Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  The bat on Nef’s shoulder squirmed, and she watched it lift off and flit away into the darkness. ‘Because of Seshru,’ she said. ‘Last summer she received a strange message from our brother across the Sea. ‘The Wolf lives.’ We don’t know what it means. But that’s why we keep the wolf separate.’

  Torak’s thoughts whirled. Did they know something? Maybe not enough to tip them off that he was a spirit walker, but something . . .

  He realized that Nef was watching him keenly; so he asked the question to which he thought he already knew the answer. ‘All these creatures. What are you going to do to them?’

  ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’

  ‘Kill them,’ he said.

  The Bat Mage nodded. ‘The blood of the nine hunters is the most dreadful – the most potent of sacrifices.’

  His temples pounded. The cave walls pressed in on him.

  ‘You say you want to be one of us,’ said Nef. ‘Well, that begins now.’ She raised her torch, and Torak saw that she’d brought him full circle, back to the forest of stone. It was deserted. The other Soul-Eaters had gone. On the ledge at his shoulder, the owl in the pouch lay still. Awaiting sacrifice.

  The breath caught in his throat. ‘But – you said tomorrow. In the dark of the moon.’

  ‘For the full charm, yes. But first we have the finding of the Door – and for that, too, we must protect ourselves. The blood of the owl will do that. And it will help us hear what lies within.’

  Wedging the torch in a crevice, she reached for the pouch, and drew out the bird. With one hand she held it down. With the other she extended her knife-hilt to Torak. ‘Take it,’ she ordered. ‘Cut off its head.’

  Torak stared at the owl, and the owl stared back at him: bedraggled, limp with fright.

  Nef jabbed the knife-hilt in his chest. ‘Are you so weak that you fail at the first test?’

  A test . . .

  He saw now that everything the Bat Mage had done had been leading up to this. She meant to find out if he was who he pretended to be: a White Fox boy determined to step over into the murky world of the Soul-Eaters.

  ‘But it isn’t prey,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to eat it. And we’re not hunting. It hasn’t had a chance to get away.’

  The eyes of the Bat Mage were bright with a terrible certainty. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘the innocent must suffer for the good of the many.’

  Good? thought Torak. What’s this got to do with good?

  ‘Take the knife,’ commanded Nef.

  He couldn’t breathe. The air in his lungs was hot and heavy with sin.

  ‘Come!’ said Nef. ‘We are the Soul-Eaters, we speak for the World Spirit! Are you with us or against us? There is no middle path!’

  Torak took the knife. He knelt, and placed his free hand on the owl. He’d never felt anything so soft as those feathers; so delicate as the fragile bones that sheltered the small, racing heart.

  If he refused to do this, Nef would kill him. And the Soul-Eaters would open the Door, and unleash who knew what horrors upon the world.

  And Wolf would die.

  He took a deep breath – silently begged the World Spirit for forgiveness – and brought down the knife.

  NINETEEN

  ‘It’s done,’ said the Bat Mage.

  ‘Is that the blood?’ said the Oak Mage.

  ‘Of course.’

  Hardly daring to breathe, Renn shrank deeper into her hiding-place: a dank fissure behind a thicket of stone saplings. Where was Torak? What had they done to him?

  She watched the Soul-Eater bearing a sputtering torch in one hand and a horn cup in the other. In the flickering light, the bow-legged shadow was vast. Overhead, thousands of bats stirred.

  ‘Where’s the boy?’ said the Oak Mage, taking his place before the altar.

  ‘With the offerings,’ said the Bat Mage. ‘He seemed shaken. Seshru is watching him.’

  Renn’s skin crawled.

  ‘So he’s shaken, is he?’ sneered the Oak Mage. ‘Nef, he’s a coward! I hope that won’t affect the charm.’

  ‘Why should it, Thiazzi?’ retorted the Bat Mage. ‘He came to us, he offered himself. He’ll serve the purpose well enough.’

  What purpose? thought Renn. From what she’d heard, Torak’s disguise had succeeded; they didn’t know who he was, or that he was a spirit walker. But why did they need him?

  She wondered, too, how many Soul-Eaters there were in these caves. There had been seven when they’d banded together, and two were now dead, which left five; but the White Fox boy had mentioned only four. Where was the fifth?

  Then she forgot about that. The Bat Mage set the torch in a cleft, dipped her forefinger in the cup, and daubed a streak of darkness on her brow. She did the same for the Oak Mage.

  ‘The blood of the owl,’ she chanted, ‘for keenest hearing.’

  ‘And to protect us from those who rage within,’ intoned the Oak Mage.

  Renn stifled a gasp. The blood of the owl . . . So they’d killed it, just as the White Fox boy had said. But why? To kill a hunter angers the World Spirit, and brings bad luck on oneself and one’s clan.

  Resting her hand on a sapling, she was startled to feel a sickly warmth. She knew instantly what it was. The heat of the Otherworld.

  To protect us from those who rage within . . . Did they mean demons? Demons from the Otherworld?

  If only she’d followed Torak at once! But instead she’d paced the snow: furious with him, arguing with herself. By the time she’d made up her mind – had hidden her bow and found her courage – the cave had swallowed him.

  That was when she’d heard the echoing tread of a man. She’d barely had time to slip inside before he’d loomed from the darkness: big as an auroch, his face hidden in a tangle of hair and beard. The Oak Clan tattoo had been plain on the back of his hand. The smell of spruce-blood had hung about him like mist in the Forest.

  In awe she’d watched him put his shoulder to a slab of rock five times her size, and slide it across the cave mouth as if it had been a wicker screen. They were shut in. She’d had no choice but to follow him into the twisting tunnels: fearing to get too close, or worse – to be left behind in the dark.

  At last they’d emerged into this forest of stone. Around her she felt the presence of shadowy figures watching, waiting. Even the drip, drip of water sounded stealthy. Worst of all was the flutter and squeak of thousands of bats. Did they know she was here? Would they tell the Soul-Eaters?

  Peering between two stone saplings, she watched the Bat Mage take up her torch and touch it to others wedged around the altar. Firelight flared – then suddenly dipped, as if in homage. The bats fell silent. The air grew heavy with evil.

  Renn jammed her knuckles in her mouth.

  A third Soul-Eater sat at the head of the altar. In the gloom, Renn made out feathered robes that seemed to grow from the stone itself; the fearsome orange glare of an eagle owl.

  Behind the mask, a chill voice spoke. ‘The souls. Give me the souls.’

  The Bat Mage placed something small on the altar – and the shadowy robes moved to cover it. Renn guessed that the Bat Mage had worked some kind of binding charm, and trapped the owl’s souls in its feathers.

  ‘It is well,’ said the voice behind the mask.

  Renn thought of the owl’s souls, caught – perhaps for ever – in the grip of the Eagle Owl Mage. She wondered if they would ever escape, to flutter into the sky, seeking the shelter of the First Tree . . .

  Dread dragged at her heart as she watched the Mage place something dark and curved on the altar. It was the Walker’s strike-fire: the stone claw that he’d taken from a cave in the Forest long ago.

  Next, the Oak Mage reached into a pouch, and held up a small black pebble with the sheen and smoothness of an eye. ‘This is the owl,’ he chanted as he laid it beside the strike-fire. ‘The first of the nine hunters.’

  The nine hunters?

  Renn’s fingers closed about a slender twig of ston
e. Feeling sick, she watched the Oak Mage upend the pouch. More pebbles rattled onto the altar.

  The Bat Mage chose one and laid it beside that which betokened the owl. ‘This, she chanted, ‘is the eagle. For keenest sight.’

  ‘And to protect us from those who rage within,’ chanted the others.

  Another pebble was set beside the second. And another. And another. As Renn listened, the hideous extent of the impending sacrifice revealed itself.

  ‘This is the fox. For cunning . . . This is the otter. For water-skill . . . This is the wolverine. For rage . . . This is the bear. For strength . . . This is the lynx. For leaping . . . This is the wolf . . .’ Renn shut her eyes. ‘ . . . For wisdom . . .’

  A hush fell. The ninth pebble lay waiting to be set in its place: to close the ring of eyes encircling the strike-fire.

  The Eagle Owl Mage extended a talon to grasp it. ‘This,’ she chanted, ‘is the man. For cruelty.’

  Man.

  Renn’s grip tightened on the stone. At last she knew why the Soul-Eaters had let the White Fox boy join them. And now Torak had taken his place . . .

  The stone snapped. The bats exploded in a fluttering, squeaking cloud.

  ‘Someone’s there!’ cried Nef, leaping to her feet.

  ‘It’s the boy!’ boomed Thiazzi. ‘He’s been listening!’

  Torchlight slid between the stone trees as the Soul-Eaters began to search the cave.

  Wildly Renn cast about for an escape; but in choosing her hiding-place, she’d crept too far from the tunnel. She couldn’t get back without being seen.

  Nearer and nearer came the light, reaching for her. Nearer came the heavy tread of the Oak Mage.

  She did the only thing she could. She climbed up.

  The fissure was jagged as an axe-cut, and she skinned her palms as she groped for handholds. She raised her head – couldn’t see anything – scrambled higher into the dark.

  The footsteps were almost upon her.

  Her fingers found a ledge. No time to think. She heaved herself onto it, praying that the rustling of the bats would mask the frantic scrabbling of her boots.

  It wasn’t a ledge, it was a tunnel, she’d found a tunnel! Too low to stand up – she bumped her head – dropped to all fours, and crawled in.

  The tunnel bent to the right, good, if she could get inside, the light wouldn’t find her. But it was so narrow that she could barely squeeze in, and the roof was getting lower – she had to crawl on her belly, and push herself ahead on her elbows.

  Squirming like a lizard, she wriggled deeper. As she twisted her head to look back, she saw the yellow light flickering closer, nearly touching her boots. She wasn’t far enough in, it was going to find her . . .

  With a tremendous heave she pulled herself round the bend – just as the light snapped at her heels.

  Below her, a man’s harsh breathing. The sharp tang of spruce-blood.

  She bit down hard on her lower lip.

  Then – from the other side of the cave – the thud of running feet.

  ‘It wasn’t the boy!’ panted the Bat Mage. ‘He’s been with Seshru all the time!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said the Oak Mage, his voice shockingly close.

  ‘It must have been the bats,’ said Nef.

  ‘Well from now on,’ growled Thiazzi, ‘we’d better keep watch.’

  His voice receded, taking the light with it. Darkness flooded back.

  Weak with relief, Renn slumped on her belly. For a long time she lay in the blackness, listening to the Soul-Eaters moving about, talking in low voices.

  At last, their voices faded. They had left the forest of stone. The bats fluttered, then sank into silence. Still Renn waited, fearing a trap.

  When she was as certain as she could be that she was alone, she started to wriggle backwards out of the tunnel.

  The hood of her parka snagged on the roof, and she kicked forwards to unhook it – but the tunnel was too low, she couldn’t move far enough to free herself.

  Irritated, she tried again. And again. She tried wriggling from side to side. The tunnel was too narrow, it didn’t do any good.

  She lay on her belly, struggling to take in what had happened. Her arms were folded awkwardly beneath her chest. Against her fists she felt the thunder of her heart.

  The truth crashed upon her.

  She was stuck.

  TWENTY

  She thought about screaming for help; but that would bring the Soul-Eaters. She thought about lying in this stinking weasel hole, dying of thirst. A quick death or a slow one. That was the choice.

  She was soaked in sweat, and the tunnel walls blew back the smell of her fear. She could no longer hear the drip of water; only her ragged breath, and a strange, uneven ‘drum-drum-drum’ that was keeping pace with the thunder of her heart.

  It was her heart, she realized: her heart echoing through the rock as it thumped against her ribs.

  Suddenly she was horribly aware of the vast weight of stone that pressed upon her, of the utter impossibility of movement. The earth had swallowed her. It had only to give the slightest twitch to crush her like a louse.

  No-one would ever know. No-one would find her bones and lay them to rest in the Raven bone-ground. No-one would put the Death Marks on her, to keep her souls together.

  Darkness lay on her face like a second skin. She shut her eyes. Opened them. No difference. She dragged her hand from under her, held it before her nose. Couldn’t see her fingers. They didn’t exist. She didn’t exist.

  She couldn’t get enough air. She took a great, shuddering breath – and the rock shrank tight around her.

  She panicked. Clawing, kicking, moaning, drowning in a black sea of terror. She collapsed, exhausted, grinding her mouth into the unyielding stone to keep back the whimpers.

  Deep in the earth, there is no time. No winter. No summer. No moon. No sun. There is only the dark. Renn lay for so long that she wasn’t Renn anymore. Whole winters drifted over her. She became part of the rock.

  She heard demons cackling on the other side. Lights flashed. Red eyes glared at her, coming nearer. She was dying. Soon her souls would be scattered, and she’d become a demon: squeaking and gibbering in the endless heat of the Otherworld, hating and desiring all living things.

  But now more lights were coming: tiny, brilliant green needle-pricks that shimmered and danced, chasing the red eyes away. There was a humming in her ears, a humming of . . .

  Bees?

  She jerked awake. Bees? In winter, in a cave in the Far North?

  The humming was nearer, and it was definitely bees. Although she couldn’t see them, she could feel them, brushing against her cheeks. What were they? A message from her clan-guardian? The spirits of her ancestors? Or a trick of the demons, waiting behind the rock?

  But they didn’t feel evil. Shutting her eyes, she lay and listened to the humming of the bees . . .

  It’s the Moon of the Salmon Run, and the blackthorn trees are in bloom, and the bees are humming. Renn is eight summers old: hunting with Fin-Kedinn, eager to try out the beautiful new bow he has made for her. She pauses on the riverbank to admire its gleaming golden curve, and the blackthorn blossom drifts down like summer snow, and catches on the manes of the forest horses who stand in the shallows.

  When she drags her eyes away from her bow, she’s startled to see that Fin-Kedinn has crossed the river and gone on ahead. Hurriedly she tumbles down the bank and splashes after him.

  The mares don’t like her coming so close to their foals. They show the whites of their eyes, ready to kick.

  Renn isn’t frightened, but to avoid them she flounders deeper, and the mud sucks at her boots. She’s stuck.

  She panics. Since her father died, she’s had nightmares about being trapped. What if the horses trample her? What if the Hidden People of the river pull her under?

  Suddenly the sunlight is blotted out, and Fin-Kedinn is standing over her. His face is as impenetrable as ever, but in his blue eyes there�
��s a glint of laughter.

  ‘Renn,’ he says calmly, ‘there’s an answer to this. But you won’t find it if you don’t use your head.’

  She blinks. Glances down. Then – wobbling – she steps out of her boots.

  Laughing, her uncle swings her high in his arms. And now she’s laughing too, and squealing as he swings her down in a dizzying swoop to pluck her boots from the mud. Still laughing, he sets her on his shoulders, and wades to the bank, and around them the blossom is drifting, and the bees are humming . . .

  The bees were still humming, but she couldn’t see them any more because she was back in the weasel hole. The thought of Fin-Kedinn was like a beam of light in the dark. Her fingers touched the polished slate wrist-guard on her forearm. He’d made it for her when he’d taught her to shoot.

  ‘There is an answer,’ she whispered. ‘Use your head . . .’

  Her breathing slowed. Her chest was no longer heaving. The walls didn’t seem to grip quite as tightly as before.

  Of course! she thought. Don’t breathe so deeply, and you won’t take up so much space!

  Keeping her breathing shallow was a small victory, and it cheered her greatly. She wasn’t dead yet. If only there was some way of making herself narrower still.

  Maybe it was possible. Yes! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Slowly – painfully – she uncurled her right arm and stretched it forwards as far as she could. Then she tilted her left shoulder back. Now she really was narrower, because she wasn’t blocking the tunnel face on, but tilting sideways.

  The next bit would be harder. Bending her right arm back over her head, she clutched at her parka. Missed. Tried again, and grabbed the hood. Tugged. It was mercifully loose: Tanugeak had told her that the White Foxes made them like that because loose clothes are warmer. Like a snake sloughing off its skin, Renn wriggled and pulled, wriggled and pulled – and at last the parka slid over her head.

  She lay panting, and the bees hummed giddily.

  Now for the birdskin jerkin. This was harder – no hood to grab hold of – but without the parka she could move much more easily.