Wolf gives him a rasping lick on the cheek, then races off across the sand; a moment later he’s back, shaking a piece of seaweed in his jaws and daring Torak to snatch it . . . . . . and now the seaweed is floating in the cold Sea, and they are both struggling to stay alive. Wolf is terrified of deep water. He tilts his muzzle above the waves – his ears flat back, his eyes black with terror. Torak tries to swim closer to reassure him, but his limbs are dream-heavy, and he only drifts further away.
Then, over Wolf’s back, he sees the fin of the Hunter.
Wolf hasn’t yet seen it; but he’s closer, so it will take him first.
Torak tries to scream a warning – but no sound comes. There is no escape. No land. Just the pitiless Sea, and the Hunter closing in for the kill.
Torak will not let it take Wolf. That is a certainty: as sure as the icy waves buffeting his face; as sure as his own name. There is no hesitation. He knows what he must do.
Taking a deep breath, he dives. He moves with agonising slowness, but manages to swim beneath Wolf, then up again, putting himself in the path of the Hunter. Now Wolf is behind him. Now Wolf will have a chance.
There is nothing between Torak and the tall black fin. He sees the silver wave curling back. He sees the great blunt head racing towards him through the green water. His heart swells with terror.
The Hunter’s jaws open wide to swallow him . . .
Torak awoke with a shudder.
He was lying in a Seal shelter surrounded by slumbering people. His cheeks were wet with tears. He dashed them away. He longed to be back in the dream with Wolf. But Wolf was far away. And he, Torak, was destined for the Rock.
For a moment he lay staring into the gloom. Above him he saw the arching whale ribs that made the frame of the shelter, their seal-hide covering heaving gently in and out. The whale had swallowed him, after all.
Quietly he got up and made his way between the sleepers. Bale turned on his side and opened a wary eye, but let him pass. They both knew why. Where could he run to?
Torak stumbled out into the grey light. High above him, clouds poured over the peaks and flowed slowly down the cliffs. In the Seal camp nothing stirred, not even a dog.
Thirsty, Torak made his way along the bay to where the waterfall tumbled down the cliff and over a bed of boulders towards the Sea. Here the Bay of Seals was more lush than it had appeared last night. The grass was studded with yellow suncups and purple cranesbill, and the lower slopes of the cliffs were bright with rowan and birch.
Torak thought it cruel that the Seals should allow him the freedom to enjoy all this. He felt like a fish caught in a net: swimming about, but knowing it was trapped.
Kneeling by the stream, he cupped freezing water in his palm.
The Follower crouched on a boulder on the other side of the stream, watching him.
Torak froze. Icy water trickled through his fingers.
‘What do you want?’ he said hoarsely.
The creature did not stir. Its tangled mane hid all but its claws, and the gleam of its eyes.
‘Why are you following me?’ cried Torak. ‘What do you want?’
A shadow slid across the rocks towards him – and he glanced up to see a gull swooping low. When he looked again, the Follower was gone.
With a cry he splashed across the stream – but it had vanished among the boulders and juniper scrub.
He had not imagined it. When he stooped to examine the rock where it had been, he found scratch-marks in the lichen.
His thoughts raced. It had followed him across the Sea . . . ‘Who were you talking to?’ said a voice behind him, and he turned to see Bale staring suspiciously. ‘You were talking to someone. Who?’
‘Nobody,’ said Torak. ‘I was – talking to myself.’
Why had it followed him? And how had it got across the Sea?
Then he remembered Asrif’s missing bundle of salmon skins. That must be it. While the Seal boys had been busy with their captive, the Follower had emptied one of the bundles and hidden inside. Torak hated to think of it so close, curled up in a skinboat . . .
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Bale. ‘If you were talking to yourself, why are you looking so guilty?’
Torak didn’t answer. He looked guilty because he was. What if you’ve brought it back? Bale had said last night. He’d meant the sickness, not the Follower. But was there a difference?
Torak leapt to his feet and waded across the stream. ‘Where’s Tenris?’ he said urgently. ‘I’ve got to speak to him.’
Bale’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Why? He’s not going to help you.’
Torak ignored him. He’d had an idea. It was dangerous – dealing with Mages always was – but it might just keep him off the Rock. ‘Where is he?’ he said again.
Bale jerked his head towards the overhang that towered above the north end of the bay. ‘On the Crag. But he won’t want to talk to you.’
‘Yes he will,’ said Torak.
The track wound steeply up the flank of the mountain, and in places Torak had to scramble on hands and knees.
Breathless, he reached the top – and found himself on a narrow neck of rock which broadened into a flat, boat-shaped promontory jutting over the Sea. In the middle stood a low slab of granite, roughly shaped in the likeness of a fish. On this lay a pile of Sea eggs. Beside it squatted the Seal Mage, murmuring under his breath.
‘Mage,’ panted Torak, ‘I must talk to you!’
‘Not so loud,’ warned Tenris without looking up. ‘And take care not to tread on the lines.’
Glancing down, Torak saw that the whole surface of the Crag was webbed with fine silver lines: not hammer-etched, but polished into the grey rock, and so smooth that neither lichen nor weather could take hold. Torak saw Hunters and fishes, eagles and seals: some chasing each other, some overlaid, as if eating one another; all dancing the endless dance of hunter and prey.
The Seal Mage rose with three Sea eggs cradled in his burnt hand, and began laying them out on the Crag. ‘You’ve come to bargain for your life,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Torak.
‘But you’ve offended the Sea Mother.’
‘I didn’t mean to -’
‘She doesn’t care,’ said Tenris, setting down a stone. Without turning round he said, ‘Here, help me with this. Hand me the Sea eggs one by one.’
Torak opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Together they moved about the Crag, Torak handing over the stones when the Mage held out his hand. Once, as they neared the edge, Torak caught a dizzying glimpse of the Sea far below.
‘She looks calm today, doesn’t she?’ said Tenris, following his gaze. ‘But do you have any idea how powerful she is?’
Torak shook his head.
With easy grace the Mage set down another stone, and at his belt the puffin beaks clinked softly. ‘The man who killed the whale we feasted on last night had to cut off his hair to make amends for taking one of her children. He must live alone for three days without eating, or touching his mate. Only when the whale’s souls have returned to the Mother can he come back.’ He gestured at the Sea eggs at his feet. ‘That’s what I’m doing with these. Making a path to guide the souls.’ He paused. ‘What you need to understand, Torak, is that the ways of the Mother are far harsher, less predictable, than the ways of your Forest.’
From down below came the distant sound of voices. Glancing over the edge, Torak saw that the Seal camp was waking up. Bale was talking to two men, and pointing up at the Crag.
‘Mage,’ said Torak, ‘there’s something I have to -’
Tenris silenced him with a raised hand. ‘She lives in the very deep of the Sea,’ he murmured, ‘and she is stronger than the sun. If she is pleased, she sends the seals and the fishes and the seabirds to be hunted. If she is angry she keeps them with her, and thrashes her tail to make storms. When she breathes in, the Sea sinks. When she breathes out, the tide comes in.’
He paused, gazing at the figures moving on the beach.
‘She kills without warning, malice or mercy. Many winters ago, the Great Wave came out of the west. Only those who climbed to this Crag survived.’ He turned to Torak. ‘The power of the wind is very great, Torak; but the power of the Sea is unimaginable.’
Torak wondered why Tenris was telling him all this.
‘Because knowledge is power,’ said the Mage as if he’d heard his thoughts.
Torak glanced about him. ‘Is this where you made the cure?’
To his surprise, Tenris gave a wry smile. ‘I was wondering when you’d bring that up.’
Moving back to the altar rock, he took up a crab claw that had been lying on top, put it to his lips, and blew out a thin stream of aromatic blue smoke. ‘With the cure,’ said Tenris between puffs, ‘it isn’t where, but when. It can only be made on one night of the year. The most potent night of all. Can you guess which one?’
Torak hesitated. ‘Midsummer?’
Tenris shot him a keen glance. ‘I thought you didn’t know Magecraft.’
‘I don’t. But Midsummer’s my birthnight, so it was in my mind. And it’s also the night of greatest change, and everyone knows that Magecraft -’
‘- is about change,’ said Tenris. Again he smiled. ‘As indeed is life. Wood into leaf. Prey into hunter. Boy into man. You have a quick mind, Torak. I could have taught you much. It’s a pity you’re for the Rock.’
Torak seized his chance. ‘That’s what I need to tell you. I’m not – I’m not going to the Rock.’
Tenris went still. In the bright morning light his burns were stark. ‘What did you say?’
Torak caught his breath. ‘I’m not going to the Rock. You’re going to make the cure. And I’m going to take it back to -’
‘I am going to make the cure?’ repeated Tenris. The chill in his voice was like the sun going in. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because if you don’t,’ said Torak, ‘your people will get sick too.’
He told Tenris about the Follower, and how it had reached the island. He told him of his belief that the Follower was a Soul-Eater spy, sent to cause the sickness. Tenris listened without saying a word, smoking his crab-claw pipe. It was impossible to tell what he felt, but Torak sensed the rapid current of his thoughts.
Apprehensively he watched the Mage circle the altar rock, then take up the final Sea egg and move towards him.
‘Did you plan this?’ said Tenris.
Torak was horrified. ‘Of course not!’
‘Because there’s something you should know, Torak. I don’t like tricks.’
‘It wasn’t a trick! I had no idea the Follower had crossed the Sea. Tenris, I’m only asking you to make the cure because -’
‘“Only”?’ Tenris cut in. ‘This is not some potion I can simply ladle out of a pail! It took me three moons to perfect! I had to scale the Eagle Heights to find the selik root that grows nowhere else. I had to weave a spell on Midsummer night that no-one had attempted since the coming of the Wave!’
Torak licked his lips. ‘Midsummer is only four days away.’
Tenris stared at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I can’t,’ said Torak. ‘The clans are sick.’
Tenris turned the Sea egg in his hand, and his eyes glinted dangerously. ‘What’s to stop me putting you on the Rock, and keeping the cure for the Seals?’
Torak opened his mouth, then shut it again. He hadn’t thought of that.
‘Learn from this, Torak,’ warned Tenris. ‘Never try to lock wills with a Mage. Especially not with me.’
Torak raised his chin. ‘I thought Mages were supposed to help people.’
‘What do you know about Mages? You’re only a hunter.’
‘The Ravens need you! So do the Otters and the Willows and the Boars, and for all I know, the other clans too! If you put me on the Rock, who will take the cure to the Forest?’
Tenris set down the final Sea egg at his feet. ‘If I made the cure, you’d have to help.’
Torak held his breath.
‘Each summer,’ said Tenris, ‘the Sea clans celebrate the Midsummer rites on a different island. This time it’s the turn of the Cormorants. Many of us leave today; more will follow. Soon the camp will be empty.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ said Torak.
To his surprise, Tenris laughed. ‘So hasty! You don’t even know what it involves!’
‘I’ll do what it takes,’ Torak said again.
Tenris stood looking down at him, and for a moment his ruined face contracted with pity. ‘Poor little Torak,’ he murmured. ‘You don’t know what you’re agreeing to. You don’t even know where you are.’
Torak glanced down, and at last he saw the pattern which Tenris had been making with the Sea eggs.
It was an enormous spiral, and they were standing at its centre; like two flies caught in a web.
TWENTY
Renn had searched the shore, but she was no closer to discovering where Torak had gone.
Wolf had followed the scent for a day and a night, weaving tirelessly through the trees, but always running back for her so that she didn’t get left behind.
When he’d reached the mouth of the Widewater, his eagerness had turned to agitation. Whimpering, he’d raced up and down the sand. Then he’d put back his head and howled. Such a terrible, wrenching howl.
Her search had revealed the remains of two fires: a big, messy one on the rocks, and a smaller one that was definitely Torak’s, as well as a line of his double-barbed fish-hooks. But of Torak himself, she could find no trace. It was as if he’d vanished into the Sea.
That night she huddled in her sleeping-sack, listening to the sighing of the waves, wondering what had happened to him. The Sea Mother could have sent a storm to drown him within arrowshot of land. Her Hidden People could have dragged him under in their long green hair . . .
She fell into a troubled sleep. But all night long, Wolf ran up and down the shore.
He was still there in the morning. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t hunt, and showed only a fleeting interest in the fulmars nesting on the cliff – which was probably just as well, as fulmar chicks spit a foul-smelling oil, and Renn had no way of warning him. Now it was noon, and she knew she couldn’t stay any longer. ‘I have to find help,’ she told Wolf, knowing he wouldn’t understand, but needing to talk for her own sake. ‘Are you coming?’
Wolf flicked his ears in her direction, but stayed where he was.
‘Somebody may have seen him,’ said Renn. ‘A hunting party, or – someone. Come on, let’s go!’
Wolf leapt onto the rocks and gazed out to Sea.
‘Wolf. Please. I don’t want to go without you.’
Wolf did not even turn his head.
She had her answer. She would be going alone. With a pang she shouldered her pack and headed towards the Forest.
Behind her, Wolf put up his muzzle and howled.
Wolf didn’t know what to do.
He needed to stay in this terrible place and wait for his pack-brother; but he also needed to follow the female into the Forest.
He hated it here. The pale earth stung his eyes, the hot rocks bit his paws, and the fish-birds cawed at him to go away. But most of all he feared the huge, moaning creature who slumbered before him. She had a cold and ancient smell that he knew without ever having learnt. And if she woke up . . .
Wolf did not understand why Tall Tailless had gone where his pack-brother couldn’t follow, or why his scent was so chewed up with that of three other taillesses. Wolf smelt that they were half-grown males, and angry, and not of the Forest; that they belonged to the Great Wet.
And now the female had gone too, blundering through the trees in the noisy way of the taillesses. Wolf didn’t want her to go. At times she could be cross, but she could also be clever and kind. Should he follow her? But what if Tall Tailless came back and found nobody here?
Wolf ran in circles, wondering what to do.
Renn hadn’t expected to miss Wolf qu
ite so much.
She missed his warmth as he leaned against her, and his impatient little whine when he wanted a salmon cake. She even missed his enthusiasm for chasing ducks.
It hurt that he’d chosen not to follow her, and she felt lonely as she crossed the stepping stones over the Widewater, into the birch wood on the other side. Not for the first time, she asked herself what she was doing so far from her clan, in a Forest haunted by sickness. If Torak had wanted her with him, he would have asked. She was chasing a friend who didn’t want her.
As she went deeper, the stillness began to trouble her. Not a thrush sang. Not a leaf stirred.
There should be people here, too. She knew this part of the Forest. When she was nine, Fin-Kedinn had put her to foster with the Whale Clan, to learn the ways of the Sea.
She knew that many other clans hunted along the coast: Sea-eagle, Salmon, Willow. They came for the cod in spring and the salmon in summer, and for the seals and the herring who sheltered here from the winter gales. But now the Forest felt eerily quiet.
Ahead, the trees thinned, and she glimpsed several large, untidy shelters made of branches. They resembled the eyries of eagles, and her spirits rose. The Sea-eagles were one of the more approachable Sea clans. They could be proud, but they always welcomed strangers; and they were fairly relaxed about mixing the Forest and the Sea, taking their lead from their clan-creature, who took its prey from both.
But the camp was deserted. The fires had been stamped out, leaving a bitter tang of woodsmoke. Renn knelt to touch the ashes. Still warm. She moved to the midden pile. Some of the mussel shells were wet. The Sea-eagles had only just left.
Behind her, something breathed.
She wheeled round.
It was coming from that shelter over there.
Drawing her knife, she moved towards it. ‘Is anyone there?’
From the dark within came a guttural snarl.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 30