, carrying three woodgrouse and a hare. He didn’t look at Torak, but Torak could see the tension in his face as he went to the oak tree and began untying the lines of fish.

  Torak stood up and started to help. ‘I want to stay,’ he said.

  Fin-Kedinn’s blue eyes glinted. He pressed his lips together in a smile. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’ Then he put his hand on Torak’s shoulder and gave it a shake, and together they started back for camp.

  Soul Eater is the third book in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness, which tell the story of Torak’s adventures in the Forest and beyond, and of his quest to vanquish the Soul-Eaters. Wolf Brother is the first book, and Spirit Walker is the second. The fourth book, Outcast, will be published in 2007. There will be six books in all.

  A WORD ABOUT WOLF

  At the start of Wolf Brother, Wolf was three moons old. By the beginning of Soul Eater, he’s twenty moons old, and he looks like a full-grown wolf – but he isn’t, not in terms of experience.

  When he ran with the pack on the Mountain of the World Spirit, he picked up some of the hunting skills he’ll need if he’s to survive, but he’s still got a lot to learn.

  And although he’ll soon be physically capable of fathering cubs, he won’t be doing that for a while. Many wolves are three years old or more before they find a mate and start a family. Until then, they often act as baby-sitters for their younger brothers and sisters, looking after them while the rest of the pack is out hunting.

  Because Wolf’s chest is narrow, and his legs are long and slender, he can plough through deep snow quickly and easily. His big paws act like snowshoes, letting him run over the top of crusted snow, where the sharp hooves of deer might sink right in.

  Because it’s winter, Wolf’s fur is much thicker than it was in Spirit Walker, which makes him look even bigger. His pelt has two layers: the short, fluffy underfur, which traps air to insulate him from the cold; and the long, coarse guard hairs which protect him from rain, snow, and scratchy juniper bushes. It’s because of his superb winter pelt that Wolf can brave the Far North without feeling the cold like Torak and Renn.

  Unlike them, Wolf has incredible endurance. Even his walk is twice as fast as Torak’s (unless he’s deliberately slowing down to let Torak keep up), but most of the time he prefers to trot: a beautiful, fluid, floating gait which he can keep up for hours. And his run, of course, is much faster than Torak’s.

  Some of Wolf’s senses are much better than Torak’s, while others are about the same. We don’t know very much about a wolf’s sense of taste, although we know that their tongues can sense the same kinds of taste as us: salty, sweet, bitter and sour. But we don’t know how meat tastes to Wolf; or water, or blood.

  It’s thought that wolves’ eyesight is roughly similar to ours, although they’re better at distinguishing shades of grey, and seeing in the dark. They also seem to be better at spotting movement
– which is useful for hunting in the Forest – and it’s thought that they don’t see in colour, at least, not as well as we do.

  Wolf’s sense of hearing is better than Torak’s. He can hear sounds that are too high for Torak to catch, and his large ears help him pick up very faint sounds. This partly explains why not even Torak will ever be able to grasp all the subtleties of wolf talk, or express himself as well as a real wolf: because he can’t make or hear the highest yips and whines, as Wolf can.

  Wolf’s sense of smell is much more sensitive than Torak’s. It’s not known for sure exactly how much, but judging from the number of smell receptors in his long nose, it’s been estimated at between a thousand to a million times better.

  Like all wolves, Wolf communicates by means of wolf talk: a highly complex combination of sounds, movements, and smells. Torak knows more about this than we do, but wolf scientists and observers are learning more all the time.

  When Wolf uses his voice, he doesn’t only howl. He can make all sorts of other noises, including yips, grunts, wheezes, whines, growls, and snarls.

  He also uses movement: from big gestures like body-slamming or waggling his paws, to more subtle twitches of his eyes, muzzle, ears, hackles, paws, body, tail, and fur.

  He uses his scent to communicate, too, by spilling it, or rubbing against a marking-point (or Torak) – in ways which not even Torak fully understands.

  And of course, when Wolf wants to say something, he may not use only one such sound, movement or smell, but a complex combination of several, which changes depending on who he’s talking to, and the mood he’s in. Thus if he wants to smile at Torak, he might bow his head and flatten his ears, wrinkling his muzzle and wagging his tail, while whining, nose-pushing, and giving Torak’s face and hands tickly little nibbles. All just to say hello!

  Michelle Paver

  2006

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Torak’s world is the world of six thousand years ago: after the Ice Age, but before the spread of farming to his part of the world, when north-west Europe, when the land was one vast Forest.

  The people of Torak’s world 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 staying in camp for just a few days, like the Wolf Clan; others staying for a whole moon or a season, like the Raven and Willow Clans; while others stayed put all year round, like the Seal Clan. Thus some of the clans have moved since the events in Spirit Walker, as you’ll see from the amended map.

  When I was researching Soul Eater, I spent time in a snowy forest in the foothills of the Carpathian mountains in Romania. I was lucky enough to see the tracks of wolves, boar, deer, lynx, badger and many more (although rather to my relief, the bears were still hibernating). I also observed ravens at a carcass, and from my guide I learned how to fake a kill in order to attract these most intelligent of birds.

  To learn about husky-sledding, I met some huskies in Finland, and then again in Greenland, where they took me on several exhilarating (and freezing) races across the ice. For insights into the lives of the Ice clans, I studied the traditional skills of the Inuit of Greenland and northern Canada: their hunting, their snow-houses, and their superb hide clothes. It was in Greenland that I experienced at first hand the might of wind and ice, and – on one memorable solo hike – the terror of glimpsing a polar bear in the distance.

  To get closer to polar bears, I went to Churchill in northern Canada, where I watched them at rest and at play, by day and night. It’s a privilege to come face to face with a wild polar bear, and to meet the gaze of the creature whom the Inuit of north-west Greenland call pisugtooq, the Great Wanderer. I think I’ll always be haunted by the look in those fearsome, yet strangely innocent, dark eyes.

  I want to thank Christoph Promberger of the Carpathian Large Carnivore Project in Transylvania for sharing some of his knowledge of tracking, wolves, and ravens; the people of Churchill, Manitoba, for helping me get closer to wild polar bears; the people of east Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some amazing times with some wonderful wolves; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Ravenmaster of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. As always, I want to thank my agent, Peter Cox, for his unfailing enthusiasm and support; and my wonderful editor and publisher, Fiona Kennedy, for her imagination, commitment and understanding.

  Michelle Paver

  2006

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I want to thank Christoph Promberger of the Carpathian Large Carnivore Project in Transylvania for sharing some of his knowledge of tracking, wolves, and ravens; the people of Churchill, Manitoba, for helping me get closer to wild polar bears; the people of east Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some amazing times with some wonderful wolves; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Ravenmaster of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. As always, I want to thank my agent, Peter Cox, for his unfailing enthusiasm and support; and my wonderful editor and publisher, Fiona Kennedy, for her imagination, commitment and understanding.

  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

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  The viper glided down the riverbank and placed its sleek head on the water, and Torak stopped a few paces away to let it drink.

  His arms ached from carrying the red deer antlers, so he set them aside and crouched in the bracken to watch. Snakes are wise, and know many secrets. Maybe this one would help him deal with his.

  The viper drank with unhurried sips. Raising its head, it regarded Torak, flicking out its tongue to taste his scent. Then it coiled neatly back on itself and vanished into the ferns.

  It had given him no sign.

  But you don’t need a sign, he told himself wearily. You know what to do. Just tell them. Soon as you get back to camp. Just say, ‘Renn. Fin-Kedinn. Two moons ago, something happened. They held me down, they put a mark on my chest. And now . . . ’

  No. That wasn’t any good. He could picture Renn’s face. ‘I’m your best friend – and you’ve been lying to me for two whole moons!’

  He put his head in his hands.

  After a while he heard rustling, and glanced up to see a reindeer on the opposite bank. It was standing on three legs, furiously scratching its
budding antlers with one hind hoof. Sensing that Torak wasn’t hunting, it went on scratching. The antlers were bleeding: the itch must be so bad that the only relief was to make them hurt.

  That’s what I should do, thought Torak. Cut it out. Make it hurt. In secret. Then no-one need ever know.

  The trouble was, even if he could bring himself to do it, it wouldn’t work. To get rid of the tattoo, he’d have to perform the proper rite. He’d learnt that from Renn, whom he’d approached in a roundabout way, using the zigzag tattoos on her wrists as an excuse.

  ‘If you don’t do the rite,’ she’d told him, ‘the marks just come back.’

  ‘They come back?’ Torak had been horrified.

  ‘Of course. You can’t see them, they’re deep in the marrow. But they’re still there.’

  So that was the end of that, unless he could get her to tell him about the rite without revealing why he needed to know.

  The reindeer gave an irritable shake and trotted off into the Forest; and Torak picked up the antlers and started back for camp. They were a lucky find, big enough for everyone in the clan to get a piece, and perfect for making fish-hooks and hammers for knapping flint. Fin-Kedinn would be pleased. Torak tried to fix his mind on that.

  It didn’t work. Until now, he hadn’t understood how much a secret can set you apart. He thought about it all the time, even when he was hunting with Renn and Wolf.

  It was early in the Moon of the Salmon Run, and a sharp east wind carried a strong smell of fish. As Torak made his way beneath the pines, his boots crunched on flakes of bark scattered by woodpeckers. To his left, the Green River chattered after its long imprisonment under the ice, while to his right, a rockface rose towards Broken Ridge. In places it was scarred, where the clans had hacked out the red slate which brings hunting luck. He heard the clink of stone on stone. Someone was quarrying.

  That should be me, Torak told himself. I should be making a new axe. I should be doing things. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said out loud.