Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  They reached another stream, and again she begged to be allowed to drink. The hunters stared at her, their eyes unresponsive. No drink.

  The light was failing when they finally reached camp. By then she was dizzy with thirst.

  The Auroch camp lay in a hollow guarded by watchful spruce. Smouldering pine knots dispersed a smoky orange light and an eye-stinging tang of tree-blood. Birch-bark shelters squatted round a central pine. Outside each shelter lay a pile of wooden shields like a nest of giant beetles, and a fire ringed with stones. From the trunk of the pine hung an auroch’s horned skull.

  Beneath it, a group of silent children twisted piles of pounded spruce root into twine. All stared at Renn without expression. Like the adults, their faces were disfigured with ridges, many still crusted with blood.

  Renn couldn’t see anyone who looked like a Leader or a Mage, but she noticed that not everyone was Auroch.

  There was another clan here, too. Dark hair was braided tight, two braids for women, one for men, and faces were unscarred, but dusted red with ground pine bast. In fact, everything was stained red: lips, partings, even fingernails. The women were dressed in plain buckskin, but the men wore splendid belts of black and gold fur. Lynx Clan.

  Auroch or Lynx, all gave her the same unfeeling stare. They didn’t know what pity was.

  As her captors approached the fires, they squatted in the smoke, wafting it over themselves. They pushed Renn in too, as if to cleanse her, then dragged her to the pine tree and forced her to her knees.

  Women emerged from the shelters. Like the men, their faces were bark-scarred, but their caked scalps were studded with tiny alder cones, and they wore tunics, not leggings.

  One carried a waterskin.

  ‘Please,’ mumbled Renn. ‘I’m so thirsty.’

  The woman glared at her.

  Weakly, Renn beat the ground with her fists. ‘Please!’

  An old man stooped and peered at her. He was the ugliest, hairiest old man she’d ever seen. Although he was Auroch, he hadn’t shaved his scalp, but had simply smeared his mane and beard with clay, which hung in clots. Bristles sprouted from his ears and nostrils, and his brows were tangled creepers overhanging the caverns of his eyes.

  With a horny finger he prodded her greenstone wrist-guard.

  She jerked back.

  He spat in disgust and hobbled away.

  A younger man emerged from a shelter. His face was a web of scars.

  Renn pointed to the waterskin. ‘Please,’ she begged.

  Using hand speech, the man gave a command, and the woman set the waterskin before Renn.

  She fell on it and drank greedily. Almost at once, the throbbing in her head eased, and strength flooded back into her limbs. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Another woman brought a large bark bowl which she placed before the hunters. Renn felt a surge of hope. The food smelt good. It made the Aurochs seem a little more human.

  The woman scooped some into a smaller bowl and put it in a fork of the pine as an offering. Then she scooped up another helping and laid it before Renn.

  It was an appetising stew of nettles and scraps of meat, possibly squirrel, and Renn’s belly growled.

  The woman bunched her fingers to her mouth and nodded. Eat.

  The man who’d allowed her to drink cleared his throat. ‘You,’ he said to Renn in a voice which sounded hoarse from disuse. ‘You must rest. And eat.’

  Renn looked from him to the bowl, then back again.

  They told me to rest, Gaup had said. They gave me food. Then they cut off my hand.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Fear is the loneliest feeling. You can be in a throng of people, but if you’re afraid, you’re on your own.

  Renn felt like an offering being prepared for sacrifice. When she refused to eat, she was taken to a pool and made to wash, while women wiped the soot from her clothes with moss. By hiding in the reeds, she managed to conceal the beaver-tooth knife tied to her calf and the grouse-bone whistle at her neck; but when they gave her back her clothes, her clan-creature feathers were gone.

  Back at camp, hunger got the better of her and she forced down some of the stew under the watchful gaze of both clans. Scarred hands flickered in silent speech, and a young man with a mouth like a sliver of flint sharpened an axe and eyed her wrists.

  The hairy old man sat cross-legged, straightening a pile of arrowshafts. Renn watched him drawing each stick through a grooved piece of antler. Her own clan used the same method. Now and then, he slapped one hairy paw with a bunch of nettles to sting away the stiffening sickness. Older Ravens did that, too.

  She edged closer to him. ‘What will they do to me?’ she said in a low voice.

  He scowled and bent over his arrows.

  She asked if he was the Clan Leader.

  He shook his head and pointed an arrowshaft at the man who’d ordered that she be given water.

  ‘Are you the Mage?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘I make the best bows in the Deep Forest,’ he growled.

  ‘Don’t talk to her,’ warned the young man with the axe. He clapped his hand to his mouth. ‘She tricked me into talking! She’s a Forest Horse spy!’

  ‘I’ve never even met a Forest Horse,’ protested Renn.

  ‘We hate them,’ muttered the young man.

  ‘But why?’ she said. ‘You all follow the Way.’

  ‘We follow it better,’ he snapped. ‘They use a bow to waken fire. We use sticks. That’s proof.’

  ‘Only we follow the True Way,’ said a clay-headed woman. ‘That’s why we bear the scars. To punish ourselves for ever having left it.’

  ‘All other clans are wicked,’ declared the young man, sprinkling sand on his grindstone.

  Renn thought that if she could keep them talking, maybe they wouldn’t hurt her. She asked him why.

  He glared at her. ‘The Mountain clans are wicked because they use stone to waken fire, and worship the fire spirit. There is no fire spirit, there is only tree! Ice and Sea clans are wicked because they live in terrible lands that have no trees, and wake false fire from the fat of fishes. You in the Open Forest are worst, because you knew the Way, but turned your backs on it.’

  An Auroch woman threw him a reproving glance. ‘Don’t talk to her, she’s evil. She stole my child!’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Renn.

  ‘No more talk!’ ordered the Auroch Clan Leader.

  After that, they made her crouch among the roots of the pine tree. Men scowled at her. A girl spat in her face. Her hand went to her grouse-bone whistle, but she saw the young man staring, and tucked it back in her jerkin.

  The camp had fallen silent again, but hands flickered, weaving hidden meanings. Renn thought of the Raven camp, with its squabbling children and dogs nosing for scraps, and Fin-Kedinn telling stories by the fire. Her heart twisted with longing. Fin-Kedinn, help me. What do I do?

  Clear and bright, she remembered a frosty morning many winters ago, when he’d taken her into the Forest to try out her new bow. She hadn’t wanted to go. Her fa had just died, and the other children were ganging up on her; she’d wanted to stay in her sleeping-sack and never come out. But there was her uncle, warming his hands at the fire, waiting for her.

  Their breath had smoked as they’d crunched through the snow. Fin-Kedinn had found tracks and shown her how to read them. ‘When the red deer know that the wolves are hunting them, they trot proudly and lift their hooves high. See how strong I am, they’re telling the wolves. Don’t attack me, I can fight back!’ His blue eyes met hers. He wasn’t only talking about the deer.

  Renn gripped the pine roots with both hands. Fin-Kedinn was right. She would not sit meekly while others decided her fate. ‘What are you saying about me?’ she called in a voice which carried across the camp.

  Heads turned. Hands stilled.

  ‘If you’re deciding what to do with me, tell me. Keeping it from me – that’s not justice.’

  The Auroch Leader stood
up. ‘The Aurochs are always just.’

  ‘Then talk to me,’ said Renn.

  For the first time, the Lynx Leader spoke. ‘Who are you?’

  She rose to her feet. ‘I am Renn of the Raven Clan. I am a Mage.’ As soon as she said it, she knew it was true.

  ‘Women can’t be Mages,’ sneered the young man with the axe. ‘It’s against the Way. I’ll show you how much of a Mage she is!’ He ran to snatch her grouse-bone whistle.

  ‘Stay away!’ she warned. ‘This is a Mage’s bone for summoning spirits! None may touch it but me!’

  He drew back as if she’d burnt him.

  Putting the whistle to her lips, she blew. ‘None of you can hear its voice,’ she said, ‘but I can. This bone speaks only to Mages and to spirits.’

  Now she had the whole camp’s attention. Raising her head, she cawed a raven summons to the stars. Then she held up her hands and showed the zigzag tattoos on her inner wrists. ‘See the marks I bear! It’s lightning: the spears of the World Spirit, who chases demons into rocks and wakes the fire from trees. Harm shall come to any who attempts to harm me!’

  That was an eerie echo of her mother, but she didn’t care; whatever else she was, Seshru had been a powerful Mage.

  Above the trees, she saw the gibbous moon riding high. It had been dead when Bale was killed, but now it was stronger. So was she.

  ‘If she’s a Mage,’ said the Lynx Leader, ‘she’s an Open Forest Mage. The World Spirit doesn’t want her here. That’s why it stays away.’

  A nodding of heads and fluttering of hands.

  ‘She stole my child,’ repeated the Auroch woman. ‘She took him for a tokoroth!’

  ‘No,’ said Renn. ‘I hunt the one who did.’

  ‘And who is that?’ said the Auroch Leader suspiciously.

  ‘Thiazzi,’ she replied. ‘Thiazzi the Oak Mage.’

  People frowned in disbelief, and the old man looked disappointed, as if he’d caught Renn lying. ‘There’s no-one left from the Oak Clan,’ he said. ‘They all died out.’

  ‘The Soul-Eater didn’t,’ said Renn. ‘Take me to your Mage and I’ll give him proof.’

  ‘Our Mage keeps to his prayer shelter,’ said the Auroch Leader, ‘he doesn’t see outsiders.’

  ‘If you were really a Mage,’ snarled the young man, ‘you’d know that.’

  People nodded. The throng closed in around her. Scarred faces leered. Red hands gripped poisoned spears. Her knees shook, but she stood her ground. To waver now was to fall.

  A harsh caw echoed through the Forest.

  All heads turned skywards.

  A shadow cut across the stars – and Rip lit onto a pine branch, his black eyes fixed on Renn.

  She cawed a greeting and he swooped, landing with a thud on her shoulder. Talons dug into her parka, stiff feathers brushed her cheek. She made a gurgling sound, and Rip raised his bill and half-spread his wings in reply.

  People drew back, clutching clan-creature amulets.

  At the edge of camp, a wolf appeared.

  Relief washed over Renn. If Wolf had survived the fire, maybe Torak had too.

  Wolf’s amber eyes grazed the camp, then returned to Renn. His hackles bristled. The sinews of his long legs were taut. One sign from her and he would spring to her aid.

  He had helped her simply by showing himself. It would be dangerous for him to do more. ‘Uff,’ she warned.

  He tilted his head, puzzled.

  ‘Uff!’ she said again.

  He turned and vanished into the trees.

  The clans breathed out. The young man stood dumbstruck, his axe dangling from his hand.

  The old man cleared his throat. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we’d better not harm her just yet.’

  Wolf was frightened and confused. His paws hurt from the hot earth, and he couldn’t find Tall Tailless because the Bright Beast had eaten all the scents. And now the pack-sister had howled to him, then told him to go.

  He didn’t. He stayed near the Den.

  The taillesses stank of fear and hatred. They hated the pack-sister, but were too scared to hurt her. The pack-sister was frightened too, but she hid it extremely well. This was something taillesses did much better than normal wolves.

  Not far from the Den, Wolf found a small Still Wet, and cooled his sore pads in the mud. He waded deeper and washed the stink of the Bright Beast off his fur.

  When he got back to the Den, he scented a change. The taillesses were getting ready to move. Wolf decided to follow and keep a close nose on the pack-sister.

  Then maybe Tall Tailless would come too.

  Two Lynx hunters ran into camp, breathless and sweating, and spoke to the Leaders in a flurry of hand speech. Renn tried and failed to follow what was going on.

  Wolf had gone, but the ravens were playing in the pine tree, hanging by their talons from the auroch horns, then dropping almost to the ground before soaring and swooping round for another turn.

  The young man cast them hostile looks, but the old man shrugged. ‘They’re ravens, they like games. And trickery.’

  Renn wondered if that was meant for her.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you might as well take this, although I can’t let you have any arrows.’

  To her astonishment, he held out her bow. It had been cleaned and oiled, the bowstring freshly waxed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He grunted. ‘It’s a good bow, and you’ve looked after it. Unlike some.’ He shuddered in sympathy for all mistreated bows. ‘But the string’s frayed. Give me your spare and I’ll replace it.’

  Renn hesitated. ‘This is the spare string,’ she lied.

  He peered at her through the tangle of his brows.

  Had he laid a trap for her? Or was he telling her to use what she had? She was about to ask why he’d given it back when the young man ran over to them.

  ‘It’s decided,’ he told the old man, ‘We’re breaking camp.’

  ‘Where to?’ said Renn.

  He ignored her, but the old one gave her a regretful look. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered as he hobbled away.

  Renn barely had time to sling her bow over her shoulder before her wrists were tied and a blindfold was pulled over her eyes.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After the darkness of the beaver lodge, daylight blinded Torak.

  Blinking, spitting out lake water, he clung to a branch. It was sooty; his hand came away black. The air was hazed with bitter brown smoke.

  Scrambling onto the piled branches of the lodge, he cast about. Dimly, he made out charcoal hills jagged with dead trees. Nothing else.

  He sank to his knees. Renn. Wolf. How could they have survived?

  If there had been a single bird in the sky, he would have broken his promise to the wind and spirit walked to find them. If there had been a single tree left alive on the slopes . . .

  Behind him, something sneezed.

  The foal lay in a sprawl of spindly legs. It looked as startled as Torak by its sneeze.

  Gently, he stroked its mane, and it blinked at him through long lashes. He felt a spark of hope. If a foal could live through the fire, maybe Wolf and Renn had too.

  Talking to the foal in an undertone, he untied his belt and looped it over its neck. It wobbled to its feet and swayed. Then it threw down its head and coughed.

  After a short struggle, he got it into the water, and together they struck out for the shore.

  They’d hardly made it to the shallows when a shrill whinny rang out. The foal gave an answering whinny, startlingly loud, and tugged at the rawhide. Torak released it and it wobbled towards a black shape moving among the trees. Mother and foal nuzzled each other; then the foal ducked under her belly to suckle.

  Torak made out more horses. The lead mare turned and gave him a penetrating stare – and in that moment, he knew what to do.

  Feverishly, he took the last of Saeunn’s root from his medicine pouch and crammed it in his mouth. If Wolf or Renn were anywhere in this devastation,
who better to sense them than prey?

  The other horses side-stepped and tossed their heads, uneasy at his nearness, but the lead mare stood her ground. Swivelling her ears, she listened to his moans as the cramps took hold. She lowered her head and watched him clutch his belly, falling to the ground in a cloud of ash . . .

  . . . and through her horse eyes, Torak stared at the body which lay twitching and frothing at the mouth.

  For the first time in his life, he felt the ceaseless vigilance of prey. He twisted one ear to listen to the human kicking at cinders, and flicked back the other to catch the nicker of a mare chivvying her foal. One eye scanned the shore for hunters, the other the slope above, while his horse nose told him the movements of every member of the herd.

  The mare’s souls were surprisingly strong, but very fearful, and although Torak wanted her to canter up the hill, she refused. She was a wise horse, she knew it was best to avoid anything strange, and since everything was strange, she wouldn’t budge. Her herd had been through the terrors of the fire, and now they found themselves in this black Forest where there was no grazing and only the water smelt the same, so she would stay near that.

  But the alien souls in her marrow were making her restive. She snorted and rolled her eyes, and the worried herd did the same.

  In the battle of souls, Torak overcame her. Kicking up his hind hooves, he broke into a canter. With effortless strength his four legs hammered the earth. Such power, such speed! He felt a surge of wild joy as he thundered up the hill, and his herd came thundering after him.

  At the top he halted, puffing and blowing. The ashen wind played in his mane, cooling his sweaty neck. He flared his nostrils to catch the scents.

  Almost at once, he caught the scent of a wolf.

  The mare shivered, remembering sharp fangs biting her flanks. Torak forced her to stay where she was. Then he heard it: a long, wavering howl. I am seeking you . . .

  It wasn’t Wolf.

  The disappointment was so great that he lost control of the mare’s spirit, and she wheeled and crashed down the slope. Blundering through the bemused herd, she raced back to the safety of the water.