For the first time in many days, Torak felt almost at peace. The wound on his chest seemed finally to be healing, and he was no longer afraid. He knew that a lot was still missing from his memory, but the world was beginning to make sense.
The Lake stilled, and the Forest settled down for the brief summer night.
Torak felt eyes on him, and glanced over his shoulder.
From the trees, an amber gaze met his.
He started to his feet.
A grey shadow turned and disappeared into the trees.
TWENTY-TWO
A wolf cannot be of two packs.
Wolf was tasting the bitterness of this to the full. He couldn’t eat or sleep or enjoy a good howl with the others. Since that terrible moment when Tall Tailless had bitten his muzzle with the Bright Beast, misery ran with him wherever he went.
And now, as he made his way through the Forest, jealousy ran with him too. What was Tall Tailless doing with those ravens? Wolves and ravens sometimes play together and help each other in the hunt, but they are not pack-brothers.
When Wolf reached the denning place, the rest of the pack had already returned from the kill, and the cubs had fed and gone into the Den to sleep. Wolf ran to touch noses with the lead pair, followed by the others; then everyone padded back to their sleeping places to snooze. Whitepaw, who’d stayed at the Den with the cubs, went off to check that the Forest was clear of lynx and bear and the Otherness which stalked the Big Wet, and Wolf slumped down to guard the cubs.
Tall Tailless no longer wanted him for a pack-brother. He never howled for him or came to seek him in the Forest.
And now those ravens.
The cubs burst from the Den and came racing over to Wolf, barking furiously – and for a while the misery was chased away. Leaping to his feet, he gave the high cub-greeting, and they nudged him with their stubby muzzles, and he lashed his tail as he heaved up the reindeer meat he carried in his belly. The cubs were growing fast, and soon the pack would move from the Den to a place many lopes away, where they would learn to hunt.
As Wolf thought about this, the misery slunk back. Leaving the Den would take him even further from Tall Tailless.
He lay down and put his muzzle between his paws.
As he was cub-watcher, though, he kept one ear on the cubs, and he soon became aware that they were stalking him like prey.
Growler, the cleverest, was innocently pawing a stick, but edging closer all the time; Snap, the smallest but fiercest, was down on her belly, sneaking up on Wolf from behind; and the more timid Digger was waiting to pounce when the others broke cover.
Suddenly, Snap charged – and sank her sharp little teeth into Wolf’s flank. Growler sprang at Wolf’s muzzle, and Digger attacked his tail. Wolf obligingly lay on his side, and they clambered on top of him. They chewed his ears, so he covered them with his paws, so they chewed his paws instead. And he let them, because they were cubs.
Digger bounded off and dug up a new plaything: the foreleg of a fawn, with the hoof still on. Snap advanced with a snarl – That’s mine, I’m the lead cub! – and while she was standing over Digger to punish him, Growler sneaked between them and made off with the prize.
As Wolf watched Growler trying to get his jaws around the hoof, he was suddenly a cub again, back with Tall Tailless at their first kill, chewing a hoof that his pack-brother had given him. Misery grabbed him by the throat. The hurt was so bad that he whined.
Darkfur woke, and came to lick his muzzle, careful to avoid the Bright Beast-bitten side. Wolf was grateful, but the hurt didn’t go away.
Whitepaw returned and took over watching the cubs, and Wolf went off and tried to sleep. But the thought of those ravens pecking kept him awake.
He sprang up. This was no good. He had to know for sure.
It didn’t take long to reach the Den of Tall Tailless. Wolf sank into the bracken and belly-crawled closer.
Before long, Tall Tailless came out, stretching and talking to himself. His voice was deeper and rougher than before, but his scent was the same.
It hurt, being so near, yet unable to greet him. Wolf’s tail ached to wag. He longed to feel those blunt claws scratching his flank.
He was wondering whether to risk the faintest of whines, when the matter was taken out of his jaws.
The ravens lit onto the ground, and Tall Tailless greeted them in tailless talk.
Wolf froze.
Tall Tailless squatted and stroked the ravens’ wings. Gently, he took the bigger one’s beak in his forepaw and gave it an affectionate shake, and the raven gurgled.
Jealousy sank its teeth into Wolf’s heart. Tall Tailless used to muzzle-grab him, and they would roll together, growling and play-biting.
Now Tall Tailless was walking off along the Big Wet to hunt, and the ravens were with him, wheeling in the Up – just as Wolf used to trot beside him, proud and happy to be his pack-brother.
And still Wolf stayed in the bracken. When he smelt that they were truly gone, he raced into the Den and snuffled about, torturing himself with that beloved, now painful scent.
Suddenly he heard wingbeats – then a rasping ‘quork quork quork’! As he left the Den, a pine cone hit him on the nose. The ravens were back. They sat on a branch, laughing at him!
Wolf sprang at them – and they lifted into the Up, then swooped low, but just out of reach, taunting him.
He waited till they came again – he leapt – snapped a tail feather, tore it to pieces. With furious caws the ravens soared into the Up. Down they came in a flurry of angry wings, diving, pecking. Again and again Wolf leapt – twisting, snapping – until he forced them to seek refuge in a tree, where they sat, cawing and pelting him with sticks. This is our Den! Go away!
Wolf’s snarls shook him from nose to tail. They didn’t dare make another attack.
Bristling with fury, Wolf bit off a willow branch and savaged it to shreds. Then he turned and raced into the Forest. His limbs itched with the blood-urge, his pelt prickled with rage.
So. This was how it ended.
Don’t ever leave me, Tall Tailless had said. Then he’d chased Wolf away with the Bright Beast-that-Bites-Hot, and made a new pack – with ravens.
Well, let him! Wolf had another pack too.
TWENTY-THREE
When Torak returned to the shelter, he knew at once that something was wrong.
The ravens sat in their pine tree looking ruffled and aggrieved, and the bigger one was missing a tail feather.
‘What happened?’ he said. But they were too upset to come down.
In the shelter, he found his pine-needle bedding pocked with odd, fist-sized hollows. He sensed that this ought to mean something, but it didn’t. His mind was still healing, his tracking powers only slowly coming back; and over the last few days, a fever and a cough had crept up on him, which didn’t help.
Outside, he found the remains of a branch, savaged to pieces. A shred of chewed raven feather. A paw-print.
Frowning, he squatted to examine it.
The sun sank below the trees, and the Lake turned a dark wolf grey. Wolf grey . . .
Slowly, Torak rose to his feet. ‘Wolf,’ he said out loud.
For the first time in days, he saw clearly. He saw Wolf coming to watch over him, as he had done since they’d parted – and finding the ravens. He saw Wolf leaping at them, snapping a feather; taking out his rage and hurt on a branch.
The truth crashed over Torak. It wasn’t Wolf who had forsaken him. It was he who had forsaken Wolf. Wolf, his faithful pack-brother, who had hunted by his side and guarded him from danger. And how had he repaid him? He had chased him away with burning brands; he had replaced him with ravens!
The guilt was almost more than he could bear. ‘I’ve got to find him!’ he cried. ‘I’ve got to make it all right!’
He hadn’t been in the Forest since his madness, and it felt unnervingly dark and still. He wondered if, like Wolf, it was angry with him for having forsaken it.
But t
rees live longer than people, and are slower to anger. The Forest welcomed him back. It gave him juicy strawberries which soothed his sore throat, and when the midges became annoying, it provided yarrow leaves to rub on his skin. For tinder it offered horsehoof mushroom; and best of all, it showed him Wolf’s trail: a hair snagged on brambles, moss scuffed off a log.
The trail led uphill, past the little lake he’d found before, now ablaze with golden water lilies in the evening sun.
The wolves had chosen their denning place well: on a slope just west of the little lake, guarded by watchful pines. The Den was at the foot of a red boulder almost as tall as Torak, and around it the ground was hard-packed by the padding of many feet, and littered with shards of bone.
But no wolves. And no cubs either, although he saw plenty of tiny paw-prints. Then he realized his mistake. The cubs would be asleep in the Den, and the pack was out hunting, it wouldn’t be back before dawn. He had a long wait ahead.
As he breathed in the rich, sweet scent of wolves, he was overcome by longing and remorse. Wolves had saved him when he was a baby; and yet for days, he had feared them as ravening monsters.
With shocking suddenness, a large wolf emerged from behind the boulder. Its muzzle wrinkled in a snarl as it stalked towards him.
Hardly daring to breathe, Torak edged back. The pack had left someone to guard the cubs. He should have thought.
The cub-watcher advanced on him.
Torak averted his gaze and whined distressfully. Sorry! Don’t attack!
The cub-watcher growled. Go away!
Slowly, Torak withdrew to the far side of the water lily lake. To be threatened by a wolf! He was still far from full recovery.
The short summer night descended as he waited. Frogs piped in the reeds. An otter surfaced and stared at him, then flipped under, leaving the lily pads gently rocking.
He nodded off.
His dreams were troubled by strange yowls, and he woke with a start. He felt hot and thick-headed, and his throat was so sore that it hurt to swallow.
The night was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
Vaguely troubled, he decided to check the Den – even though it wasn’t yet dawn, and the pack wouldn’t be back.
As before, the denning place seemed deserted, but mindful of the cub-watcher, Torak approached with caution. In the gloom, he made out a birch tree whose bark was badly scratched down one side. Too high for badger, too low for bear.
He felt a prickling between his shoulder blades. He knew that feeling; everyone does, who lives in a Forest. It’s the feeling of being watched.
Drawing his knife, he moved as silently as his laboured breathing would allow.
Something lay at the foot of the boulder.
The cub-watcher. Its flank had been ripped open, its throat chewed to pulp. It had put up a desperate fight to save the cubs.
Torak knelt and placed his hand above one white paw. ‘Go in peace. May you find the First Tree, and hunt for ever beneath its boughs.’
In the earth around the carcass he found tracks: rounder than a wolf’s, their outline blurred by fur.
Lynx.
Rising, Torak looked about him.
Couldn’t see anything. He must’ve scared it away.
But it was odd for a lynx to attack a full-grown wolf. Mostly they take hares and squirrels, and wolf cubs if they can get them. The lynx must have gone after the cubs, and the cub-watcher had leapt to their defence.
A whine from the Den told him that the wolf had done its job well. Sheathing his knife, Torak crawled inside.
The tunnel was just big enough to admit him. As he breathed its earthy wolf tang, he was back in the Den where Fa had put him as a baby. His pack-brothers mewed as they clambered over him, and the breath of the Mother heated his skin as she nose-nudged him to suckle. He snuggled into her furry flank, and her milk tasted rich and warm.
He was through the tunnel and into the birthing place. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was about the size of a Raven shelter, but only high enough for a wolf to stand in. He caught a gleam of eyes. A fluffy huddle shrank from him.
He whined to reassure the cubs, but they were terrified. He was a stranger, and they’d just lost their uncle.
Backing out, he emerged from the Den – to see a large shadow bound away from the slaughtered wolf.
‘Be off!’ he shouted, waving his arms. His shouts ended in a coughing fit which bent him double.
The lynx leapt into a tree and sat, lashing its tail.
Drawing his knife, Torak took his place by the dead wolf at the foot of the boulder. He would guard the cubs till the pack returned.
It was strange, though, that his arrival hadn’t frightened the lynx away. Lynx rarely attack people, and when they hunt, they target the young and the sick.
More coughing seized him. When it was over, he was sweating. His breath sounded like the crisping of dry leaves.
Then it came to him. The lynx knew he was sick. It heard it in his voice and smelt it on his skin.
Like the cubs, he was simply prey.
TWENTY-FOUR
The lynx dropped soundlessly from the branch and began to prowl.
Torak tried howling for Wolf, but only managed a croak.
The night was warm, the stink of the slaughtered cub-watcher thick in his throat. The carcass lay so close that he could touch it.
Too close. He should drag it further off, so the lynx could feed in peace. Let it take the dead, and leave the living.
But while he was doing that, it might come for the cubs. He pictured the small souls padding about, nosing their corpses. He tightened his grip on his knife.
A noise behind him. He spun round. Saw only the boulder. But lynx are superb climbers: they leap on their prey from above.
If only he had his axe. Why had he left it at the shelter? To have left without food, axe or tinder . . .
No tinder.
Fire would have scared it away. He should have taken some of that horsehoof mushroom when he’d the chance. The old Torak – the one before the madness – would never have made that mistake.
Another spasm of coughing gripped. When it was over, his ribs ached, and black spots darted before his eyes.
The lynx crouched in the shadows, just out of reach. He saw its blank silver eyes, smelt its rank cat smell.
Then he saw something which made his belly turn over. At the mouth of the Den, directly behind the lynx, two stubby muzzles were emerging.
Torak barked a warning. Uff! Danger!
The muzzles edged back inside.
The lynx caught the movement and turned its head.
‘Here! Here!’ shouted Torak to distract it. Yelling, throwing stones, he edged away from the Den.
The lynx bared its teeth and hissed at him. But suddenly it twisted, snarling at a bolt of black lighting plummeting from the sky. Rip gave a deafening caw and soared out of reach, as Rek swept in to attack. Now both were mobbing the marauder: wheeling, swooping to peck. The lynx leapt for them – and they took refuge in a pine tree, raucously cawing.
Lashing its tail, the lynx slunk back to the carcass.
Torak stood with legs braced, shaking with fever. The scab on his breastbone had reopened, and warmth seeped down his chest.
He could see no sign of the cubs. But he knew that soon they would be nosing their way out again.
When they did, the lynx would be on them.
Wolf loped through the trees. He recognized those caws! What were the ravens doing at the Den?
The wind turned, carrying scents of lynx and wolf flesh and Tall Tailless. He quickened his pace, and the pack ran with him.
The females were fastest, and reached the Den before him. He saw the lead female leap at the lynx and chase it into the Forest, with Darkfur and the others in pursuit.
Wolf skittered to a halt. He saw Whitepaw lying Not-Breath by the Den. He saw Tall Tailless clutching his great claw in his forepaw. He knew at once what had happen
ed. Anger, joy and sorrow fought within him.
The ravens cawed from the trees, but Wolf ignored them. At the edge of the denning place, he saw the misty shape of a wolf. He cast it a reassuring glance, and what was left of Whitepaw – the breath that walked – lingered for a moment; then, satisfied that the cubs were safe, trotted into the Forest.
Blackear, Prowler and the lead wolf were staring at Tall Tailless, hackles raised.
Wolf trembled with longing to go to him; but it was for the lead wolf to decide if Tall Tailless was a friend of the pack.
The lead wolf went to the meat which had been Whitepaw, then walked stiffly towards Tall Tailless.
Tall Tailless stood quietly, with eyes averted, as a stranger should. Wolf was troubled to see that he swayed.
Still with hackles raised, the lead wolf sniffed Tall Tailless.
The cubs appeared at the jaws of the Den, whining, but they didn’t come out. They were waiting to see what would happen.
The hackles of the lead wolf went down, and he rubbed his flank against Tall Tailless’ leg. Then he ran to greet the cubs.
Prowler and Blackear bounded past Tall Tailless to do the same, and he sank to the ground – ignoring the ravens, Wolf noticed happily.
Dropping his ears, Wolf wagged his tail.
Pack-brother, said Tall Tailless.
Wolf gave a whine and raced towards him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Safe with the pack, Torak had his first good sleep in two moons.
He woke in the afternoon, curled up at the edge of the denning place. The wound on his chest hurt, but his cough was almost gone, and he felt much better.
The lead wolf started a howl, and the others joined in. Torak shut his eyes as the wolf-song surged through him. He heard grief for their dead pack-brother and delight in the cubs; gratitude for the friend who had saved them. He gave himself up to the joy of being back with Wolf.
Sensing Torak was awake, Wolf bounded over to him, and they licked muzzles in a playful, everyday way, as if all the bitterness had never happened.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 73