Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Read online

The wind screamed in triumph.

  A sharp pain pierced his insides – and he was Torak again, and he was falling out of the sky.

  SEVEN

  Torak woke in the blue gloom of the snow cave with the wind’s angry laughter ringing in his ears.

  Renn was kneeling over him, looking scared. ‘Oh, thank the Spirit! I’ve been trying to wake you all morning!’

  ‘All – morning?’ he mumbled. He felt like a piece of rawhide that had been pummelled and scraped.

  ‘It’s midday,’ said Renn. ‘What happened? You were breathing in snow, and your eyes had turned up inside your head. It was horrible!’

  ‘Fell,’ he said. With each breath, pain stabbed his ribs, and every joint screamed. But his limbs still obeyed him; so no broken bones. ‘Do I – bruises?’

  She shook her head. ‘But souls get bruises too.’

  He lay still, staring at a droplet about to fall from the roof. The Soul-Eaters had taken Wolf.

  ‘Did you see the trail?’ said Renn.

  He swallowed. ‘North. They headed north.’

  She sensed that he was keeping something back. ‘As soon as you went into a trance,’ she said, ‘the wind blew up. It sounded angry.’

  ‘I was flying. I wasn’t supposed to.’

  The drop landed on Renn’s parka and lost itself in the fur: like a soul falling to earth.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ she said.

  Raising himself painfully on one elbow, Torak peered through the slit. The wind was blowing softly, but the ghostly snow-fingers were back.

  ‘I don’t think it’s finished with us,’ said Renn.

  Torak lay down again, and drew his sleeping-sack under his chin. The Soul-Eaters had taken Wolf.

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her – at least, not yet. If she knew, she might insist that they went back to the Forest for help. She might leave.

  He shut his eyes.

  ‘But who are the Soul-Eaters?’ he’d once asked Fin-Kedinn. ‘I don’t even know their names.’

  ‘Few do,’ Fin-Kedinn had replied, ‘and they don’t speak of them.’

  ‘Do you know?’ Torak had demanded. ‘Why won’t you tell me? It’s my destiny to fight them!’

  ‘In time,’ was all the Raven Leader would say.

  Torak couldn’t make him out. Fin-Kedinn had taken him in when his father was killed; and long ago, Fa and he had been good friends. But he rarely spoke of the past, and only ever revealed what he thought Torak needed to know.

  So now all Torak knew was that the Soul-Eaters had plotted to rule the Forest. Then their power had been shattered in a great fire, and they’d gone into hiding. Two of the seven had since met their deaths – and thus, under clan law, couldn’t be mentioned by name for the next five winters. One of them had been Torak’s father.

  Deep in his chest, Torak felt the familiar ache. Fa had joined them to do good; that was what Fin-Kedinn had told him. That was what Torak clung to. When they’d become evil, Fa had tried to leave, and they’d turned on him. For thirteen winters he’d been a hunted man, raising his son apart from the clans, never mentioning his past. Then, the autumn before last, the Soul-Eaters had sent the demon bear that killed him.

  Now they’d taken Wolf.

  But why Wolf, and not Torak? Why, why, why?

  He fell asleep to the moaning of the wind.

  Someone was shaking him, calling his name.

  ‘Wha?’ he mumbled into a mouthful of reindeer fur.

  ‘Torak, wake up!’ cried Renn. ‘We can’t get out!’

  Awkwardly he sat up as far as the low roof would allow. Beside him, Renn was struggling not to panic.

  The slit in the shelter was gone. In its place was a wall of hard-packed snow.

  ‘I’ve been digging,’ she said, ‘but I can’t break through. We’re snowed in. It must have drifted in the night.’

  Torak noticed that she said “it drifted”, rather than “the wind did this, burying us while we slept”.

  ‘Where’s my axe?’ he said.

  Her face worked. ‘Outside. They’re both outside, where we left them. With the rest of our gear.’

  He took that in silence.

  ‘I should have brought them inside,’ said Renn.

  ‘There wasn’t room.’

  ‘I should’ve made room. I should’ve thought.’

  ‘You were looking after me, it’s not your fault. We’ve got knives. We’ll dig ourselves out.’

  He drew his knife. Fin-Kedinn had made it for him last summer: a slender blade of reindeer shinbone, slotted with leaf-thin flakes of flint. It wasn’t meant for digging in wind-hardened snow. Fa’s blue slate knife would have been better; but Fin-Kedinn had warned Torak to keep it hidden in his pack. He regretted that now.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ he said, trying to sound calm.

  It was frightening, digging a tunnel with no idea how far they had to go. There was nowhere to put the hacked-out snow except behind them, so no matter how hard they worked, they remained trapped in the same cramped hole. The dripping walls pressed in, and their breath sounded panicky and loud.

  After they’d moved about an arm’s length, Torak put down his knife. ‘This isn’t working.’

  Renn met his eyes. Her own were huge. ‘You’re right. A drift like this, it could go on for . . . We might never break out.’

  He saw the effort she was making to stay calm, and guessed that she was thinking of her father. He said, ‘We’ll dig upwards instead.’

  She nodded.

  It was much harder, digging up. Chunks of snow fell in their eyes and down their necks, and their arms ached savagely. They worked back-to-back, trampling the snow beneath their boots. Torak clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt.

  Gradually, the snow above him began to turn a warmer blue. ‘Renn! Look!’

  She’d seen it.

  Feverishly they hammered with their knife-hilts. Suddenly it cracked like an eggshell – and they were through.

  The glare was blinding, the cold burned their lungs. They stood with upturned faces, gaping like baby birds; then scrambled out and collapsed on the snow. A faint breeze chilled their sweat-soaked hair. The wind was gone.

  Torak gave a shaky laugh.

  Renn lay on her back, staring into nothingness.

  Sitting up, Torak saw that their shelter had been buried beneath a long, sloping hill that hadn’t existed the night before. ‘Our gear,’ he said. ‘Where’s our gear?’

  Renn scrambled to her feet.

  Apart from their knives and sleeping-sacks, everything they needed: bows, arrows, axes, food, firewood, waterskins, cooking-skins – everything – lay buried somewhere under the snow.

  With exaggerated calm, Torak brushed off his leggings. ‘We know where the shelter is. We’ll dig a trench around it.

  Sooner or later, we’ll find it.’ But he knew as well as Renn that if they didn’t find their gear before dark, they might not survive another night. This one mistake could be the death of them.

  After so much effort digging up, it was a bitter blow to have to dig down; and as soon as they started, the wind returned, gusting snow about them in blinding, choking clouds.

  Torak was beginning to lose hope when Renn gave a shout. ‘My bow! I’ve found my bow!’

  It was late afternoon by the time they found everything, and by then they were exhausted, drenched in sweat, and ragingly thirsty.

  ‘We should dig in,’ panted Renn, ‘wait till dawn.’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Torak. The need to go after Wolf was overwhelming.

  ‘I know,’ said Renn. ‘I know.’

  After eating a little dried meat and draining their waterskins, they tied strips of wovenbark over their eyes to keep out the glare – uncomfortably aware that they should have done this earlier – and set off, heading north by the sun, which was getting low.

  Torak’s head was throbbing, and he was stumbling with fatigue. He had an uneasy sense that they shouldn’t be doing t
his – that they weren’t thinking straight – but he was too tired to sort it out.

  The wide plains gave way to steep hills and dizzying blue ridges of windblown snow. In places, these formed precarious overhangs that reared above them like monstrous, frozen waves. And always the north wind blew. Angry. Vengeful. Unappeased.

  In the shifting snow, it became hard to judge distances. It didn’t feel as if they’d walked far, but when Torak crested a hill and glanced back, he saw that the Forest was gone.

  A savage gust punched him in the back and he fell, rolling all the way to the bottom.

  Renn floundered after him. ‘Should’ve used your axe to break your fall,’ she mumbled as she helped him up. His axe had been stuck in his belt; there’d been no time to pull it out.

  From then on, they walked with axes in hand.

  They’d been tired when they set off, but now every step was an effort. Thirst returned, but they’d run out of wood for melting snow. They knew they shouldn’t try eating it, but they did anyway. It blistered their mouths and gave them cramps. And still the wind blew: pelting their faces with tiny darts of ice until their cheeks cracked and their lips bled.

  We don’t belong here, Torak thought hazily. Everything’s wrong. Nothing’s as it should be.

  Once, they heard the gobbling of willow grouse, startlingly close, but when they searched, the birds had vanished.

  Another time, Renn saw a man in the distance; but when they reached him, he turned out to be a pile of rocks, with fluttering strands of hair and hide tied to his arms. Who had made him, and why?

  Their sweat-soaked jerkins chilled them to the bone, and snow froze to their outer clothes, making them heavy and stiff. Their faces burned, then turned numb. Something the Walker had said surfaced in Torak’s memory. First you’re cold, then you’re not . . . What came after that?

  Renn was tugging his sleeve, pointing at the sky.

  He swayed.

  Purple-grey clouds were boiling up from the north.

  ‘Storm!’ she shouted. ‘Keep together!’ Already she was dragging a coil of rawhide rope from her pack. They’d been in a snowstorm before, and knew how easy it is to get separated.

  ‘We’ve got to dig in!’ she yelled as she struggled to tie one end of the frozen rope about her waist.

  ‘Where?’ he shouted, tying his end clumsily about him.

  The land had turned flat again.

  ‘Down!’ she shouted. ‘Dig down! A snow hole!’ She stamped up and down, feeling for firmer snow – and suddenly it broke beneath her, and she was gone.

  ‘Renn!’ shouted Torak.

  The rope at his waist snapped taut, yanking him forwards. He threw himself back, dug in his heels. He couldn’t see anything – just churning white chaos – but he could feel her weight on the rope, dragging him down.

  Struggling, slipping, he slid inexorably forwards – and toppled . . . a few paces onto a pile of broken snow.

  The snow heaved. It was Renn.

  They sat up, badly shaken, but unhurt.

  Craning his neck, Torak saw that they’d gone through an overhang. Without knowing it, they’d been walking on a fragile crust over thin air.

  For Renn, this was the last arrow that brings down the auroch. ‘I can’t go on!’ she cried, striking the snow with her fists.

  ‘We have to dig in!’ yelled Torak. But he knew it was hopeless. He barely had the strength to lift his axe.

  With one final, wild burst of pride, he staggered to his feet and shouted at the wind. ‘All right, you’ve won! I’m sorry! I’ll never dare fly again! I’m sorry!’

  The wind screamed. Terrible shapes flew at him through the snow. A twisting column whirled towards him, then blew apart . . .

  Suddenly the snow seemed not to blow apart, but to draw together: thousands of tiny flakes meeting, coalescing, to form a creature unlike any he’d ever seen.

  It had the staring eyes of an owl, and it flew towards him through the whiteness. Before it surged a silent pack of dogs.

  Torak was too exhausted to be frightened. It’s over, he thought numbly. I’m sorry, Wolf. Sorry I couldn’t save you.

  He sank to his knees as the owl-eyed creature bore down upon him.

  EIGHT

  The owl-eyed creature bellowed a command, and the dogs slewed to a halt. Whipping out a long curved knife, it started hacking a snow hole with astonishing speed. In moments, Torak and Renn were seized and thrown in, and a wall of snow was yanked down on top.

  After the fury of the wind, the rasp of breath was loud in the gloom. Torak heard the creak of frozen hide; caught a rancid smell that was oddly familiar. He couldn’t see Renn – the creature had leapt in between them – but he was too wretched to care.

  To his surprise he found that he wasn’t cold any more, he was hot. First you’re cold, he thought, then you’re not; then you’re hot, and then you die.

  He found that he liked death. It was beautifully warm and soft, like the pelt of a great white reindeer. He wanted to draw it over his head and snuggle down deep . . .

  Someone was shaking him. He moaned. Owl eyes stared into his, jolting him back from his lovely warm death.

  He made out a ruff of snow-caked fur framing a round face purpled by frost. Ice crusted the brows and the short black beard. The flat nose had a dark band tattooed across it, which Torak didn’t recognise. He just wanted to go back to death.

  The creature snarled. Then it plucked out its eyes.

  Torak saw that the owl eyes were thin bone discs on a strap. The man’s real eyes were permanently slitted against the glare. Swiftly he yanked back the sleeve of his parka, took out a flint knife, and cut a vein in his stocky brown forearm. ‘Drink!’ he barked, pressing the wound to Torak’s lips.

  Salty-sweet heat filled Torak’s mouth. He coughed, and swallowed blood. Strength and warmth coursed through him: real warmth, not the false heat of frostbite. With it came pain. His face was on fire. Burning needles pierced his joints.

  In the gloom, he heard Renn. ‘Leave me ‘lone! Want to sleep!’

  Now the man was chewing something. He spat a grey lump into his hand, and pushed it between Torak’s teeth. ‘Eat!’

  It was rancid and oily, and he recognized the taste. Seal blubber. It was wonderful.

  The man smeared more chewed blubber over Torak’s face. At first it hurt – the man’s palm was rough as granite – but amazingly soon, the pain faded to a bearable throb.

  ‘Who are you?’ mumbled Torak.

  ‘Later,’ grunted the man, ‘when the wind’s anger is spent.’

  ‘How long will that be?’ said Renn.

  ‘One sleep, many, who knows? Now no more talk!’

  Torak is twelve summers old, and Fa has been dead for nearly half a moon.

  Torak has just killed his first roe buck, and to keep Wolf quiet while he’s skinning it, he’s given him the hooves; but the cub has tired of playing with them, and trots over to poke his muzzle into what Torak is doing.

  Torak is washing deer gut in the stream. Wolf grabs the other end in his jaws and tugs. Torak tugs back. Wolf goes down on his forepaws and lashes his tail. A game!

  Torak bites back a smile. ‘No, it isn’t a game.’ Wolf persists. Torak tells him firmly in wolf talk to let go – and the cub obeys so promptly that Torak topples backwards into the water. Wolf pounces, and now they’re splashing about, and Torak is laughing. His father is still dead; but he’s no longer alone. He’s found a pack-brother.

  When he gets to his feet, the stream is frozen. Winter has the Forest in its grip. Wolf is full-grown, and trotting off through the glittering trees – trotting off with Fa.

  ‘Come back!’ shouts Torak, but the north wind carries his voice away. The wind is so strong that he can hardly stand, but it has no power to touch Wolf or Fa. Not a breath stirs Fa’s long black hair; not a whisper ruffles Wolf’s silver fur.

  ‘Come back!’ he cries. They can’t hear him. Helplessly he watches them walk away through the trees.r />
  He woke with a start. His chest ached with loss. His cheeks were stiff with frozen tears.

  He was huddled in his sleeping-sack. His clothes were damp inside, and he was so cold that he was beyond shivering. Sitting up, he saw that he was no longer in the snowhole, but in a domed shelter made of blocks of snow. On a flat stone lamp, a sludge of pounded blubber burned with a low orange flame. Above it hung a seal’s bladder of melting ice. From the stillness outside, the storm had blown over. The strange man had gone.

  ‘I had a terrible dream,’ muttered Renn beside him. Her face was scabbed and blistered; there were dark smudges under her eyes.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. His face felt sore, and it hurt to talk. ‘I dreamt that Wolf –’

  The strange man crawled into the shelter. He was short and stocky, and his seal-hide parka made him look even stockier. Throwing back his hood, he revealed a flat face framed by short dark hair, with a fringe across his brow. His eyes were black slits of distrust. ‘You’re from the Far South,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘Who are you?’ countered Torak.

  ‘Inuktiluk. White Fox Clan. I was sent to find you.’

  ‘Why?’ said Renn.

  The White Fox man tossed his head. ‘Look at you! Your clothes are sopping wet! Don’t you know it’s not snow that kills, but wet? Here. Get out of them and into these.’ He tossed them two hide bundles.

  They were so cold that they didn’t argue. Their limbs were as useless as sticks, and it took forever to get undressed. The bundles turned out to be sleeping-sacks of silvery seal fur, lined with an inner sack of soft birdskin, with the feathers on the inside. These were so warm that they felt better almost at once; but Torak realized with alarm that the White Fox man had disappeared, taking their clothes with him. Now they were completely in his power.

  ‘He left us some food,’ said Renn. She sniffed a strip of frozen seal meat.

  Still in his sleeping-sack, Torak shuffled to the wall, and peered through a crack.

  What he’d taken for the roof of the snow hole in which they’d sheltered overnight was in fact a large sled, which now stood upright. Its runners were the jawbones of a whale, its cross-bars the antlers of reindeer. A tangled harness disappeared into a smooth white hillock, and into five other hillocks a little further off. From the middle of each came a thin whisp of steam.