Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are there other caves?’

  ‘Lots. I like the whispering cave, because of the ghosts. But I haven’t gone there since she took it. She brought demons and the cold red stone.’

  Torak’s heart began to pound. ‘How do you get there? To the whispering cave?’

  ‘Many ways.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve got to. How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Um – nearly two days.’

  ‘Two days?’ shouted Torak. ‘But that means tonight is Souls’ Night!’

  His shouts brought Wolf racing to his side.

  Now Torak understood why Eostra had let him escape: because he hadn’t. It suited her to leave him cocooned like a fly in a spider’s web, until such time as she had a use for him.

  ‘Dark, listen to me,’ he said, forcing himself to keep calm. ‘Tonight the Soul-Eater will do something terrible. I don’t know exactly what, but I know she means to conquer the dead, and use them to rule the living. You have to let me go!’

  ‘But in your sleep you said she wants to kill you. You must stay with me. You’re safe here.’

  ‘After tonight, nowhere will be safe, she’ll be too strong! With the dead at her command, she’ll rule the Mountains, the Forest, the Sea!’

  ‘What’s the Sea?’ said Dark.

  Torak let out a roar that shook the cave.

  Wolf set back his ears and yowled.

  Ark flapped her wings.

  With a huge effort, Torak mastered his temper. ‘Maybe this will persuade you. In some way I don’t understand, my father’s spirit is tangled up with her. If I can stop her, maybe I’ll help him, too. Now do you see why you have to let me go?’

  A shadow crossed Dark’s extraordinary face, and he seemed suddenly older. ‘My father left me. He never came back.’

  Torak set his teeth. ‘What if it was Ark who needed help? You’d do anything to save her, wouldn’t you?’

  Dark wrung his chalk-white hands till the knuckles cracked. Torak could see that he was torn. ‘Winters and winters I’ve been here,’ he said. ‘You’re the first person, the first living person.’

  Sensing his turmoil, Ark flew onto his shoulder.

  Wolf glanced anxiously from Torak to Dark and back again.

  Torak waited.

  Dark shook his head. ‘No. I can’t let you go.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  One day,’ said Renn as she limped over the boulders. ‘That’s all I asked. One day!’

  A stone whizzed down and smashed behind her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered to the Hidden People.

  They didn’t like it when she spoke too loudly. They didn’t much like her. But so far they’d tolerated her; maybe because of the little bundles of rowan twigs she’d left at every trail marker.

  It had been two days since Torak left. The Swans had wanted to leave at once, but Renn had insisted that they remain at the mouth of the Gorge. She’d spent a desperate day in camp, grinding her teeth as she waited for her ankle to get better. Next morning she’d lied to the Swans that it was, and headed after Torak. They hadn’t tried to stop her. They’d simply given her provisions and watched her go.

  At first, things had gone well. Torak’s trail had been easy to follow, and though her ankle ached, she could walk on it. She’d jumped at every sound, but her Mage’s sense had told her that Eostra’s creatures were far away. And in the afternoon she’d made a heartening discovery: a rocky shelter that was unmistakeably Torak’s. She’d spent the night in it, and fallen asleep planning what she would say when she caught up with him.

  She’d woken stiff, cold and scared. A pallid sliver of moon hung in the morning sky. Tomorrow night was Souls’ Night.

  She hadn’t gone far when she’d found the bones of a hare, picked clean by ravens. Nothing odd about that; and yet her hand had crept to her clan-creature feathers. Malice hung in the air. Bad things had happened here. Evil had soaked into the rocks.

  That had been a while ago, but she was still shaken. Her boots crunched noisily over frozen scrub and black lichen brittle as cinders. The glug of her waterskin sounded like footsteps. She stopped, to make sure that they weren’t.

  ‘They’re not real,’ she said out loud. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  The stones tensed. She felt the Hidden People watching.

  Eostra was watching too.

  Clouds began pouring over the edge of the cliffs. Stealthily, they swallowed the Gorge, folding Renn in a clammy embrace. Eostra hadn’t sent her dogs to drive her back. She didn’t need to.

  Like a winged shadow at the corner of her vision, Renn felt the presence of the Eagle Owl Mage. Fog stole down her throat and took her breath. Her ankle throbbed. Her courage slunk away. Why go on, when she was doomed to fail?

  She had an odd sensation of watching herself from above. There she was, a lame girl cowering in a ravine. She would never find Torak. He had left because he wanted to face Eostra alone: because he wanted to die, and be with his father. And soon that wish would be fulfilled.

  In the distance, a raven croaked.

  Renn raised her head. That was Rip.

  Moments later, even further off, she heard Rek answer him.

  As Renn listened to their cries slowly fading, she clenched her fists. Rip and Rek didn’t sound defeated. They sounded intent on some mysterious raven matter of their own; probably concerning food.

  As if in sympathy, her belly growled. Fog or no fog, she was hungry.

  Opening her food pouch, she took out two strips of smoked reindeer tongue stuck together with marrowfat. Then she sat on a boulder and began to eat. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

  She decided that her bow could do with some food, too. Juksakai had given her a bladder of oil from reindeer foot joints, which he’d said was better than anything for keeping wood and sinew supple, even in the coldest weather. Renn lavished some on her bow. Then she checked her arrows: a gift from Krukoslik, with fine quartz heads and white owl-feather fletching. ‘Good owls,’ she muttered under her breath.

  The fog swirled about her angrily.

  The food, the oil, the arrows: these had been prepared by kind people. The clothes they’d given her were meant to confer courage as well as warmth. The Mountain Hares had said that they always made the front of their robes from reindeer chest fur, ‘For in the breast of the antlered one, there beats a great heart.’

  A great heart. Renn’s thoughts went to Fin-Kedinn. She sat straighter. ‘I’m bone kin to the Raven Leader,’ she told the fog – and it writhed at the resolution in her voice. ‘I’m Renn. I am a Mage.’

  As she headed off, the fog no longer seemed quite so thick.

  Feeling more equal to the struggle than she had all day, Renn turned over what she knew of Eostra’s plans.

  The Eagle Owl Mage meant to live for ever. She meant to eat Torak’s world-soul and take his power.

  Renn halted.

  Until now, she’d never asked herself how Eostra meant to do that. But if she could work out how, then she might have some chance of stopping her.

  The best Renn could come up with was a rite for holding souls which Saeunn had once told her about. This was carried out when a mother or father was grieving so fiercely for their dead child that they risked going mad. Their Mage would catch the newly disembodied spirit in a rowanbark box and tie it shut with a lock of the dead one’s hair. The mourner must then live apart from the clan for six moons, with only the souls in the box for company. Then the souls were freed by opening the box and burning the hair on a hilltop, so that the smoke would waft up to the First Tree in the sky.

  Slipping off her mitten, Renn scratched her head. What did this have to do with Eostra?

  Her fingers stilled.

  Hair.

  Your hair holds part of your Nanuak. That’s why the Death Mark for the world-soul is daubed on the forehead.

  And that, thought Renn in a flash of ins
ight, is what the tokoroth was after on the night after the ice storm. Torak’s hair. If Eostra could get some of his hair by Souls’ Night, she could take his world-soul and his power.

  It was horribly simple. And maybe it was also why Eostra had sent her tokoroth. She’d been taunting them, telling them that she could get Torak’s hair whenever she wanted.

  Renn began to run. She floundered through snowdrifts and slithered over icy scree. She ran past patches of bearberry, crimson as spilt blood.

  A large bird swooped overhead, skimming her hood.

  Its wingbeats faded. Renn hid behind a rock. The wingbeats were coming back. Too noisy for an owl, she thought.

  Rip lit onto the rock and rattled an excited kek-kek-kek!

  Renn gave an edgy laugh. Rip hitched himself into the air and flew off. Quork!

  When Renn didn’t follow, he flew back.

  Renn chewed her lip. Torak’s trail led straight ahead, but Rip wanted her to follow him down a gully.

  Quork! he cawed impatiently.

  Renn followed.

  She hadn’t gone far when the fog thinned, and she made out something lying on the rocks. Rip and Rek wheeled above it, as if circling a carcass.

  Renn’s belly turned over. It was a carcass.

  Sound cut away as she stumbled towards it.

  THIRTY

  Darkfur’s breath came in rasping coughs that made her flanks heave.

  As Renn knelt beside her, the she-wolf raised her head and attempted one of her little greeting snaps. The effort was too much. She slumped back.

  Slipping off her mitten, Renn laid her hand on Darkfur’s side. She could feel each rib. The she-wolf hadn’t eaten for days.

  How had she managed to get all this way?

  Renn pictured Darkfur hauling herself from the river after the owl’s attack, and setting off: battered, longing for her cubs, determined to find her mate. Perhaps she’d been drawn by Wolf’s howls; perhaps by the strength of the bond between them.

  With the resilience of wolves which surpasses that of the toughest man, she had survived the ice storm and made it across the fells. Renn remembered Krukoslik speaking of hunters finding a dead wolf, and leaving food for its spirit. Maybe that had been Darkfur. Maybe the kindness of strangers had saved her life.

  Wrenching open her food pouch, Renn placed a slip of meat by the she-wolf’s muzzle. Darkfur ignored it.

  Rip flew down and sidled closer.

  ‘No,’ scolded Renn. ‘She needs it more.’

  The raven gave her a reproachful look, and stalked off to sulk.

  Renn nudged the meat closer. Still no response.

  Puzzled, Renn touched one large black forepaw.

  Darkfur tensed, and uttered a low growl.

  Renn’s alarm deepened. That pad was burning hot. Then she noticed that Darkfur’s nose looked dull. Her tongue was tinged grey.

  Renn leant nearer – and recoiled at the stink. It wasn’t hunger which had felled the she-wolf. The owl’s claws had gashed her foreleg from shoulder to shin, and the wound was festering. Renn saw foul, oozing green pus.

  Her thoughts raced. Darkfur lay in a hollow under a rock. It shouldn’t take long to turn it into a shelter. Further back in the gully, she’d passed a clump of the heathery plant which Juksakai used for waking fires. She had herbs in her medicine pouch – she’d refilled it before leaving the Swans – and she knew a healing charm.

  It flashed through her mind that all this would lessen her chances of finding Torak, but she told herself the delay would be slight. Dress the wound, coax Darkfur to eat, then leave her to get better. How long could that take?

  Sure of herself now, Renn worked fast. Soon the shelter was built and a small fire woken. At the foot of a boulder where a hawk had perched to eat its prey, she found the tiny skull of a snow-vole: strong medicine against fevers. Best of all, the purple droppings on the boulder led her to a nearby stand of juniper. That would be a powerful aid to the healing charm.

  Back with Darkfur, she heated water and made a brew of crushed sorrel root, vole bones and juniper berries. Cooling this with snow, she started cleaning the wound by trickling a few drops onto the injured shoulder.

  Darkfur’s growls shook her whole body.

  Renn swallowed. She tried again. Same result.

  She wished she was Torak, and could speak wolf. If only she could tell Darkfur that this would do her good. ‘Darkfur, please,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

  Darkfur swivelled one ear.

  ‘You have to let me clean your wound.’

  The green-amber gaze touched hers, then slid away.

  Maybe that’s it, thought Renn. Just talk.

  ‘I’m – I’m sorry about the cubs,’ she stammered. ‘And that the owl hurt you. But Wolf is alive. You will see him again. Only you have to let me help you.’

  Darkfur remained tense, the sinews on her long legs standing out like cords. But she was listening.

  Renn went on talking: softly, continuously. Praying that the she-wolf would hear from her voice that she meant no harm.

  The next time she dribbled medicine onto the wound, Darkfur lay quiet.

  Washing the injured leg was agonisingly slow. Renn did as much as she dared, then prepared the poultice. She chewed juniper berries, then ground sorrel root with earthblood and juniper bast, and mashed the whole into a warm pulp.

  Muttering the charm under her breath, she leant closer, hiding the poultice behind her back.

  Darfkur bared her fearsome white teeth.

  Renn froze. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades.

  When the she-wolf’s muzzle relaxed, Renn slowly brought out the poultice.

  Darkfur swung her head close to Renn’s face. Renn felt her hot breath. She stared into the open jaws. ‘It – it’s all right,’ she faltered. ‘Let me do this.’

  The jaws slackened. The she-wolf lay back and shut her eyes.

  Trembling, Renn laid the poultice on the wound. Darkfur didn’t stir.

  The ravens edged in and made off with the meat. Renn was too drained to care. She heard them squabbling; then a sleepy rustle of feathers as they settled down to roost.

  To roost?

  She crawled out of the shelter.

  While she’d been tending Darkfur, the rest of the day had slipped away. By now, Torak might already have reached the Mountain of Ghosts. Tomorrow night, when the sun went down, it would be Souls’ Night.

  Too late, Renn perceived Eostra’s cunning. The Soul-Eater had allowed Darkfur to get this far for a reason: to keep Renn away from Torak. And it wasn’t hard to work out why the dogs hadn’t menaced them. They had other prey to hunt. Somewhere, in some lonely place, they were cornering Torak and Wolf. Renn saw their evil heads sunk between their shoulders as they closed in for the kill . . .

  Angrily, she pushed that away, and crawled back inside, where she found Darkfur twitching in her sleep.

  Renn bit her lip. She knew she would have to spend the night here – but what then? Should she stay and look after Darfkur? Or let the she-wolf take her chances, and catch up with Torak?

  Wolves heal much faster than people, but even so, the wound would need bathing and dressing. Perhaps another whole day would be lost.

  Renn didn’t know what to do. She felt pulled in different directions by ropes of loyalty and love.

  Beside her, Darkfur’s tail thumped in her sleep. Her muzzle quivered. She was smiling. She gave an eager, keening whine.

  Renn’s heart twisted with pity. In her dreams, Darkfur was calling her dead cubs.

  Moments later, the she-wolf awoke. For an instant, her eyes glowed. Then the dream faded, and she gave a defeated sigh.

  Gently, Renn stroked her forepaw. If she followed Torak and Darkfur died, how would she ever face Wolf? How would she face herself?

  Her doubts fled. If she broke faith with Darkfur now, then whatever happened on the Mountain of Ghosts, Eostra would have won. The she-wolf had come through grief and hardship.
Although Renn’s spirit cried out to follow Torak, her mind was made up.

  She would stay.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Torak had lapsed into furious silence. Dark was going through his things, asking questions. What’s this green thing? A wrist-guard? Who made it? What’s a foster father? Does he love you? Why is this pouch made of swans’ feet? What’s this horn for? Who made it? Your mother? Does she love you?

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Torak. Souls’ Night was looming, and here he was, trussed like a ptarmigan, while this extraordinary boy examined his gear.

  ‘There’s a red hair round the top of the horn,’ observed Dark. ‘Is that your mother’s?’

  ‘No. It’s a girl called Renn’s. Don’t touch.’

  Dark glanced at him. ‘Is she your mate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you like her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And she likes you.’

  ‘Yes!’ he snapped.

  Dark’s pale face closed. His white eyelashes trembled. Suddenly he flung down the medicine horn and ran off into the shadows. Moments later he reappeared with Torak’s clothes in his arms. ‘There.’ He threw them on the floor.

  Ark croaked and flapped her wings. Wolf sniffed the hides. Torak watched Dark.

  Brusquely, the boy drew his knife and cut Torak’s bonds. ‘You’re free. You can go.’

  Torak lost no time in getting dressed. As he was tying his belt, he said, ‘What changed your mind?’

  Dark took a slate wolverine from a ledge and glowered at it. ‘All those people would miss you. Nobody misses me.’

  Torak paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Dark set down the carving. ‘I’ll let you out.’

  The cave was deeper than Torak had thought. With Wolf padding behind him, he followed the glimmer of Dark’s cobweb hair. The walls closed in. Snowy reindeer and musk-oxen peered at him. Mindful of what else dwelt in the shadows, he said, ‘Your sister. Is she . . .’

  ‘It’s Souls’ Night. She’s gone with the others.’

  Torak felt icy air, and guessed that they’d reached the way out.

  Dark jammed a slingshot in his belt and tied a birdskin snow mask around his eyes. Torak cut the thongs on his mittens, so they wouldn’t get in the way. Dark kicked aside a granite wedge and rolled away a boulder; but as he knelt to crawl out, Torak said, ‘Wait. I need you to do something.’