The wind sank to a whisper. The granite was hard beneath his hand.
Fin-Kedinn turned from the darkness and walked back toward the fire.
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[Image: A boulder.]
TWENTY-FIVE
As Wolf slewed to a halt in the windy Dark, he sensed . that his pack-brother was many lopes away. He'd made a mistake. He should never have run off into the Mountains.
He'd been gnawing the reindeer head near the great Den of the Taillesses when the eagle owl had swooped over him. He had known it was a trick, but he couldn't not follow. It had taken his cub.
Through Darks and Lights he had chased it, but now it was gone, and he didn't know where he was. His paws sank into the Bright Soft Cold, and the Mountains loomed over him. The wind carried the smell of ptarmigan and
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hare--but no Tall Tailless. Lifting his muzzle, Wolf uttered sharp, seeking barks. Where are you? No beloved answering howl.
The wind veered and Wolf turned into it--and caught a smell he'd never smelled before. Dogs; but something was wrong with them. Wolf smelled that they were big and strong, cunning and full of hate. His claws tightened. Against such as these, Tall Tailless had no more chance than a newborn cub.
It was a blustery day, and the wind moaned through the Gorge of the Hidden People. Torak had heard no strange howls, but whenever a pebble fell, he started.
From time to time, he came across a boulder on which a spiral had been hammer-etched. Juksakai had said that his ancestors had made them to mark the trail to the Mountain; but no one had ventured in for many winters.
Who, then, had scraped the spirals clean of ice?
And where was Wolf?
Torak tried not to think of what Eostra's dogs could do to his pack-brother. And he couldn't even howl for him, except in his head.
In places, the snow lay thigh-deep; in others, Torak had to scramble over rocks scoured bare by the wind. He was soon sweating, but thanks to his Mountain clothes, he didn't get chilled. His jerkin had dense diverbird plumage at front and back, but looser-feathered ptarmigan under
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the arms to let out the sweat. His musk-ox wool socks were light as gossamer, yet incredibly warm. Pads of dried moss in his boots prevented blisters, and rawhide coils on the soles gave a good grip.
But nothing could protect him from the thinning air. His head ached. He felt constantly breathless. Worst of all was the knowledge that he was where he should not be.
The Gorge of the Hidden People was a bewildering maze of gullies and spurs and twisting valleys. Looming cliffs shut out the sky. The Redwater had fled underground. This was a world of stone.
And the Hidden People didn't want him here.
"They make you see things," Juksakai had said. "Once near the mouth of the Gorge, I found a snow-vole turned to stone. Another time I saw a great white bird vanish into the cliff."
"But what are the Hidden People?" Torak had asked. He knew they lived in lakes and streams and rocks; he'd even sensed them at times, and the memory was very bad. But he'd never paused to consider what they were, or where they came from.
"They used to be clans, like us," Juksakai had told him. "But long ago in the Great Hunger, they took to killing and eating people. The World Spirit punished them by decreeing that they must hide forever, only coming out when no one is near. That's why you never
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see them. If ever you get close, all you find are stones."
Torak sensed them peering at him from clefts in the rock face. He passed a ring of standing stones that leaned toward one another. Glancing back, he caught a blur of movement. As he walked, he heard a furtive rustling. It stopped when he did, but when he went on, it started again.
Around midafternoon, he paused for breath. "I mean you no harm," he told the dwellers in the rocks. "I seek the Soul-Eater. I have no quarrel with you."
A whirring overhead. He threw himself sideways. The boulder exploded on impact, pelting him with fragments.
Later, he heard the gurgle of water, and traced it to a spring in a gully. He found clumps of the heathery scrub Juksakai had used for waking fire; and an overhang that he could wall in with rocks, for a shelter.
No stones whistled down in the night, and he heard no strange howls. But there was no sign of Wolf, either.
Next morning the wind was gone. The stillness felt unnatural. Intentional.
Torak wasn't long out of the gully when he found tracks in the snow. Some time before, a pack of dogs had raced through the Gorge. Torak made out seven sets of prints, all bigger than any he'd ever seen.
Dry-mouthed, he drew his knife, and followed the trail around a spur.
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The young hare had been torn apart. Dark-red entrails were flung across the snow like discarded rope. Ice-rimed eyes stared from its mangled skull.
Torak pictured the hare's desperate zigzag as the dogs ran it down. They had ripped it apart, spattering flesh and brains over thirty paces, but eating nothing. They had done it because they could.
Pity and disgust churned inside him as he muttered a prayer for the hare's souls. But as he headed off, it was for himself that he prayed. He had told Renn that Eostra wanted him alive. But alive, he reflected, did not necessarily mean whole.
The smell of sweat wafted from the neck of his robe. A dog would scent that from a daywalk away. I'm frightened, it said.
A thud behind him.
He spun around.
And sagged with relief.
Rek raised her head from the hare's skull and gave a preocuppied croak, then went back to pecking out an eye.
As Torak sheathed his knife, Wolf came bounding toward him over the snow.
Did you follow the owl? asked Torak when their first delirious greeting was over.
Yes, said Wolf. But I didn't find the cub.
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I'm sorry.
Where is the pack-sister?
Safe, said Torak, but she hurt her paw.
You miss her.
Yes.
Me too.
Wolf snuffed the air. Dogs. Far away.
They're strong, and many, said Torak. Much danger.
Wolf leaned against him and wagged his tail.
They hadn't gone far when the Redwater reappeared, in an echoing channel under the cliffs. Rip and Rek flew to the top of a spur that cut across the Gorge, then back to Torak, calling impatiently. Come on, it's easy!
"No it's not," panted Torak as he and Wolf started to climb. The spur was made of knives. Some malign force had shivered its rocks into thousands of blades standing on edge. Even through his boots, Torak's feet were soon bruised. He hadn't gone far when he noticed that Wolf was limping. His pads were criss-crossed with cuts.
"I'm sorry," said Torak.
Wolf licked his ear.
In the Far North, Torak had seen sled dogs with paw-boots. The best he could do for Wolf was to bind his paws with strips of buckskin from his old jerkin. Wolf kept butting in to see what he was doing, and when the bindings were securely tied, Torak had to tell him sternly not to eat them.
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He was so intent on watching Wolf that he didn't realize when they reached the top of the spur. Straightening up, he caught his breath. The Gorge of the Hidden People lay behind him. Above him loomed the Mountain of Ghosts.
Its summit pierced the clouds. Its glaring white flanks warded him back. Sacred, sacred. A place of spirits, not of men.
Sinking to his knees, he sprinkled earthblood as an offering. In hushed tones, he begged the Mountain to forgive him for trespassing.
Clouds closed in, hiding it from view. Torak didn't know if that was a good sign or bad.
To his right, a scree slope fell steeply to a shadowy valley. Ahead, glimpsed through the swirling whiteness, a huge boulder field led onto the Mountain. The Redwater cascaded from a small black cave mouth nestled in its midst.
Torak made out a spiral marker on one of the boulders. Filled with apprehension, he s
tarted toward it. Wolf padded after him, his tail down.
The boulders were treacherous with ice, and in places the snow was deep enough to make the going hard. They struggled past another marker, and another. They were now on the very Mountain itself.
And Torak had to find somewhere to camp.
They came to a spur where snow had drifted deep.
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Torak was relieved. He preferred hacking out a snow hole to rearranging so much as a rock in this sacred place.
He didn't dare wake a fire. Huddled in his snow hole, he shared a scrap of smoked reindeer with Rip and Rek, while Wolf chewed the paw-boots--which, as his pads were already healing, Torak had given him for nightmeal.
As night deepened, Torak listened to the distant voice of the stream and the silence of the Mountain. It had allowed him to camp, but it could crush him in a heartbeat.
And Eostra ... What of the Soul-Eater who waited within?
With the assurance of absolute power, she had let him venture through the Gorge; but she could send her pack to take him whenever she wanted. And the day after tomorrow was Souls' Night.
On his forearm, Torak felt the weight of Renn's wrist-guard. She had never seemed so far away.
He dreams it is summer, and he is playing with Wolf in a lake strewn with yellow water lilies. Wolf leaps clear of the water and lands with a splash. Torak dives, trailing silver bubbles of underwater laughter. Still laughing, he bursts into the sun. Everything feels right. His world-soul is a golden thread stretching out to all living things. And there is Fa, standing smiling in the shallows. "Look behind you, Torak!"
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***
Torak jolted awake. He heard the boom of falling rocks. The ravens' stony alarm calls.
Yanking on his boots and grabbing his axe, he scrambled out of the snow hole--and into a wall of fog.
Rip and Rek were invisible; he couldn't see two paces ahead. He glimpsed Wolf, a gray blur racing over the stones.
Stumbling toward him, Torak saw that part of the spur had collapsed; a few boulders were still rolling to rest.
Wolf halted, his black lips peeled back in a snarl.
Torak followed his stare. In the fog, all he could make out were the rolling boulders.
Wolf's growls shook his whole body.
Torak narrowed his eyes.
Not boulders.
Dogs.
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TWENTY-SIX
Relentless as a tide, Eostra's pack surged toward them . through the fog. They were bigger than any wolf or dog Torak had ever seen. He took in shaggy manes clotted with filth. Bloodshot eyes empty of feeling.
Slipping off his mittens, he tucked them in his sleeves. He gripped his axe. Beside him, Wolf wrinkled his muzzle and bared his fangs.
Torak uttered a deep grunt-growl. Stay together. Wolf edged closer to him without taking his eyes off the pack.
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Silently, the dogs came on, utterly concentrated on their prey.
Defiance surged in Torak. All right, then. Let's see you fight.
One huge black beast lunged at him.
He swung his axe. Wolf leaped. The creature drew back, melting into the fog.
Another tried, then two together: harrying, disappearing, but always spreading out to surround them.
Torak knew what they were doing. With wolves and dogs, most hunts begin like this. Make the prey fight, make it run. Find the weakest. Go after that.
The weakest was Torak. He knew it. Wolf knew it. The dogs knew it.
Grabbing a stone, he threw it as hard as he could, hitting a brindled monster on the shoulder. The dog twitched an ear, as if at an importunate wasp.
The ravens dropped out of the sky with furious caws, their talons skimming the marauders' backs. The pack ignored them. Cowed, Rip and Rek flew higher--as if, thought Torak, they were already circling a carcass.
He threw more stones, and the dogs withdrew into the swirling white. But he could feel the ring closing in.
His grip on his axe was slippery with sweat. An axe wouldn't be much use except in close combat, and if it came to that, he wouldn't stand a chance. The only
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weapon that would've been any good was his bow, and that was in the snow hole, five paces away. It might as well be five hundred.
With the speed of a striking snake, a huge gray beast went for Wolf. Wolf whirled, sank his teeth into its rump. With a yowl it ripped free and fled, spattering blood.
The pack went on circling.
Wolf shook himself, unhurt.
At the corner of his vision, Torak glimpsed a black blur leaping toward him. He swung his axe, struck a glancing blow on the skull. The creature fell with a thud, then sprang to its feet as if nothing had happened.
As the pack prowled around them, the brindled beast--the leader--walked stiffly forward and halted three paces from Torak. Torak felt Wolf tense for the attack. Urgently, he told him to stand his ground.
The leader's small, dull eyes fixed Torak's, and for an instant, he knew its mind. What it saw before it was not a boy, but a sack of meat, to be savaged till it moved no more. What kept that black heart beating was rage at all these running, howling sacks of life --this life which must be destroyed.
By an act of will, Torak tore his gaze away.
He had an image of himself lying dead. Then he realized that that was wrong, it wouldn't be his body; Eostra wanted him alive. This was about getting Wolf away from him: about slaughtering his pack-brother.
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Two dogs sprang at him. Wolf darted to intercept in a flurry of fur and fangs. The brindled leader attacked Torak from behind. His axe caught it flat on the ribs. With a yowl it slunk back--but only a pace.
As Torak ran to help Wolf, the leader sprang again, seizing the hem of his tunic in its jaws, dragging him down. He lashed out. It dodged, hauling him after it, strong as a bear. Torak slipped, nearly lost his footing. He pretended to weaken, let the creature drag him closer-- then brought down his boot, heel-stamping between the eyes. For a moment the great jaws loosened. Torak wrenched his tunic free and staggered back to Wolf.
With a wet slapping of jowls, the leader shook itself, then lowered its head for the next attack.
Three dogs sprang at Torak, four at Wolf. But in midair the marauders yelped and twisted, as if struck from behind. Stones came hurtling through the fog. The pack faltered, casting about for the unseen attacker.
Torak thought he glimpsed a pale figure vanish into the fog.
Who's that? he asked Wolf.
Tailless, Wolf told him.
More stones smacked into the dogs: now from one side, now from another. Confused, the pack turned from Torak and Wolf and sought its mysterious assailant.
Shakily, Torak touched his pack-brother's scruff. Wolf's rump was bleeding, his left ear torn, but his eyes
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were bright; he wasn't even panting.
Torak was. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs.
He thought fast. Whoever was distracting the dogs wouldn't be able to do so for long. They would be back. And although Wolf could keep up the defense all day, he, Torak, could not. Soon he would go down. And they would kill Wolf.
Behind him, Torak saw a narrow cleft on the other side of the spur: a crack in the Mountain. He backed toward it.
Wolf threw him a warning look. No!
Torak kept moving. Reluctantly, Wolf came too. The dogs, battling a hail of stones, didn't notice.
The snow was knee-deep, but at last Torak reached the end of the cleft. The relief when he felt solid rock against his shoulders! Now he could last all day: eating snow, warding off attacks which could come only from the front.
Abruptly, the hail of stones ceased. The invisible guardian was gone. For an instant, Torak wondered who it had been; then he forgot about that. Once again, the pack was moving in.
Beside him, Wolf bristled with dismay. He'd followed Torak out of loyalty, but this went against everything he kne
w: no wolf backs into a place from which there is only one way out.
And Torak couldn't explain why he'd done it, because
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Wolf wasn't able to think like prey. Torak, though, found it all too easy; and he'd seen enough encounters between wolves and reindeer to know how it works. Wolves--and dogs--hunt those who run. If you're prey, your best chance is to stand and fight.
He was right, but he'd underestimated Wolf.
For an instant, the amber gaze grazed his. In that moment, Torak sensed what he meant to do. No, Wolf, no, it's just what they want! Too late. A gap opened in the pack--and Wolf shot through it. The dogs sped after him.
It all happened in the blink of an eye, but Torak knew that he must seize the chance Wolf had given him.
Jamming his axe into his belt, he reached for the rocks and began to climb.
The last thing he saw before he boosted himself up the cleft was Wolf racing down the slope with Eostra's pack on his tail.
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TWENTY-SEVEN
Wolf flew over the rocks and the dogs flew after him. Wolf hated running away--but he had to save Tall Tailless.
Wolf was heading for a great slope of Bright Soft Cold. From the voice of the wind coming off it, he knew it was deep, maybe wolf high. So. The pack meant to chase him where even a wolf must flounder. But he knew this trick, he used it himself when he hunted deer. Did they think they could fool him?
Slowing his pace, he let the lead dog lope closer, till he caught the stony thud of its dark heart. It was snapping its chops, as if already tasting his flesh.
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Too soon. As Wolf reached the edge of the Bright Soft Cold, he spun on one forepaw and leaped sideways onto solid rock. The dog behind him was too heavy, it couldn't turn in time. As Wolf sped off, he heard it thrashing and snarling in the Bright Soft Cold. Wolf threw up his tail. They might be bigger than him, but he was faster]
Although not by much. Already they were gaining on him again.
Over the pebbles he went, flicking his torn ear back to listen, the other ear forward for danger ahead.
He smelled darkness rushing toward him. The wind that blew from it made a booming sound--it was coming from underground. Suddenly there was no more stone in front and the Mountain opened to swallow him. Skittering to a halt, he saw that the crack was many paces across. From deep within came a howling cold.
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