All through the endless night she’d huddled in the dark, listening to her panicky breath. To keep up her courage, she’d told herself that somewhere above, the full moon was shining. Then it had occurred to her that soon its strength would wane, when the sky bear caught it and began to feed.
For the first time in her life, she had nothing to wish for. She couldn’t wish for Torak to come, because Thiazzi would kill him. But if he didn’t come, Thiazzi would kill her.
Around her rose the gaunt flanks of the Great Yew: fissured, flaking, fiercely alive. She shifted to ease her cramped limbs, crunching owl pellets and bones beneath her, some large, some brittle and delicate as frost. She thought, I’m lying on the remains of thousands of winters.
Far above, unreachably far, a patch of sky slowly bled from grey to red, and a last star glimmered. She craned to see it, and by her knee, a spider scuttled for safety. She wished it would come back. She didn’t want to be alone.
She ached for her bow. For so many summers it had been part of her, a silent friend who’d never let her down. In her head, she heard again that terrible snap.
Now she had nothing. No knife, no axe, no medicine horn. No whistle for calling Wolf, no means of summoning Rip and Rek. She was going to die here, alone. Unavenged.
She slumped against the yew, and something dug into her forearm. It was her wrist-guard. At least, she thought, I still have that.
It was polished greenstone, very smooth and beautiful. Fin-Kedinn had made it for her when he’d taught her to shoot. The thought of him was a blaze of light in the darkness. She would not die unavenged. Fin-Kedinn would find out, and then Thiazzi had better beware. When the Raven Leader was angry, it was worse than any Soul-Eater. Renn pictured the lines of her uncle’s face hardening to carved sandstone; his vivid, blue, freezing stare. She sat straighter.
Fin-Kedinn said that a hunter’s most precious possession was not his strike-fire or his weapons, it was the knowledge he carried in his head.
Think, Renn told herself. Think.
The smell of smoke made her head throb. It was hard to order her thoughts.
The smoke.
It wasn’t coming from above; that patch of sky was clear. But it had to be coming from somewhere.
After a painful circuit of the yew, she found several cracks: none wider than a finger, but at least she might be able to see what was going on.
This small victory of reason over dread made her feel a little better. Rising awkwardly to her feet and trying to favour her good leg, she hopped to the largest crack and peered through.
She saw the fire with its terrible offering. Behind it, very close, the trunk of an enormous oak. Bark faces leered at her, but the branches were blighted and barren.
Renn’s heart jerked. Against the oak stood the pine-trunk ladder. Thiazzi hadn’t left it against the yew, as she’d thought. So even if, by some amazing feat, she managed to free her hands and ankles and climb to that patch of sky, she would probably break her neck trying to get down.
And even if she didn’t . . . Beyond the oak was the wall of thorns: juniper boughs piled chest-high, encircling the fire and the sacred trees. Thiazzi had closed the ring when he’d carried her in. If anyone came, they wouldn’t be able to reach her; and she wouldn’t be able to get out.
As she peered through the crack, a shadow cut across it. She recoiled and fell, jolting her knee and squealing in pain.
Thiazzi laughed. ‘Not long now.’
Grimly, she struggled back to the crack.
The Oak Mage crossed in and out of sight as he circled the fire. He still wore his mantle of leaves, but his hood was thrown back to let his long hair flow free, and on his chest he wore his clan-creature wreath of acorns and mistletoe. The berries were the misty white of blinded eyes. Nestled among them, Renn saw a small black pouch.
The fire-opal.
She knew that Thiazzi felt her scrutiny and relished it, but she couldn’t tear herself away. She watched him feed more branches to the fire. She stared at the charred meat dangling from the stake.
She forced her gaze upwards. The star had been snuffed out. No help for you here, taunted the empty sky.
Her mind scuttled like a spider. Where were Rip and Rek? And Wolf? And Torak?
No. Don’t pray for him to come, that’s what Thiazzi wants. You’re the bait. If he comes, you’ll have to watch him die.
And Thiazzi would win, she had no doubt of that. He was the strongest man in the Forest, and he had a Mage’s cunning.
The throbbing in her head was worse. With a jolt, she realized that she could no longer see her boots. Smoke was seeping through the cracks, pooling about her ankles.
Her eyes began to smart. She tried to cough, but only managed a muffled splutter through the gag.
‘Not long now,’ repeated Thiazzi.
Again she peered through the crack. The Oak Mage stood with legs braced, tossing a rawhide whip from palm to palm. His harsh features were taut with anticipation. What had he heard that she had not?
The noise in her head grew louder.
It wasn’t in her head, it was outside, beyond the ring of thorns.
It was the pounding of horses’ hooves.
THIRTY-FIVE
Nearer came the thundering hooves, and Renn pressed her face against the crack, straining to see.
A shadow at the corner of her eye, then a black horse was soaring over the thorns, with Torak – yes, Torak – on its back. In one hand he grasped the horse’s mane, in the other his blue slate knife. His dark hair flew, and his face was stern and intent on Thiazzi.
The mare’s hooves struck the ground, raising spurts of ash, but Torak clung on, his eyes never leaving the Oak Mage – who stood silent, tapping his whip against his thigh.
The mare snorted and tossed her head. Torak jumped from her back, staggered, but stood firm. The mare flicked up her tail and leapt the thorns again, and her hoofbeats faded to nothing.
Renn heard the crackle of the fire and the settling of ash. She ground her cheek against unyielding wood. No, Torak, he’ll kill you! she wanted to scream.
With unhurried ease, Thiazzi cast off his mantle. Beneath it he wore the hides of many hunters – fox, lynx, wolverine, bear – and their strength was his strength, and from his belt hung his massive knife, its edge stained dull red from many kills. He was invincible: no longer a creature of leaves and bark, no longer of the Forest, but its ruler.
Torak stood glaring at him. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted.
‘Where is she?’ panted Torak. He was exhausted. His legs were trembling. It was a struggle to stay on his feet.
The Oak Mage faced him through the smoke: huge, silent, in control. Torak could see no sign of Renn. Only the pine-trunk ladder against the blighted oak, and the horror on the stake.
‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ he demanded. ‘You wanted me. Well, here I am! Let her go!’
‘And what do you want, Spirit Walker?’ said Thiazzi. ‘Revenge for your dead kinsman? Well, here I am. You have only to come and take it, and your oath will be fulfilled.’ Baring his yellow teeth, he spread his arms, displaying the awesome might of his shoulders and chest.
Torak hesitated.
‘If you so much as scratch my hand, Spirit Walker, the Raven girl dies. But if you give yourself into my power, she goes free.’
The fire hissed. The holly trees, the Great Oak and the Great Yew, all waited to see what Torak would do.
Without taking his gaze from Thiazzi, he unslung his quiver and bow, drew back his arm, and flung them over the thorns. His axe went next. Last of all, he hefted the blue slate knife which had been his father’s, and threw it after them.
Weaponless, he faced the Soul-Eater through the shimmering heat. ‘I renounce my vengeance,’ he said. ‘I break my oath. Take me. Let her live.’
THIRTY-SIX
‘Let her live,’ repeated Torak, but his voice had sunk to a pleading whisper. Dread seized him. Maybe Renn was already dead.
Thiazz
i saw it in his face, and his lip curled. ‘It’s all for nothing, Oathbreaker. You’ll never see your girl again.’
For an instant, Torak despaired.
Then, small and bright, he remembered Renn standing in the mouth of the cave, shooting her last arrows at the demon bear. She had known that she couldn’t win, but she’d gone on fighting.
He lifted his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’
The Soul-Eater’s whip crackled out, loosing a shower of sparks from the fire. ‘It’s over, Spirit Walker. Against me you have no power.’
‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Torak.
Thiazzi drew his knife and moved towards him.
Torak circled to escape.
The Oak Mage laughed. ‘I’m going to rip out your spine. I’m going to grind your skull beneath my heel till your eyeballs burst. No more Spirit Walker buzzing round me like a gnat round a bison. I am the Oak Mage! I rule the Forest!’ Foam flew from his lips. His voice echoed from the rocks.
Somewhere, a wolf howled. Two short howls. Where – are you?
Torak howled back. I’m here! Where is the pack-sister?
But Wolf didn’t know.
Snarling, Thiazzi shook his three-fingered fist. ‘Your wolf got a chunk of me once, but not this time!’ Sheathing his knife, he snatched a brand from the fire and swept it round the ring of thorns. The juniper caught with a wssh – and became a wall of flame. Thiazzi was exultant. ‘Even the fire does my will!’
Beyond the blazing wall, Torak heard a rattle of pebbles, then furious snarls and a yelp which ended in a whine. The flames were too high. He barked a warning. Stay back! You can’t help me!
He put his hand to his medicine pouch – the swansfoot pouch which Renn had given him. ‘Renn!’ he shouted. ‘Renn, where are you?’
Torak was shouting her name, but Renn only managed a squeal which ended in a cough. The Great Yew was full of smoke. If she didn’t do something soon, it would become her death tree.
And yet – she couldn’t tear herself from the crack. She felt that by watching, she was keeping Torak alive; if she looked away, Thiazzi would kill him.
Stupid, stupid! she told herself. But still she watched as Torak circled the fire and Thiazzi came after him: slowly, cracking his whip, playing with his prey as a lynx plays with a lemming. Torak was exhausted. His hair was stringy with sweat and he kept stumbling. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
With a huge effort of will, Renn tore her gaze away. Shuffling backwards, her boots scuffed leafmould and bones, useless, crumbling bones. She fell, landing on her hands, hurting her palms. It was hopeless.
Warmth trickled between her fingers. She twisted round, but couldn’t get far enough to see.
She’d cut her hand on a bone or a root. If she could find it again . . .
The smoke was too thick. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. She groped behind her. Where was it?
There. A thin, jagged edge. Surely not flint? Whatever it was, it seemed to be wedged immovably in the yew.
Shuffling closer, she began sawing at the bindings round her wrists.
Sounds from outside were muffled and remote. Was that a wolf’s yelp? A raven’s caw? Through her rasping breath, she caught Thiazzi’s mocking tones, but nothing from Torak.
She went on sawing at the rope.
The ravens wheeled and cawed, and for a moment Thiazzi glanced up. Torak seized his chance, grabbed a branch from the fire, and lashed out.
The Oak Mage dodged it easily, and Torak saw that his branch wasn’t burning, it was a lifeless grey stump.
‘You can’t use fire against me,’ sneered Thiazzi. ‘I am Master of Forest and fire!’
As if in answer, a gust of wind stirred the trees, blinding Torak with smoke.
Again Rip swooped. Thiazzi’s whip caught his wing, and though Rip soared to safety, a black feather drifted onto the embers.
The smoke made Torak cough. When he stopped, the coughing went on.
Thiazzi saw him falter, and his eyes glittered with malice. ‘The fire can’t hurt me, but it’ll only take smoke to kill your girl.’
Wildly, Torak cast about him. Where was the coughing coming from? But the wind was gusting more strongly, he couldn’t tell.
Thiazzi darted a glance at the Great Oak.
Of course. The ladder. The oak must be hollow. Renn was inside the oak.
Edging round the fire, Torak moved closer – and raced for the ladder.
To his surprise, the Oak Mage simply watched. When Torak was halfway up, he called out. ‘Not as clever as you think you are, Spirit Walker. Now I’ve got you like a squirrel up a tree, while she chokes to death.’
Torak gripped the ladder. Thiazzi had tricked him. The coughing wasn’t louder, it was fainter. It wasn’t coming from the oak, but from the yew.
Shakily, he wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Don’t wait too long,’ he panted with a desperate show of defiance. ‘The clans are on their way . . . And you don’t have your mask. They’ll see you for what you really are.’
‘Then I’ll make it quick,’ said Thiazzi. Striding to the foot of the ladder, he started to climb.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The wrist-bindings snapped. Renn yanked the gag over her chin, swallowed a chestful of smoke, and coughed till she retched. Frantically, she sawed at the bindings round her ankles, then struggled to her feet and hopped to the crack.
She couldn’t see for smoke, couldn’t hear Wolf or the ravens – or Torak. Don’t think about it. Get out, get out.
Groping through the haze, she sought for footholds, handholds, anything to help her climb. Her fingers found something jutting above her head. It felt like a peg. It couldn’t be. It was. She swung herself up, her good foot scrabbling for a hold. She found a dent barely deep enough for her toes. Her free hand clawed wood. Another peg. Someone had hammered them in, someone taller than her, she had to stretch to reach; and the yew seemed to be helping, leading her from peg to peg. Or maybe it just wanted her gone.
The top was the hardest, as the pegs ran out and the edge was rotten. Grabbing a branch, she hauled herself over and hung half in, half out. She’d scraped her fingers raw, and a broken branch was digging into her belly, but she was clear of the smoke, gulping the cool green breath of the Forest.
She was dizzyingly high up. No boughs below, and too far to jump. Trying not to jar her knee, she thrust aside branches. They sprang back in her face as if to say, We helped you once, don’t push your luck. Then she saw Torak.
He was almost level with her, having cleared the top of the ladder and climbed onto one of the oak’s outstretched arms. He didn’t see her, he was straining to push the ladder away, while Thiazzi, still on it, held firm to both ladder and tree.
It was a battle Torak couldn’t win. Renn watched helplessly as Thiazzi pulled himself onto a branch and reached round the bole of the tree. Torak dodged – and caught sight of Renn. His mouth shaped her name as he took in her predicament: trapped, no way to get down. Thiazzi darted round the other side to grab him. Torak dodged, seized the ladder, and heaved. Renn saw the pine trunk tilt towards her and crash into the yew, striking it halfway up the trunk. Torak had given her a way down.
It nearly cost him his life. As he reached for the next branch, Thiazzi lunged. Torak swung himself out of the way an instant too late, and Thiazzi’s blade caught his thigh. Snarling in pain, he stamped on Thiazzi’s wrist and sent the knife flying.
An empty victory. Renn could see that he didn’t have a chance. The Soul-Eater didn’t need weapons, he would climb after Torak till he reached the uppermost branch, and then . . .
She tore her gaze away. She couldn’t help him from here, she had to get down.
The pine-trunk ladder was too far below, she’d have to jump onto it. Twisting round, she lowered herself over the edge till she was hanging by her hands, and let go. The pine shuddered as she struck it with her good foot, but it held. She didn’t bother with the notches, she simply slid, scraping her hands and landi
ng in a blaze of agony on her injured knee. When she looked, Torak was gone.
No – there he was, clinging to the oak’s tapering bole. The Soul-Eater was gaining on him. Renn saw Thiazzi stretch to grab Torak’s leg. He missed by a finger. Torak was nearly at the crown, where the tree branched for the last time. Renn saw him dark against the stormy sky, turning his head, wondering what to do. She pictured the Oak Mage seizing him by the ankle, hurling him screaming to his death.
Setting her teeth, she crawled towards the fire, dragging her bad leg. She grabbed a pine knot full of tree-blood, fiercely ablaze. She crawled towards the oak.
‘Torak!’ Her voice came out as a reedy gasp. ‘Torak!’ she yelled. ‘Catch!’
His head whipped round.
Kneeling on her good leg, Renn drew back her arm to take aim. This had to be the finest throw of her life.
The burning brand spun through the air in a flurry of sparks – and Torak caught it.
Hanging on with his free hand, he lashed out at Thiazzi.
The Soul-Eater dodged behind the bole of the oak – reached round – and would have grabbed Torak’s foot if his clan-creature wreath hadn’t snagged on a branch, jerking him back. He tore it off, raining acorns and mistletoe, but clutching the fire-opal pouch to his breast.
That gave Torak a moment to scramble higher. He reached the crown and edged onto the sturdiest branch. It sagged beneath him. He made a swipe with the brand. The Oak Mage struck it a blow with his fist that nearly broke Torak’s wrist and sent the brand flying. Time stopped as Torak watched his last chance spin in a trail of sparks and thud to earth.
Thiazzi was exultant. ‘I am the Master!’ he roared.
But as he bellowed his triumph, the breath of the Forest blew a spark into the tangle of his hair. Torak saw it catch. The Oak Mage did not.
Desperately, Torak tried to distract him. ‘You’ll never be Master,’ he taunted. ‘Even if you kill me, you’ll never get what you want!’
‘And what’s that?’ sneered the Oak Mage, climbing closer.
‘What you killed my kinsman for: the fire-opal.’
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 96
