Clenching his teeth, Torak forced himself to strike another blow. More shards crashed down, the echoes rumbling on and on.
The ice was hard, and he didn’t dare swing his axe for fear of toppling off the ledge, but after much anxious chipping he managed four notches at staggered intervals as high as he could reach, with about a forearm’s length between each one. They were frighteningly shallow – no deeper than his thumb-joint – and he had no idea if they’d hold. If he put his weight on one, it might give way, taking him with it.
Shoving his axe back in his belt, he took off his mittens and felt in his pack for the antlers and the last strips of rawhide. His fingers were clumsy with cold, and tying the antlers to his wrists was infuriatingly difficult. At last, using his teeth to tighten the knots, he managed it.
With his right hand he reached for the notch above his head, and dug deep with the jagged edge of the antler. It bit and held. With his left foot, he felt for the first foothold, just a little higher than the ledge. He found it and stepped onto it.
His pack was pulling him backwards into the ice hole. Desperately he leaned forward, pressing his face into the ice – and regained his balance.
Wolf yipped at him to hurry. Snow showered down into his hair.
‘Stay back!’ Renn hissed at the cub.
Torak heard sounds of a scuffle – more snow trickled down – then Wolf gave a peevish growl.
‘Just a bit further,’ said Renn. ‘Don’t look down.’
Too late. Torak had just done so, and caught a sickening glimpse of the void below.
He reached for the next handhold, and missed, snapping off a crust of ice that nearly took him with it. He fought for the handhold – and the antler bit just in time.
Slowly, slowly, he bent his right leg and found the next foothold, about a forearm higher than the one he’d stepped onto with his left. But as he heaved himself onto it, his knee began to shake.
Oh, very clever, Torak, he told himself. You’ve just put all your weight on the wrong leg – the one you hurt in the fall! ‘My knee’s going,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t –’
‘Yes you can,’ urged Renn. ‘Reach for that last handhold, I’ll grab you . . .’
His shoulders were burning; his pack felt as if it was filled with rocks. He gave a huge push and his knee buckled. Then a hand grabbed the shoulder strap of his pack and he was half-pulled, half-pushed out of the hole.
Torak and Renn lay panting at the edge of the ice hole. Then they heaved themselves up, staggered away from the ice cliffs, and collapsed in a drift of powdery snow. Wolf thought it a huge game, and pranced round them with a big wolf smile.
Renn gave way to panicky laughter. ‘That was far too close! Next time, look where you’re going!’
‘I’ll try!’ panted Torak. He lay on his back, letting the breeze waft snow over his cheeks. High in the sky, thin white clouds were stacking up like petals. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
Behind him, Wolf was clawing at something in the ice.
‘What have you got there?’ said Torak.
But Wolf had freed his prize and was tossing it high and catching it in his jaws, in one of his favourite games. He leapt to catch it in mid-air, gave it a couple of chews, then bounded over and spat it out on Torak’s face. Another favourite game. ‘Ow!’ said Torak. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ Then he saw what it was. It was about the size of a small fist: brown, furry and oddly flattened, probably by an ice-fall. The look of outrage on its little face struck Torak as inexpressibly funny.
‘What is it?’ said Renn, taking a pull at the waterskin.
He felt laughter welling up inside him. ‘A frozen lemming.’
Renn burst out laughing, spraying water all over the ice.
‘Squashed flat,’ gasped Torak, rolling around in the snow. ‘You should see its face! So – surprised!’
‘No, don’t!’ cried Renn, clutching her sides.
They laughed till it hurt, while Wolf pranced around with a joyful rocking gait, tossing and catching the frozen lemming. At last he tossed it extravagantly high, made a spectacular twisting leap, and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he decided he was hot, and flopped into a pool of meltwater to cool down.
Renn sat up, wiping her eyes. ‘Does he ever just fetch things, instead of throwing them in your face?’
Torak shook his head. ‘I’ve tried asking him. He never does.’
He got to his feet. It was turning colder. The wind had strengthened, and powdery snow was streaming over the ground like smoke. The petal-like clouds had completely covered the sun.
‘Look,’ said Renn beside him. She was pointing east.
He glanced round and saw clouds boiling up over the ice cliffs. ‘Oh, no,’ he murmured.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Renn. She had to raise her voice above the wind. ‘A snowstorm.’
The ice river had woken up. And it was angry.
TWENTY-FIVE
The fury of the ice river broke upon them with terrifying force.
Torak had to lean into the blast just to stay standing, and clutch his cape to stop it being ripped away. Through the streaming snow, he saw Renn pushing forwards with all her strength; Wolf staggering sideways, his eyes slitted against the wind. The ice river had them in its grip and it wasn’t letting go. It howled till Torak’s ears ached, and scoured his face with flying ice; it spun him round till he could no longer see Renn, or Wolf, or even his own boots. At any moment it might hurl him into an ice hole . . .
Through the swirling whiteness he caught sight of a dark pillar. A rock? A snowdrift? Could it be that they’d finally reached the edge of the ice river?
Renn grabbed his arm. ‘We can’t go on!’ she shouted. ‘We’ve got to dig in and wait till it’s over!’
‘Not yet!’ he yelled. ‘Look! We’re nearly there!’
He battled on towards the pillar. It shattered and blew apart. It was nothing but a snow cloud: the ice river’s vicious trick. He turned to Renn. ‘You’re right! We’ve got to dig a snow cave!’
But Renn was gone.
‘Renn! Renn!’ The ice river tore her name from his lips and whirled it away into the gathering dusk.
He dropped to his knees and groped for Wolf. His mitten found fur, and he clutched the cub. Wolf was casting around for Renn’s scent. But what could even a wolf pick up in this?
Amazingly, Wolf pricked his ears and stared straight ahead. Torak thought he saw a figure gliding through the snow. ‘Renn!’
Wolf leapt after it, and Torak followed, but he hadn’t gone far when the wind threw him against solid ice. He fell back, nearly crushing the cub. He’d blundered into what looked like an ice hill. In its side was a hole just big enough to crawl through. A snow cave? Surely Renn wouldn’t have had time to dig one so quickly?
With one bound, Wolf disappeared inside. After a moment’s hesitation, Torak followed.
The clamour of the ice river died down as he crawled into the darkness. With ice-caked mittens he felt out his surroundings. A low roof, so low that he had to crouch on hands and knees; a slab of ice by the entrance hole. Someone must have cut it for a door. But who?
‘Renn?’ he called.
No reply.
He pushed the slab across the hole, and the stillness closed in around him. He could hear Wolf licking the snow from his paws; ice sliding from his own shoulders.
He put out his hand, and Wolf gave a warning growl. Torak snatched his hand away. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. Renn wasn’t in here – but something was. Something that waited in the dark. ‘Who’s there?’ he said.
The icy blackness seemed to tense.
Wrenching off his mittens with his teeth, he whipped out his knife. ‘Who’s there?’
Still no answer. He groped for one of Renn’s rushlights. His fingers were so cold that he dropped his tinder pouch. It took forever to find it again; to hit the flint against the strike-fire, and shower sparks on the little pile of yew bark shavings in his hand, but
at last the rushlight flared.
He cried out. He forgot about the ice river, he even forgot about Renn.
Almost touching his knee lay a man.
He was dead.
Torak flattened himself against the ice wall. If Wolf hadn’t warned him, he would have touched the corpse – and to touch the dead is to risk terrible danger. When the souls leave the body, they can be angry, confused, or simply unwilling to embark on the Death Journey. If one of the living strays too close, the disembodied souls may try to possess it, or follow it home.
All this rushed through Torak’s mind as he stared at the dead man.
His lips looked chiselled from ice; his flesh was waxen yellow. Snow had drifted into his nostrils in a cruel parody of breath, but his ice-filmed eyes were open, staring at something Torak couldn’t see: something that was cradled in the crook of his dead arm.
Wolf seemed unafraid, even drawn to the corpse. He lay with his muzzle between his paws, gazing at it steadily.
The dead man had worn his long brown hair loose, except for a single lock at the temple, matted with red ochre. Torak thought of the Red Deer woman at Fin-Kedinn’s clan meet; she’d worn her hair the same way. Had this man been of the same clan? The same clan as Torak’s own mother?
He felt the stirrings of pity. What was the man’s name? What had he been seeking out here, and how had he died?
Then Torak saw that on the brown forehead, a shaky circle had been daubed in red ochre. The thick winter parka had been wrenched open, and another circle drawn on the breastbone. Torak guessed that if he were reckless enough to remove the heavy, furred boots, he’d find a similar mark on each heel. Death Marks. The man must have felt death coming for him, and put on his own marks so that his souls would stay together after he died. That must be why he’d left the slab ajar too: to set the souls free.
‘You were brave,’ said Torak out loud. ‘You didn’t flinch from death.’ He remembered the figure he’d glimpsed in the snow. Had that been one of the souls setting out on its final journey? Could you see souls? Torak didn’t know.
‘Be at peace,’ he told the corpse. ‘May your souls find their rest, and stay together.’ He bowed his head for his dead kinsman.
Wolf sat up, pricking his ears at the corpse. Torak was startled. Wolf seemed to be listening.
Torak leaned closer.
The dead man gazed calmly at the thing cradled in his arm. But when Torak saw what it was, he was even more puzzled. It was an ordinary lamp: a smooth oval of red sandstone about half the size of his palm, with a shallow bowl to hold the fish oil, and a groove for the wick of twisted beard-moss. The wick had long since burned away, and all that remained of the oil was a faint greyish stain.
Beside him, Wolf gave a high, soft whine. His hackles were up but he didn’t seem frightened. That whine had been – a greeting.
Torak frowned. Wolf had acted like that before. In the cave below the Thunder Falls.
His eyes returned to the dead man. He pictured his final moments: curled in the snow, watching the small, bright flame as his own life flickered and sank . . .
Suddenly, Torak knew. ‘Coldest of all, the darkest light.’ The darkest light is the last light a man sees before he dies.
He had found the third piece of the Nanuak.
Gripping the rushlight in one hand, Torak untied the ravenskin pouch with the other, and tipped the box into the snow.
‘Uff!’ warned Wolf.
Torak slipped off the hair cord and lifted the lid. The river eyes stared blindly up at him, nestled in the curve of the black stone tooth. There was just enough room beside them for the lamp: almost, he thought, as if Renn had known how big to make the box.
With numb fingers he pulled on one mitten and leaned over the dead man – being careful not to touch him – and lifted the lamp clear. It was only when he’d got it safely boxed and back in the pouch that he realised he’d been holding his breath.
It was time to go and find Renn. Quickly he tied the pouch to his belt. But as he turned to push the slab aside, something made him stop.
He had all three pieces of the Nanuak. Here, in this snow cave, where he was safe.
‘If you get caught in a snowstorm,’ Renn had said, ‘you dig yourself a snow cave and wait till it stops.’ If he ignored that now – if he braved the wrath of the ice river to look for her – he probably wouldn’t survive. The Nanuak would be buried with him. The entire Forest would be doomed.
If he didn’t, Renn might die.
Torak sat back on his heels. Wolf watched him intently, his amber eyes quite un-cub-like.
The rushlight wavered in Torak’s hand. He couldn’t just leave her. She was his friend. But could he – should he – risk the Forest to save her?
As never before, he longed for Fa. Fa would know what to do . . .
But Fa isn’t here, he told himself. You’ve got to decide. You, Torak. By yourself.
Wolf tilted his head to one side, waiting to see what Torak would do.
TWENTY-SIX
Torak!’ yelled Renn at the top of her voice. ‘Torak! Wolf! Where are you!’
She was alone in the storm. They could be three paces away and she’d never see them. They could have fallen down an ice hole and she’d never hear the screams.
The wind tossed her into a drift, and she choked on snow. One of her mittens slipped off, and the ice river blew it away. ‘No!’ she shouted, beating the snow with her fists. ‘No, no, no!’
On her hands and knees, she crawled into the wind. Stay calm. Find solid snow. Dig in.
After an endless struggle, she hit a snow hill. The wind had packed it hard, but not so hard that it was solid ice. Wrenching her axe from her belt, she began hacking a hole.
Torak’s probably doing the same thing, she told herself. By the Spirit, I hope so.
With surprising speed, she hacked out a hollow just big enough to take herself and her pack, if she curled up small. The digging warmed her, but she could no longer feel her mittenless hand.
Crawling in backwards, she piled the scooped-out chunks in the entrance hole, walling herself up in the freezing darkness. Her breath soon melted the ice that caked her clothes, and she began to shake. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that her mittenless fingers were white and hard. She tried to flex them, but they didn’t move.
She knew about frostbite: the Boar Clan Leader’s son, Aki, had lost three toes to it last winter. If she didn’t warm up her fingers soon, they’d turn black and die; then she’d have to cut them off, or she would die too. Desperately, she blew on them, then shoved her hand inside her jerkin, under her armpit. The hand felt heavy and cold; no longer part of her.
Fresh terrors arose. Would she die alone, like her father? Would she never see Fin-Kedinn again? Where were Torak and Wolf? Even if they survived, how would she find them?
Pulling off her remaining mitten, she fumbled at her neck for the grouse-bone whistle that Torak had given her. She blew hard. It made no sound. Was she doing it right? Would Wolf be able to hear it? Maybe it only worked for Torak. Maybe you had to be the Listener.
She blew till she felt giddy and sick. They won’t come, she thought. They’ll have dug in long ago. If they’re still alive.
The whistle tasted salty. Was that the grouse bone, or was she crying? No point crying, she told herself. Screwing her eyes shut, she went on blowing.
She awoke to find herself floating in beautiful heat. The snow was as warm and soft as reindeer skins. She snuggled into it, so drowsy that she couldn’t even lift her eyelids . . . much too drowsy to crawl into her sleeping-sack . . .
Voices dragged her awake. Fin-Kedinn and Saeunn had come to visit her.
I wish they’d let me sleep, she thought hazily.
Her brother was sneering, as he always did. ‘Why did she make it so small? Why can’t she ever do things properly?’
‘Hord, that’s not true,’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘She did her best.’
‘Still,’ said Saeunn, ‘s
he could have made a better door.’
‘I was too tired,’ mumbled Renn.
Just then, the door blew open, scattering ice all over her. ‘Shut the door!’ she protested.
One of the camp dogs jumped on top of her, showering her with snow, and nudging his cold nose under her chin. She batted him away. ‘Bad dog! Go ‘way!’
‘Wake up, Renn!’ Torak shouted in her ear.
‘I’m asleep,’ murmured Renn, burying her face in the snow.
‘No you’re not!’ shouted Torak. He was longing for sleep himself, but first he had to make room for him and Wolf, and waken Renn. If she fell asleep now, it would be for ever. ‘Renn, come on!’ He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. ‘Wake up!’
‘Leave me alone,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
But she wasn’t. Her face was blotched and inflamed by the flying ice, her eyes almost swollen shut. The fingers of her right hand were hard and waxy, unnervingly like those of the Red Deer corpse.
As Torak hacked at the snow, he wondered how much longer she would have lasted if Wolf hadn’t found her; and how much longer he and Wolf would have lasted if they hadn’t found her snow cave. Torak was nearly worn out; he’d never have had the strength to start one afresh.
Of the three of them, Wolf was holding up the best. His fur was so thick that the snow lay on top of it without even melting. One good shake, and the snow flew off, showering them all.
Swaying with exhaustion, Torak finished enlarging the snow cave, and walled up the entrance again, leaving a gap at the top to let out the smoke from the fire he’d promised himself. Then he knelt beside Renn, and after several attempts, dragged her sleeping-sack out from behind her. ‘Get into this,’ he growled.
She kicked it away.
Scooping snow between his frozen fists, he rubbed it into her face and hands.
‘Ow!’ she yelped.
‘Wake up or I’ll kill you,’ he snarled.
‘You are killing me,’ she snapped.
Knowing he had to make a fire soon, he rubbed his own hands in the snow, then tried to warm them in his armpits. As feeling returned, so did pain. ‘Ow,’ he moaned. ‘Ow, ow, it hurts.’
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 15