Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  But what then? The ice river had only to twitch, and those cliffs would fall on her and crush her like a beetle.

  She’d think about that later. Right now, she had to get ashore.

  Shouldering her bow, she clambered off the floe and onto the pack ice. It rocked alarmingly, and she had to leap to the next bit, and the next, keeping always to the white ice, and never pausing, as Inuktiluk had taught her. The pack ice was riven with gaps – one misplaced step, and she’d be in the Sea. She was sweating by the time she reached what felt like landfast ice.

  She bent double, too dazed to feel relief. It was hard to stay upright, as her legs still swayed to the rhythms of the Sea.

  To the south, from deep within the ice river, she heard pounding. Eerie, grinding groans. She straightened up.

  The wind hissed over the ice. The cold was so intense that her eyelashes stuck together. Her hand crept to her clan-creature feathers. This place didn’t feel right. This dead cold. Those fanged hills at the foot of the cliffs, so sunk in gloom that they looked almost black.

  With a start she realized that it wasn’t shadow that was making them look black, it couldn’t be, the cliffs faced west, and the low sun shone directly onto them. Those hills were black. And at their heart yawned a chasm. A chasm of black ice.

  She felt strangely drawn to it.

  Stumbling over the landfast ice, she made her way towards the black hills. As she got nearer, the ice beneath her boots turned black: brittle black ice that crackled at every step.

  She stooped for a shard, and crushed it in her mitten. It melted, leaving nothing but black specks. She stared at her palm. Those black specks . . . they weren’t ice, but stone. Stone from some buried mountain, crushed fine by the might of the ice river.

  Her hand dropped to her side, and water dripped sadly from her mitten. Now she understood why the Sea had carried her here, to the dark underbelly of the ice river. She’d done the impossible. She’d found a way of burying the fire-opal in stone.

  But the only life she could give it was her own.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Beneath his mitten, Torak felt Wolf becoming restless.

  He hoped desperately that the scent trail Wolf had caught was Renn’s, but he couldn’t be sure. So much wolf talk isn’t in the voice but in gestures: a glance, a tilt of the head, a flick of the ears. Being blind made it much harder to know what Wolf was saying. And although Torak’s sight was slowly coming back, Wolf was still only a dark-grey blur.

  The wind was restless too, moaning in his ears and tugging at his parka. High, thin voices reached him, just at the edge of hearing. Demons? Soul-Eater spies? Or Renn, calling for help?

  Wolf stopped so abruptly that Torak nearly fell over him. He felt the tension in Wolf’s shoulders; the dip of his head as he sniffed the ice. His heart sank. Another tide crack. They’d crossed three already, and it wasn’t getting any easier.

  Without further ado, Wolf wriggled out of Torak’s grip – and leapt. Torak heard the whisper of paws landing on snow, then an encouraging bark. Come!

  Torak unslung the sleeping-sacks and the side of seal ribs which he’d cut from the carcass, and threw them towards the shadow that was Wolf. He was reassured to hear a thud rather than a splash.

  Now for the hardest part. He couldn’t make out the crack, it could be anything from a hand’s breadth to two paces wide. Too risky to kneel and feel its edge with his mittens; his weight might break it. He’d just have to jump, and trust that Wolf – who could leap three paces with ease – would remember that his pack-brother couldn’t.

  Another bark, and an impatient whine. Come!

  Torak took a deep breath – and jumped.

  He landed on solid ice, wobbling wildly. Wolf was there to steady him. He retrieved his gear, then put his hand on Wolf’s scruff, and they headed off.

  By mid-afternoon, and despite Wolf’s impatient nudgings, he had to rest. While Wolf ran in anxious circles, he huddled on the ice, sawing meat from the seal ribs. His sight was improving all the time, and he could see the meat now. Well, he could make out a dark-red blur against the pinkish blur of the ice. He fumbled for his owl-eyed visor, and put it on.

  To his surprise, Wolf gave a low growl.

  Maybe he didn’t like the visors.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ mumbled Torak, too tired to speak wolf.

  Another growl: not hostile, but uneasy. Maybe it wasn’t the visor. Maybe he didn’t like it that Torak had brought the meat: a draw for any ice bear within two daywalks. But he had no choice. Unlike Wolf, he couldn’t devour half a seal, then go hungry for days.

  An impatient nose-nudge. Come on!

  Torak sighed, and heaved himself to his feet.

  The day wore on, and he felt the cold deepening as the sun went down. Suddenly he couldn’t take another step. He found a snow hill and hacked out a rough shelter, lined it with one of the sleeping-sacks, and crawled into the other.

  Wolf crawled in too, and lay against him: heavy and beautifully warm. For the first time in days, Torak felt safe. With Wolf beside him, no demon or Soul-Eater or ice bear could get near. He fell asleep to the mothwing tickle of whiskers on his face.

  He woke to darkness – and no Wolf.

  He knew he hadn’t slept long, and when he crawled outside, he saw a vast black sky glittering with stars.

  He saw! The snow-blindness was gone!

  He stood with upturned face, drinking in the stars.

  As he watched, a great spear of green light streaked across the sky. Then a shower of arrows streamed upwards, and suddenly, rays of green light were rippling across the darkness: shimmering, melting, silently reappearing.

  Torak smiled. At last. The First Tree. From the dark of the Beginning it had grown, bringing life to all things: river and rock, hunter and prey. Often in the deep of winter it returned, to lighten hearts and kindle courage. Torak thought of Fa, and wondered if he’d completed the Death Journey, and found his way safely into its boughs. Maybe even now, he was looking down on him.

  Far in the distance, an eagle owl called.

  Torak’s skin prickled.

  Then – much closer – he heard a slithering on the ice.

  Crouching, he drew his knife.

  ‘Drop it,’ said Thiazzi.

  ‘Where is the fire-opal?’

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  A blow to the head sent him flying. As he landed, his chest struck an ice ridge with winding force.

  ‘Where is it?’ bellowed the Oak Mage, yanking him upright.

  ‘I haven’t – got it!’

  The huge fist drew back again – but Nef hobbled forwards and grabbed his arm. ‘We need him alive, or we’ll never find it!’

  ‘I’ll beat it out of him!’ roared the Oak Mage.

  ‘Thiazzi!’ cried Seshru. ‘You don’t know your own strength! You’ll kill him!’

  The Oak Mage snarled at her – but lowered his fist, and let Torak fall.

  He lay panting, trying to take in what was happening. With Wolf unaccountably gone, they must have crept up on him in the night. A few paces away, he saw two skinboats lying on the ice, their hulls patched with seal-hide. He couldn’t see Eostra; but ten paces away, an eagle owl perched on a fang of ice, fixing him with fierce orange eyes.

  As he stared at the murky forms of the three Soul-Eaters, he sensed the discord between them: threads of tension stretched between them like a spider’s web.

  Of course, he thought. They didn’t complete the sacrifice, so they’re not fully protected from the demons. He wondered if he could make use of that.

  ‘Search him,’ said the Viper Mage. ‘It’s got to be somewhere.’

  Thiazzi and Nef seized Torak’s parka and dragged it over his head, then ripped off his jerkin and the rest of his clothes, till he stood naked and shuddering on the ice.

  The Oak Mage took malicious pleasure in making the search a slow one: shaking out mittens and boots, snapping the snow-knife in two, emptying Torak’s medicine hor
n, so that its precious earthblood blew away on the wind.

  ‘It isn’t here,’ said Nef in surprise.

  ‘He’s hidden it,’ said Seshru. Drawing closer, she studied Torak’s face, and her pointed tongue flickered out to moisten her lips. ‘Those are Wolf Clan tattoos. “The Wolf lives”. Who are you?’

  ‘I t-told you,’ he stammered, ‘I haven’t got the fire-opal!’

  Nef stooped for Fa’s knife. ‘Get dressed,’ she told Torak without looking at him.

  Clumsy with cold, he pulled on his clothes, then scrambled for what remained of his gear. His tinder pouch had been emptied, and his mother’s medicine horn had lost its stopper; but in a corner of his medicine pouch, he found the remaining fragment of the Soul-Eaters’ black root. He slipped it inside his mitten, closing his fist around it. He didn’t know why, but he sensed that he might need it.

  Just in time. Thiazzi seized his wrists and bound them behind him with a length of rawhide rope. The binding was cruelly tight, and Torak cried out. The Oak Mage laughed. Nef flinched, but made no move to stop him.

  Torak noticed that Thiazzi’s left hand was heavily bandaged in bloodstained buckskin, and missing two fingers. Good, he thought savagely. At least Wolf got his revenge.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Nef said in an altered voice. She was standing very still, staring at the knife in her hands. Fa’s knife.

  Torak lifted his chin. ‘It was my father’s,’ he said proudly.

  A hush fell upon the Soul-Eaters. The eagle owl swivelled its head and stared.

  ‘Your – father,’ said Nef, aghast. ‘He was – the Wolf Mage?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Torak. ‘The man who saved your life.’

  ‘The man who betrayed us!’ spat Thiazzi.

  Torak shot him a look of pure hatred. ‘The man who discovered what you were! The man you murdered!’

  ‘His son,’ whispered Nef. Her brow creased. ‘What – what’s your name?’

  ‘Torak.’

  ‘Torak,’ repeated the Bat Mage. Her eyes sought his, and Torak could tell that for the first time she was seeing him not merely as “boy”, the ninth hunter in the sacrifice, but as Torak, the son of the Wolf Mage.

  ‘“The Wolf lives”‘, the Viper Mage said again. Her lips curved in her sideways smile. ‘So that’s what it means. What a disappointment.’

  The Oak Mage had reached the limits of his patience. Pushing past Seshru, he seized Torak by the hair and twisted back his head, pressing a blade against his throat. ‘Tell us where you hid the fire-opal, or I’ll slit your throat!’

  Torak stared into the green eyes, and saw that he meant it. He thought fast. ‘The girl has it,’ he panted. ‘The spirit walker.’

  ‘What girl?’ sneered Thiazzi.

  ‘A spirit walker?’ Nef said hoarsely.

  Torak flicked Seshru a glance. ‘She knows,’ he said. ‘She knows, and she hasn’t told you!’

  Thiazzi and Nef stared at the Viper Mage.

  ‘You knew?’ said Thiazzi accusingly, releasing Torak with such force that he fell to his knees.

  ‘He’s making it up,’ said Seshru. ‘Can’t you see? He’s trying to set us against each other.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth!’ cried Torak. Then to Nef and Thiazzi, ‘You know there was a girl with me, you must have seen the tracks!’

  They had. He could tell from their faces.

  Nef turned to Seshru. ‘There was a moment in the caves, when you sensed souls. But you never told us what.’

  ‘She knew,’ said Torak. ‘She sensed the spirit walker, she sensed souls walking free, between bodies.’ A plan was forming. A desperate, deadly plan that would put both him and Renn in danger. But he couldn’t think of any other way.

  Out loud he said, ‘The girl is the spirit walker. She’s got the fire-opal.’

  ‘Take us to her,’ said Nef.

  ‘It’s a trick!’ cried Seshru. ‘He’s tricking us!’

  ‘What can he do to us?’ growled Thiazzi.

  ‘If you let me live,’ said Torak, ‘I’ll take you to the fire-opal. I swear it on my three souls.’

  Silently, Seshru glided towards him, and brought her face close to his. Her breath heated his skin. He felt himself drowning in her peerless gaze.

  Slowly she took off her mitten and raised her hand.

  He flinched.

  The perfect lips curved in a smile. Her chill fingers smoothed the sign of the hand from his forehead, ‘You won’t need that any more,’ she murmured. One long forefinger caressed his cheek: gently, but letting him feel the edge of her nail.

  ‘Your father tried to trick us,’ she breathed, ‘and we killed him.’ She leaned closer, and whispered in his ear. ‘If you trick me, I shall make sure that you will never be free of me.’

  Torak swallowed. ‘I will take you to the fire-opal. I swear.’

  Nef thrust Fa’s knife into her belt, and stared at Torak with a strange, unreadable expression. ‘How?’

  ‘The wolf,’ said Torak, jerking his head at the paw-prints that wound south across the ice. ‘We must follow the tracks of the wolf.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wolf felt as if he was being torn in pieces.

  He had to find the pack-sister. He had to save Tall Tailless from the bad ones. And he had to chase the demons back into the Underneath. But he couldn’t do it alone, he needed help. He could think of only one way of finding it. That way would be dangerous: the most dangerous thing a lone wolf could attempt. But he had to try.

  On and on he loped through the glittering Dark. In the Up, the Bright White Eye was hiding, but her many little cubs shed their light upon the land.

  As Wolf ran, he thought of Tall Tailless, and felt a fresh snap of worry. Would his pack-brother understand why he’d gone? Would he wait for his return, or blunder off and fall prey to the Great Wet?

  It was too terrible to think about, so Wolf tried to lose himself in the sounds and smells carried on the wind. The furtive scratchings of a white grouse snuggling deeper into her burrow. The growls of the Great White Cold up ahead. The sharp, familiar scent of the pack-sister.

  On Wolf went, following her scent. He knew that he had to find her before he went for help against the demons, although he didn’t know why; he just felt it in his fur, with the sureness that came to him at times.

  He raced up a long, sparkling slope, and paused at the top. Down there. She was sleeping down there in the dark.

  A new scent assailed his nose, tightening his pelt and making his claws tingle. Demons. The urge to hunt them ran hot in his limbs. But not yet. And not alone.

  Turning on one paw, he raced down the slope, the same way he’d come – then struck out to seek help.

  The Dark wore on, and tirelessly he flew over the Bright Soft Cold. He came to a broken land where stunted willows rattled dry leaves in the wind. He slowed to a trot.

  The scent-markings of the lead wolf were fresh, strong, and rich. This told Wolf that the stranger wolves had recently made a kill, and that the pack wasn’t far away.

  He kept close to the scent-markings, which would tell the stranger wolves that he’d entered their range on purpose, and was here because he wanted to be. He hoped this would make them curious rather than angry, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know what manner of wolves they were, or – most importantly – what kind of wolf their leader was. Wolves guard their ranges fiercely, seldom permitting a lone wolf to enter; and it’s only rarely that a pack will allow a stranger to run with them, as Wolf had run with the pack on the Mountain, and Tall Tailless with the tailless pack that smelt of ravens.

  The scent-markings were getting stronger, closer together. It wouldn’t be long now.

  It wasn’t.

  The white wolves came racing through the willows at a speed that took even Wolf by surprise. They were a big pack, and like Forest wolves, they ran in a line in the tracks of the leader; but they were slightly shorter than Forest wolves, and stockier. Wolf thought they looked very, very strong.


  He stood absolutely still, waiting for them to approach. His heart tumbled in his chest, but he held his head and tail high. He must not look scared.

  On they came over the Bright Soft Cold.

  The leader glanced over his shoulder – and the pack spread out, forming a ring around Wolf.

  In silence they halted. Their pelts glowed, their breath drifted like mist. Their eyes glinted silver.

  Wolf stilled his own breathing, so that he would appear calm.

  Stiffly the lead wolf walked towards him. His ears were pricked, his tail high, and his fur was fluffed out to the full.

  Wolf dropped his own ears, but only slightly. His fur was fluffed up, but not as much as the leader’s, and his tail was very slightly lower. Too high, and he’d seem disrespectful; too low, and he’d appear weak.

  Sternly, the leader stared past him: too proud to meet his eyes.

  Wolf turned his head a whisker to one side, and slid his gaze down and away.

  The lead wolf moved closer, till he stood within pawing distance of Wolf’s nose.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Wolf stood his ground. He saw the scars on the leader’s muzzle, and the bitten edge of one ear. This was a wolf who had fought many fights, and won.

  The lead wolf took another step, and sniffed under Wolf’s tail, then at the bark binding the tip. He drew back sharply, twitching his ears in puzzlement. Then he brought his muzzle close to Wolf’s. Close, but not touching; breathing in his scent.

  Wolf, too, took deep breaths, tasting the strong, sweet scent of the leader, while around them the white wolves waited in silence.

  The leader raised his forepaw – and touched Wolf’s shoulder.

  Wolf tensed.

  The next moment would decide it. Either they would help him – or tear him to pieces.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  After a wretched night in a hastily hacked-out snow shelter, Renn sat waiting for dawn to come. Her last dawn. She kept saying it in her head, to make it real.last She knew she should have had the courage to end it last night, but she hadn’t. She needed to see the sun one final time.