Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  The sacred grove, where corpses dangled from the oak.

  Torak staggered to a tree and retched.

  This was his fault. In his hunger for vengeance, he had delivered Renn into the power of the Oak Mage.

  Tall Tailless was only a pounce away, but Wolf couldn’t go to him. Something was keeping them apart, like a great Fast Wet rushing between them.

  Tall Tailless had been holding the pack-sister’s Long Claw-that-Flies in his forepaws, and now he put it carefully in the tree. Wolf sensed his fear, and underneath it, his terrible blood-urge.

  It was the blood-urge which stopped Wolf going to him. I have to kill the Bitten One, Tall Tailless had once told Wolf. Not because he is prey or in a fight over ranges, but because he killed the pale-pelted tailless.

  But why? This was not what a wolf does. This – this was not-wolf.

  Worry clawed at Wolf’s belly. He savaged a branch. He ran in circles.

  Tall Tailless had heard him. He stooped and whined. Come to me, pack-brother. I need you!

  Wolf whimpered. He backed away.

  He remembered the time in the Great Cold when he’d found the white wolves, and had tried to tell their leader about Tall Tailless. He has no tail, Wolf had said, and he walks on his hind legs, but he is . . .

  Then he is not-wolf, the lead wolf had sternly replied.

  Wolf had known the leader was wrong, but he hadn’t dared protest.

  But now.

  Tall Tailless rose on his hind legs and came towards Wolf, his face puzzled. Why won’t you come to me?

  His face . . .

  From the beginning, Wolf had loved his pack-brother’s flat, furless face; but as he stood in the Dark, staring up at it, he saw how different it was from that of a wolf. The eyes of Tall Tailless didn’t throw back the light of the Bright White Eye, as the eyes of wolves do.

  Not like a wolf.

  It crashed upon Wolf with the force of a falling tree, the knowledge that had been stalking him for many Lights and Darks. Tall Tailless was not-wolf.

  A pain such as Wolf had never known bit deep into his heart. Not even when he was a cub on the Mountain and missing Tall Tailless terribly, not even then had he felt such pain.

  Tall Tailless was not-wolf.

  Not wolf.

  Tall Tailless was not wolf.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I thought you knew, said Torak in wolf talk.

  Wolf backed away, his amber eyes clouded with misery.

  Oh, Wolf. I thought you knew.

  Whimpering, Wolf turned tail and fled.

  Torak ran after him, crashing through the trees. It was hopeless. Lurching to a halt, he doubled up, gasping for breath. Around him, whitebeams unfurled their silver leaves to cup the light of the full moon. He howled. Wolf did not howl back. Torak’s howl sank to a sob. Wolf was gone. Gone for ever?

  The trees stirred in the wind, whispering, Hurry, hurry. Already, Thiazzi might have reached the sacred grove. He might have woken another fire and sunk a stake into its heart. He might be dragging Renn towards it . . .

  Torak ran past the shelter, back to where he’d left the dugout. He jumped in and headed upstream, stabbing the river as if it were Thiazzi. He was in an endless tunnel of dark trees and hopeless thoughts. Because of him, Wolf was in misery. Because of him, Renn was in the power of the Oak Mage.

  The Blackwater was implacable. His muscles burned. He deserved it.

  Through the trees, he glimpsed the glow of the Deep Forest camp. But the river was barred. A wovenbark net stretched from bank to bank.

  Jamming in his paddle, Torak drove the dugout back. When he was out of sight, he put in at a clump of alders and scrambled up the bank. He couldn’t go any further by river, he’d have to go on foot. He’d never reach the sacred grove in time.

  Suddenly, he froze. Through the soles of his boots, he caught a faint tremor in the earth.

  He sank to his knees and placed both palms on the ground. Had he really felt it? Was it heading towards him?

  Maybe, after all, there was a way.

  Wolf felt the earth shudder beneath his paws, but still he loped. He smelt that he was heading towards the Bright Beast-bitten lands. He didn’t care.

  At last, thirst scratched his throat and he had to stop. He found a little Still Wet and snapped some up. Then he raised his muzzle and howled his misery to the Forest.

  Tall Tailless was not wolf.

  Tall Tailless was not Wolf’s pack-brother.

  Wolf no longer had a pack-brother.

  Wolf was alone.

  The shuddering beneath his pads grew stronger. Listlessly, Wolf recognized it as the pounding of many hooves.

  To get out of the way, he trotted up a rise, from where he watched the horses gallop past. Their rich smell swirled about his nose, but he was too miserable to be tempted, or to wonder what was making them run.

  When they’d gone, he slunk down to the little Still Wet again.

  The earth around it had been chewed up by the horses’ hooves, and it clung to his paws in cold, soggy lumps. He didn’t care. He wondered if Tall Tailless would hear the horses in time to get out of the way. Tall Tailless who could hardly hear or smell at all, and who no longer had a pack-brother to warn him.

  As Wolf stood with drooping tail at the edge of the Still Wet, he saw the wolf who lives in the Wet gazing up at him. This was a very odd wolf, who had no scent. That had frightened Wolf when he was a cub, but he’d soon learnt that the odd wolf meant no harm, and always drew back when he did.

  Right now, the wolf in the Wet looked almost as miserable as Wolf felt. To cheer him up, Wolf gave a faint wag of his tail, and the wolf in the Wet wagged his tail, too.

  Then a very strange thing happened. Another wolf appeared in the Wet, standing beside the first one.

  Only this wolf was black.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Darkfur stood very still, waiting to see what Wolf would do.

  Wolf, too, kept very still. His claws dug into the mud. His pelt tingled with excitement.

  Darkfur twitched her tail.

  Wolf lifted his muzzle and sniffed.

  Slowly, Darkfur raised her foreleg and pawed his shoulder.

  They touched noses.

  Wolf seized her scruff in his jaws. She lashed her tail and whined, showing him her belly. He released her, and now they were rolling and tumbling in a muddy blur of fur and fangs. In and out of the Wet they chased each other, Wolf making fast little greeting snaps at her flanks, Darkfur whimpering with delight and snapping him back. She leapt high, her black pelt glittering with Wet, then twisted round and body-slammed him, and he chased her over the rise and down again, snuffing her fierce, strong scent, the most beautiful scent he’d ever smelt.

  Now she was pawing some leaves off the Wet and they were snapping it up, then slumping together for a rest. Panting, she told him how she’d missed him, so she’d left the pack to find him. After many Lights and Darks and much sniffing and listening, she’d howled for him and thought he’d howled back, but then the Bright Beast had eaten all the scents.

  Wolf shut his eyes and heard the soft wind ruffling her fur. He felt surprised and happy and sad.

  Darkfur was clever, and quick to sense what he was feeling. Why are you sad? she asked. Where is the one who has no tail?

  Wolf jumped up and shook himself. He is not wolf. He is not my pack-brother.

  Darkfur twitched one ear in puzzlement. But we played together. He was your pack-brother. This can’t be.

  Wolf trotted back and forth. He found an interesting stick and dropped it before her as a present.

  Darkfur ignored it. She rose and nose-nudged his shoulder. Do you remember when the cubs tried to eat his overpelt and you stopped them? And I gave him a fish-bead?

  The pain was so bad that Wolf whined. Of course he remembered that shining day when he and Tall Tailless had been part of the Mountain pack; when they had swum together and been happy.

  Darkfur rubbed her rump against his sh
oulder and nuzzled his scruff. I’ve been chasing horses. There’s a juicy little foal. I nearly caught it but its mother kicked. Let’s hunt!

  Wolf turned his muzzle into the wind, and the horse scent flowed over his nose. The herd must have halted as soon as Darkfur stopped chasing. It wasn’t far off.

  Darkfur bounded into the trees, wagging her tail. Come! Then she was loping after the horses, a sleek black wolf flying through the nettles.

  Hunger woke up in Wolf’s belly. He forgot his pain and raced after her.

  Torak felt the tremor of hooves through the earth. The horses were heading his way. Something must have panicked them, maybe a lynx or a bear. Good, he thought. The faster the better.

  Now he could hear them. As they came closer, he caught huffing and blowing and the breaking of branches. He moved off the trail, flattening himself against a beech tree.

  Moments later, the lead mare burst into view. Her head was up, her tail flying. She sped past and the herd raced after her, a glossy black river of straining necks and powerful haunches.

  As soon as they’d passed, Torak gave a piercing whinny.

  He heard the slap of horseflesh on horseflesh as they skittered into one another; then an answering whinny.

  Torak stepped onto the trail and waited.

  Bracken stirred. He heard a snort. A stamp. A sleek black head pushed through.

  The lead mare halted twenty paces away from him. Her flanks were heaving, her nostrils flared.

  He nickered to reassure her.

  She tossed her head.

  In a low, gentle tone, he began to talk. ‘You’ve smelt me before, remember? I helped a foal back to the herd. You know I mean no harm.’

  Her ears swivelled to catch his voice, but her head stayed nervously high, and she swung her hindquarters round towards him. Stay back. I kick!

  Slowly he walked towards her, talking, not taking his gaze from her, but not alarming her with a direct stare.

  Steam rose from her flanks. Her great dark eyes were wide, but no longer rimmed with white. For an instant, Torak met her gaze, and a current of knowledge flowed between them. His souls had hidden in her marrow. He had known what it was to be horse. And she knew that he knew.

  ‘I know,’ he said, moving nearer. ‘I know.’

  She side-stepped and swished her tail. No man had ever got this close.

  He felt the heat from her flanks. He bent and sniffed her nostrils, as he’d seen horses do in greeting, and she let him, her grassy breath warming his face. Placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, he pinched his thumb and fingers together and scratched the sweaty pelt, mimicking the nibble-greetings of a horse.

  A shiver rippled from her withers to her tail, and she gave a snorty blow of pleasure.

  ‘I’m your friend,’ he told her. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Still finger-nibbling, he worked his way up her neck, and she turned her head and gently nipped his shoulder, returning the greeting.

  His hand moved down to her withers, and he grasped a handful of mane.

  Then he did what no-one in all the clans had ever done before.

  He vaulted onto her back.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The mare gave an outraged squeal and did her best to buck Torak off. He clung to her mane and hooked his legs in front of her belly.

  She reared – maybe that would rid her of this infuriating burden – but he flung himself forwards and gripped with his thighs.

  She launched into a gallop, nearly wrenching his arms from their sockets. He slithered about on her broad, slippery back, just managing to stay on.

  She made for a low-hanging branch. He ducked. Twigs scraped his back. He stayed low in case she tried that again.

  They crashed through thickets, and the herd – panicked by her panic – crashed after them. Between the trees, Torak glimpsed the river. The mare was heading upstream towards the valley where she felt safe.

  Her hide was rough against his cheek, and as he smelt her horsey sweat and heard her breath sawing in her chest, he felt a pang of guilt. She was his friend and he’d frightened her. Too bad. Nothing mattered except saving Renn.

  Without warning, the mare’s forequarters rose, her withers smashing into his cheekbone, and for a moment they were flying over a fallen tree. Then the mare thudded to earth, bashing his cheek again.

  Seeing spots, he scrambled upright as they sped into the glare of firelight, into the heart of the Deep Forest camp. Trampling pails and cooking-skins, they galloped between the scarlet trees, while around them people scattered, snatching up children and gaping at Torak.

  Over his shoulder he shouted, ‘Your Mage is a Soul-Eater in disguise! Come to the sacred grove and see for yourselves!’ Then the camp was behind them and they were racing uphill towards the ridge.

  Only then did Torak realize that no-one had shot at him. No arrows, no poisoned darts. They dared not risk harming the sacred herd. His medicine pouch banged against his thigh, and without knowing why, he thanked his mother’s spirit for keeping him safe.

  Another fallen tree rushed towards him, and he threw himself against the mare’s neck just before she jumped. Mud splattered his face as she landed in a bog, sinking up to her hocks. She struggled to free herself, and he leaned forwards to help her. Her hindquarters gave a tremendous heave and they were out, flushing grouse from the rushes in a gobbling flurry.

  The moon was sinking, the shadows leaching from the Forest as they hurtled towards the Windriver. Torak saw that they were further east than the trail he’d taken before; this way was steeper, more overgrown. The wily mare knew a shortcut to her valley.

  Branches tore at his hair, blackthorn blossom flew like snow. Suddenly, the mare jolted to a trot, then halted altogether, throwing down her head and nearly pitching him over her withers. Behind her, the herd ran into each other, shook themselves, and began to graze.

  ‘No!’ panted Torak, flapping his legs and punching her neck. ‘Don’t stop, we’re not there yet!’ It was useless. The mare scarcely felt it. When he went on punching, she stamped and lashed her tail, catching him stingingly on the cheek. She was on her own ground now, and not to be intimidated.

  Or not by Torak.

  A familiar cark! overhead, and Rip and Rek swooped, their talons almost grazing the mare’s rump, before flicking skywards.

  Startled, she jerked up her head, and behind her the herd snorted in alarm.

  Again the ravens swooped. The mare side-stepped, showing the whites of her eyes. But it wasn’t only the ravens, Torak realized. She’d caught a scent she feared.

  Once again, she broke into a canter. Once again, they crashed through the willows. The mare was tiring and so was Torak. His limbs ached, and he rode in a blur of black branches and raven wings.

  The Windriver vanished underground, and willows gave way to spruce. In the east, Torak saw a red sliver of dawn, livid as a wound.

  The mare’s hoofbeats sounded loud as they entered the holly trees, and Torak felt the power of Thiazzi swirling around him. The mare didn’t like the hollies. But whatever had spooked her still drove her on.

  She smelt the fire before he did. Then Torak saw it: black smoke piercing the bloody sky. Dread became a stone in his belly. Was he too late?

  He put his hand to the pouch at his belt and felt the medicine horn. He had no breath left to pray out loud, but in his head he prayed to his mother to save Renn. He prayed to the World Spirit. He called upon Wolf.

  As Wolf and Darkfur loped after the horses, Wolf sensed that their hunt was changing its purpose, although he didn’t know what it was.

  He slowed to a trot, and Darkfur slowed with him. He pricked his ears. On the wind he caught a faint, high keening: higher than the highest wolf whine or the sharpest bat-squeak.

  Darkfur heard it too, but she didn’t recognize it. Wolf did. It was the yowl of the deer bone which Tall Tailless carried at his flank. The deer bone which used to be silent, but had now begun to sing.

  With it, Wolf
caught another sound, but this was one that Darkfur couldn’t hear, as it was inside Wolf’s head. It was Tall Tailless howling for him; just as Wolf had howled for Tall Tailless in his head long ago, in that terrible time when the bad taillesses had trapped him in the stone Den. Pack-brother! Come to me! The pack-sister is in danger!

  A cold nose nudged Wolf’s flank. Darkfur was puzzled. Why do you slow?

  Wolf didn’t know what to do. He is not wolf, he told her.

  Darkfur’s gaze turned stern. You were pack-brothers. A wolf does not abandon his pack-brother.

  Wolf stood miserably on the trail, listening to the howling in his head, while the Great Bright Eye peered above the Mountains, and the scent of the Bright Beast-that-Bites-Hot flew towards him on the wind.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The stink of burnt meat sickened Renn.

  ‘Next time it’s you,’ Thiazzi had told her. She hadn’t made a sound, but he’d laughed just the same.

  After the nightmare journey in the dugout, he had slung her over his shoulder and strode off through the Forest. She’d swung like a sack, her face banging into his back at every stride.

  She’d known at once when they’d reached the sacred grove, because the trees felt intensely aware. They’d watched, but they hadn’t helped. To them she was as insignificant as dust.

  The Soul-Eater had carried her through a wall of thorns and past the embers of a great round fire. He’d climbed a pine trunk notched with footholds which stood propped against an enormous tree. Renn had seen peeling bark and caught the scent of yew. She’d tried not to think of her bow. Then Thiazzi was thrusting aside branches and throwing her down, and she was falling into the Great Yew’s cavernous heart.

  Her wrists and ankles throbbed and her shoulders ached from being pinioned for so long. Her mouth hurt from the gag, but she couldn’t chew it because Thiazzi had tied it so tight. Worst of all, she’d landed with her left leg twisted under her, and whenever she moved, pain shot through her knee.