Eostra summons the Unquiet Dead . . .
Renn flung down her weapons. Her axe and bow were unhurt, but her quiver had been squashed when she’d squeezed through a gap, and only three arrows remained intact.
Eostra binds them to her!
The smoke parted, and Renn caught a fleeting glimpse of the Masked One. She saw a livid hand pass over the mace that held the fire-opal. She saw its scarlet light bleeding through a shadowy network of cords criss-crossing the crimson stone. She grabbed an arrow. Eostra sensed the threat and cloaked herself in smoke.
‘Can you feel them?’ whispered Dark, kneeling beside her.
‘Feel what?’
‘Down there in the smoke. Something terrible.’
‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Neither can I. But I feel them.’
Renn felt them too. There was more in the Whispering Cave than Eostra and her minions.
‘It’s the smoke,’ she breathed. ‘It’s part of the spell. Don’t look.’
But Dark couldn’t tear his eyes away. Neither could she.
The Soul-Eater broke off her chant. Blackness descended on the cave. In the silence, she spoke.
Subtle as snake, the seducer . . .
Seshru . . . Come forth!
Renn’s flesh crawled.
The cave seemed to fill with a thin, echoing hissss.
This can’t be, Renn told herself. It cannot be.
As she watched, the smoke swirled to form a sinuous shape . . .
No. Seshru is dead. Your mother is dead. You put the Death Marks on her. You watched them lay her body to rest.
The chanting resumed. After an endless time, it broke off again. Once more, the fire dimmed.
. . . Narrander . . . Come forth!
From the far side of the cavern, a man’s voice rang out. ‘Narrander comes.’
Renn caught her breath. She knew that voice.
‘Your spell is flawed,’ it declared. ‘It holds the hair of a living man.’
No answer from Eostra.
‘Who is he?’ said Dark.
Renn didn’t reply. The past was coming together like pack ice as she watched the man emerge from the shadows.
The eagle owl swooped towards him. He warded it off with his axe. His gait was unsteady. Tattered hides flapped about his scrawny limbs. Renn knew that if she were closer, she would see a tangled beard glistening with slime. A filthy, one-eyed face as rough as bark.
The seventh Soul-Eater. He had hinted as much at their first encounter. Before the flint bit him, he was a wise man . . .
‘Narrander died,’ rasped Eostra from the smoke. ‘He died in the great fire.’
‘Another died!’ bellowed the Walker. ‘He should have lived! The Walker ends it now!’
‘None can hinder the Masked One.’
The Walker roared and threw himself at the rockpile – but before he could reach it, he lurched to a halt. The chasm was too wide. He couldn’t get across. ‘He should have lived!’ His howl filled the cave with pain.
Suddenly, Renn saw the small, hunched figures clinging to the rocks above his head. Desperately, she took aim. Dark loaded his slingshot.
They lowered their weapons. The tokoroths were way out of range.
‘Above you!’ shouted Renn and Dark together.
The Walker glanced up as the first rock struck. He sank to his knees. Another rock hit. He fell to the ground at the edge of the chasm. His axe dropped from his hand, and a moment later there came a distant splash. The Walker lay without moving. Renn had never hated Eostra as much as she did then.
‘I see Torak!’ hissed Dark. Pulling her sideways, he pointed – and at last she saw him.
Torak was halfway up the pillar round which the pack prowled. He was tied by the waist, his head sunk on his chest. He wasn’t moving.
‘Torak!’ screamed Renn.
No response.
He must be either stunned or spirit walking. She refused to believe that he was dead. Clenching her jaw, she got ready to shoot. How many dogs? Six? Seven? And only three arrows.
A brindled beast leapt at Torak’s bare foot. Renn’s bow sang. The dog fell with a gurgling yowl and an arrow through its throat.
Beside her, Dark let fly with his slingshot. A grey brute fell and did not stir again. Dark killed another with a stone that split its skull; Renn shot one in the chest. It staggered backwards into the chasm, its yowls dying to nothing.
Two dogs streaked across the cavern, disappearing into a tunnel as if they’d scented prey. The remaining dog circled Torak’s perch. A tokoroth appeared at its base and began to climb, a knife clamped between its teeth. Renn nocked her final arrow and took aim. Her hands shook. The creature was a demon, but it had the body of a child.
A stone whistled through the air. The tokoroth fell with a shriek, clutching a broken shin. Grimly, Dark reloaded his slingshot, but the tokoroth dragged itself into the shadows.
Peering into the haze, Renn sought another target. The smoke was too thick. Its fumes reached into her mind. She pictured the Masked One gloating over the fire-opal. None can hinder Eostra.
Renn set down her bow. So. This was not to be won with arrows.
Something of Saeunn’s uncompromising will stiffened her resolve. You are a Mage, she told herself. Think like one.
Your spell is flawed, the Walker had said. It holds the hair of a living man.
Renn went still. She peered at the cord which netted the fire-opal. It seemed to be braided with different-coloured threads. She caught glints of black, russet, gold . . .
Hair. Eostra had snared the spirits of the Soul-Eaters with their own hair. She had woven it into this cord which now bound the fire-opal, this cord which bound the dead Soul-Eaters to her – just as, with Torak’s hair, she meant to bind his world-soul and take his power.
‘Torak!’ shouted Renn. ‘Cut the cord!’
Trapped in the Soul-Eater’s marrow, Torak struggled to break free. His spirit was tiring. Eostra was too strong.
From a great distance, he heard someone shouting. It sounded like Renn. It couldn’t be.
For an instant, the shouting distracted Eostra. Torak felt her will waver. It was enough. He seized his chance.
His eyes snapped open. He was back in his body. Someone was still shouting.
‘Cut the cord that binds the fire-opal! Torak! Cut it and you’ll break the spell! You’ll send them away for ever!’
It was Renn. He couldn’t see her, but he saw one of her arrows, jutting from the throat of the brindled dog.
The cord. Strength coursed through him. He knew what to do.
Swiftly, he untied himself and slid down the pillar. A dog sprang from the murk. He thrust his knife in its belly and ripped. Kicking the carcass aside, he jabbed at the dark. No tokoroths, no dogs; though he heard the snarls of a savage fight. With his free hand he grabbed a stone and staggered towards the rockpile. Renn was right, there was a way. The spell could be broken, the Soul-Eaters banished for ever. Why, then, was Eostra undeterred?
Once again, the fire was quenched and her chanting ceased. Through the drifting smoke, she spread her wings and summoned the last of the Unquiet Dead.
Wise as the wolf, the wilful one . . .
No! Torak tried to shout, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Helpless, he heard the Soul-Eater call the beloved name he hadn’t spoken out loud for three summers.
For a moment there was silence.
The cave seemed to echo with the howls of unseen wolves. Behind the altar, smoke danced and drew together. A tall figure began to take shape.
Torak dropped his knife with a clatter. ‘Fa.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
The figure in the smoke was as faint as moon-shadow on a cloudy night – but Torak knew. He knew as he stood gazing up at his father.
‘Fa – it’s me. Torak.’
The dead white eyes stared down at him without recognition. His father’s spirit belonged to Eostra.
Somewhere,
Renn was shouting. ‘Cut the cord! Send them away for ever!’
Send Fa away? Away for ever?
He couldn’t do it. He was twelve summers old: bewildered, terrified, watching his father bleed. Fa, don’t die. Please don’t die.
Tears slid down his cheeks as he stumbled towards the rockpile.
‘Cut the cord!’ shouted Renn.
‘I can’t,’ Torak whispered. ‘Fa . . . I can’t lose you all over again.’
He began to climb.
He heard the rattle of bones and the chant of the Soul-Eater. He felt a sudden sharp pain at the back of his scalp, and saw the owl fly off with a lock of his hair in its talons. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except reaching Fa.
He stood in the bitter haze before the altar. Behind it the Masked One chanted, surrounded by the shadowy throng of the Unquiet Dead. He stretched out his hand towards his father. The figure in the smoke did not respond.
A vision flashed across Torak’s mind of what might have been if Fa had lived: if they were still together, and the fire-opal had never existed. Grief twisted in his heart like a knife.
But the fire-opal did exist. There it was in the mace, throbbing like an open wound.
With a cry, Torak reached across the altar, seized the mace, and dragged it towards the flames.
The Soul-Eater’s grip was stone. He couldn’t do it. With her other hand she raised her spear to strike. Torak lashed out with his rock. The spear clattered to the floor. A tokoroth fastened its jaws on his forearm. Renn’s wrist-guard protected him. Again he brought down the rock, crushing the creature’s skull like an eggshell. Still gripping the mace, he fought the Soul-Eater across the flames. He caught the glitter of her eyes behind the mask. He gave a desperate wrench and dashed the mace into the fire. Choking on the stink of burning hair, he raised the rock – and shattered the fire-opal to bloody shards.
With a shriek, Eostra plunged both hands into the flames, clawing out the fragments and holding them up. The last shreds of burning hair curled and shrivelled to nothing.
The Unquiet Dead began to disintegrate. Through a mist of tears, Torak watched his father fade.
But in the final moment, the smoke face changed. It became Fa as he had been when he was alive, and it lit up as he saw his son. ‘Torak . . .’ he murmured, as quiet as a sleeping breath.
Then he was gone.
Torak stood shaking before the altar. Some part of him knew that Eostra still held the fragments of the fire-opal. Some part of him heard her beginning to chant.
Eostra summons the spirit walker
Eostra binds him to her!
Far away, Renn was screaming a warning. ‘Torak! Behind you!’
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Behind you!’ screamed Renn. She was ready to shoot, but the tokoroth kept slipping into shadow, dragging its broken leg.
Torak appeared to come to himself at last. He saw the tokoroth crawling up the rockpile. He saw Eostra brandishing the fragments of the fire-opal and lifting her free hand to the owl which swooped towards her with the lock of his hair in its talons.
In the blink of an eye, the tokoroth sprang. Torak seized its arms and flung it bodily over his head. It came on again, relentless. They grappled, moving too fast, Renn couldn’t get a clear shot. Beside her, Dark gripped his slingshot. Torak threw the tokoroth upon the altar. It twitched as its spine snapped – and slid off, dead.
Two black shapes came racing from the shadows, up the rockpile towards Torak. Renn and Dark let fly at the dogs. They hit the same target. The stricken creature scrabbled at the edge of the chasm, and fell with a howl. Torak turned and seemed to see the chasm for the first time. The other dog sprang.
Renn had no more arrows. Frantically, she searched for stones.
‘None left,’ panted Dark. Grabbing her axe, he flung it with all his might. It struck short of the rockpile.
Torak was on his knees fighting the dog, his hands in its scruff, battling to keep its jaws from his face.
Renn beat the stones with her fists.
A silver arrow streaked across the cavern: Wolf racing to save his pack-brother. His sides were bloody, his white fangs gleamed, and his glare was more ferocious than Renn had ever seen. In a flying leap he was on them, sinking his teeth in the dog’s throat, tearing it off Torak. Wolf and dog tumbled down the rocks, a snarling tangle of black and grey. Wolf sprang to his feet and stood panting, his pelt matted with blood. The dog lay still. Wolf had torn open its belly, spilling its guts.
The eagle owl swooped across the cavern, flying low to decoy him from Torak. Too low. As they disappeared into the dark, Renn saw Wolf snap at its wing and bring it down, savaging it to pieces.
Torak was leaning on the altar, utterly spent. Behind it, the Soul-Eater brandished the lock of his hair in triumph.
‘Eostra binds him to her!’ she shrieked. ‘Eostra lives for ever!’ Feeding the hair between her wooden lips, she snatched up her spear and thrust it at his chest.
He stumbled sideways. They circled the altar: Eostra jabbing, Torak staggering out of reach.
On the far side of the cavern, a shadow moved.
Renn caught her breath. In disbelief, she saw the Walker on all fours, shaking his head.
‘Hidden Ones,’ he croaked.
Torak and the Soul-Eater went on circling the altar.
‘Hidden People of the Mountain! The Walker calls on you! Rid the world of this canker!’
At first, Renn felt nothing.
Then: a faint tremor beneath her hands.
The Walker lifted his scrawny arms, his voice gathering strength. ‘The Walker calls on you! Let the jaws of the Mountain snap shut!’
In the cavern, the stone teeth shuddered. Renn saw a great, jutting pillar topple and fall with a crash.
‘Rid us of the Soul-Eater for ever!’
A hanging column thundered down upon the altar, splitting it in two. Still clutching the fragments of the fire-opal, Eostra staggered back from the ruins. She teetered on the brink of the chasm. With a terrible, unearthly cry, she lost her balance and fell.
But as she fell, her spear caught the hem of Torak’s tunic. In horror, Renn saw him pull back. The weight was too great. He had no knife to cut himself free.
‘Torak!’ Renn screamed.
Torak dropped to his knees.
The Soul-Eater dragged him with her into the chasm.
THIRTY-NINE
He is deep in the earth. It is cold and dark, and there is a roaring in his ears and a smell of rottenness in his nostrils. Is he already dead?
Someone is carrying him. They must be taking him to the bone-grounds.
Now they’re laying him down, passing hands over his face, muttering a death chant. Leaving him alone.
The stars wheel above him. Moons rise and set and rise again. All that has been, and is, and will be, flows through him. He is a baby in the Den, suckling his wolf mother. He is running from the clearing where Fa lies dying. He is falling into the chasm in the Mountain of Ghosts.
He is back beneath the stars. Small, shadowy people are bending over him. He gazes up into strange, grey, pointed faces and moon-bright eyes.
Where’s Renn? he tries to ask. Where’s Wolf?
The eyes blink out. Once again, he is alone.
Still the stars wheel above him. Coldest of all, the darkest light. The last light a man sees before he dies.
He feels no pain; only a great emptiness. He doesn’t want to die alone.
But he is so tired.
He stands looking down at his body. He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to, he is so tired. With a reluctant sigh, he turns and begins to climb towards the stars.
The First Tree was shining brighter than Renn had ever seen. The whole sky was alive with rippling, shimmering green, waiting to welcome Torak’s spirit.
The white-haired boy drew the hanging across the mouth of his cave and made her sit by the fire, where he wrapped a woolly mantle around her shoulders and put a steaming beaker in her
hands. She was shaking so hard that she spilt most of it. Torak and Wolf were gone. They had left her behind in the emptiness.
Numbly, she took in the white stone creatures peering from every crack. Nothing was real. Not this cave, not that nightmare rush through the tunnel, with the rocks falling and Dark dragging her to safety. Torak was dead. Not real.
On the other side of the fire, the ravens – the white and the black – awoke, and irritably snapped their wings.
‘It was the ghosts that woke them,’ said Dark, warming his hands at the fire. ‘Most have gone to be with their clans, but a few always get left behind.’ He went on talking – something about his sister not being here, so maybe this time she’d found peace in the sky – but Renn had stopped listening.
Souls’ Night. She pictured the Mountain clans feasting with their dead; and her own clan, far away in the Forest. Perhaps already they’d sensed that the menace of Eostra was ended.
‘Renn,’ said Dark, wrenching her back. ‘He’d put on the Death Marks. At least his souls will stay together.’
But he hasn’t got a guardian, she thought bleakly. So who will come for him and guide him up to the First Tree?
Wolf watched the last of the Walking Breaths disappear down the gorge.
He’d followed them out of the Mountain, hoping they would lead him to Tall Tailless. They hadn’t. Now he stood in the howling Dark, with the wind clawing his fur and snatching the scents away.
Wolf was frightened. This was different from the other times when he and his pack-brother had been parted. This was as if a great Fast Wet was rushing between them: one that couldn’t be crossed.
Whimpering, Wolf raced over the Bright Soft Cold and back again.
Above the yowling of wind and Wet, he caught a whine so high that it was like hearing light. He knew that whine. It was the voice of the deer bone which Tall Tailless carried at his flank: the deer bone which held the dusty earth that he sometimes smeared on Wolf. The deer bone which, once before, in the Forest, Wolf had heard sing.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 113
