Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

by Michelle Paver

  The snow was knee-deep, but at last Torak reached the end of the cleft. The relief when he felt solid rock against his shoulders! Now he could last all day: eating snow, warding off attacks which could come only from the front.

  Abruptly, the hail of stones ceased. The invisible guardian was gone. For an instant, Torak wondered who it had been; then he forgot about that. Once again, the pack was moving in.

  Beside him, Wolf bristled with dismay. He’d followed Torak out of loyalty, but this went against everything he knew: no wolf backs into a place from which there is only one way out.

  And Torak couldn’t explain why he’d done it, because Wolf wasn’t able to think like prey. Torak, though, found it all too easy; and he’d seen enough encounters between wolves and reindeer to know how it works. Wolves – and dogs – hunt those who run. If you’re prey, your best chance is to stand and fight.

  He was right, but he’d underestimated Wolf.

  For an instant, the amber gaze grazed his. In that moment, Torak sensed what he meant to do. No, Wolf, no, it’s just what they want! Too late. A gap opened in the pack – and Wolf shot through it. The dogs sped after him.

  It all happened in the blink of an eye, but Torak knew that he must seize the chance Wolf had given him.

  Jamming his axe in his belt, he reached for the rocks and began to climb.

  The last thing he saw before he boosted himself up the cleft was Wolf racing down the slope with Eostra’s pack on his tail.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wolf flew over the rocks and the dogs flew after him. Wolf hated running away—but he had to save Tall Tailless. Wolf hated running away – but he had to save Tall

  Wolf was heading for a great slope of Bright Soft Cold. From the voice of the wind coming off it, he knew it was deep, maybe wolf-high. So. The pack meant to chase him where even a wolf must flounder. But he knew this trick, he used it himself when he hunted deer. Did they think they could fool him?

  Slowing his pace, he let the lead dog lope closer, till he caught the stony thud of its dark heart. It was snapping its chops, as if already tasting his flesh.

  Too soon. As Wolf reached the edge of the Bright Soft Cold, he spun on one forepaw and leapt sideways onto solid rock. The dog behind him was too heavy, it couldn’t turn in time. As Wolf sped off, he heard it thrashing and snarling in the Bright Soft Cold. Wolf threw up his tail. They might be bigger than him, but he was faster!

  Although not by much. Already they were gaining on him again.

  Over the pebbles he went, flicking his torn ear back to listen, the other ear forwards, for danger ahead.

  He smelt darkness rushing towards him. The wind that blew from it made a booming sound, it was coming from underground. Suddenly there was no more stone in front and the Mountain opened to swallow him. Skittering to a halt, he saw that the crack was many paces across. From deep within came a howling cold.

  In a snap, Wolf decided. Tensing his haunches, he sprang. His forepaws clawed the other side. Throwing his tail round and scrabbling with his hindpaws, he gave a tremendous heave . . . He was up.

  Baying in fury, the pack ran along the other side of the crack. Wolf lifted his muzzle in scorn. No dog – not even these – can jump as far as a wolf!

  And yet – something was wrong. There weren’t as many of them as before.

  Where was the leader?

  The lead dog stood at the bottom of the cleft and watched Torak climb. Its stare never wavered.

  As his fingers sought the next handhold, Torak pictured Wolf racing over the snow with the pack at his heels. Wolf stumbled. A dog sank its fangs into his flank. They were on him, tearing him apart . . .

  Torak’s axe-handle banged against his hip, wrenching him back.

  They haven’t got Wolf, he told himself. It’s what Eostra wants you to believe.

  The cleft was the height of four tall men, but narrow enough for him to climb by bracing one foot on either side. The fissured granite provided many hand and footholds, and on a summer’s day, Torak would have scrambled up it like a squirrel. But the rock was running wet and veined with black ice. His fingers were clumsy with cold. His mittens had come untucked from his sleeves and swung loose on their strings, but he dared not slip them on.

  Pausing for breath, he craned his neck. The Mountain was lost in fog, but he glimpsed the top of the cleft. He was halfway there.

  ‘Don’t rush, Torak.’ In his head he seemed to hear the calm, steady voice of his kinsman, Bale. The summer before last, the Seal Clan boy had taught him rock-climbing. Bale had been patient, never imparting more than Torak could take in. ‘Try to keep your arms no higher than about shoulder height; that way, your weight will stay mostly on your feet . . . And heels down, Torak. Standing on your toes only gives you leg-shake.’

  Torak’s heels were down, but his legs were still shaking.

  Below him, the brindled creature growled.

  Torak glanced down.

  Cold, cold, that stony gaze; waiting for this sack of meat to drop into its jaws. Its hunger sucked at his souls.

  He screwed his eyes shut. Don’t look, he told himself. Don’t think about it. Put something else in its place. Think about Wolf and Renn and Fin-Kedinn.

  The darkness in his head blew away like smoke dispersed by a cleansing wind.

  Opening his eyes, Torak forced his numb fingers to seek another handhold.

  He found his rhythm again, moving a hand, then a foot, then the other hand, the other foot. Smooth and fluid, like a dance. Nearly there.

  The axe in his belt snagged on an outcrop and yanked him back.

  He clung on with both hands, his right leg raised to find the next crack. But the next crack was too high, his foot couldn’t reach it because the axe was wedged, holding him down.

  Lowering his right leg, he tried to find the foothold he’d just relinquished. His boot brushed solid rock, he couldn’t find it. Now his left leg, bearing his whole weight, began to shake. He couldn’t keep this up much longer, he would have to reach down with one hand and free his axe. But then he would have only one hand and one foot on the rock; and that wasn’t enough to hold him there. Again he seemed to hear Bale’s voice. ‘If you remember nothing else, Torak, remember this. Always keep three limbs in contact with the rock. Move either an arm, or a leg, but never both at the same time.’

  His left leg was trembling violently. Nothing for it: he’d have to pull himself clear.

  The knuckles of both hands whitened as he strove with all his might to haul himself free. The axe made a terrible grinding noise. His belt tightened about his waist as the axe-handle twisted downwards. His arms shook with strain. With a jolt that nearly threw him off, the axe jerked free. He boosted himself up, and his free foot finally found the next crack.

  Shuddering with relief, he braced both legs against either side of the cleft. When he’d stopped shaking, he made one last effort and hauled himself over the top.

  Like a landed salmon he lay gasping, his cheek against icy stone. Before him stretched a plateau some fifty paces wide. It was shadowed by crags wreathed in fog, and littered with broken boulders which the Mountain had sent crashing down.

  Torak got to his feet, and the freezing wind buffeted him, so cold it made his temples ache. He untangled his axe from his belt. It slipped from his hands and tumbled into the cleft. Aghast, he watched it clatter to the bottom.

  The dog was nowhere to be seen.

  Torak peered down, unable to take in the loss of his axe.

  He felt eyes on him.

  He turned.

  Twenty paces away, on the rocks beneath the cliffs, stood the Eagle Owl Mage.

  Her deathless, death-like mask was the livid white of shattered bone. The slit of her mouth gaped in a soundless scream. One hand clutched a mace topped by a glowing red stone; the other a three-pronged spear for snaring souls.

  Torak fumbled for his knife. He knew it would be useless against the Soul-Eater, but it had belonged to Fa, and it lent him the courage
to stay standing.

  The evil of the Eagle Owl Mage crackled like lightning, blasted him back.

  He thought of Wolf, hunted by the pack. ‘Call them off,’ he panted.

  The painted owl eyes glared. No sound issued from the slitted mouth.

  ‘Call off your dogs from my pack-brother!’ shouted Torak. ‘You’ve got what you want! Here I am!’

  The Masked One never stirred, but behind her, Torak saw shadows spread like wings. He felt her malice battering his mind.

  Then from the nightmare mask came a cry that pierced his skull. Echoing from rock to rock, it grew; louder and louder, slivers of bone skewering his brain . . .

  Look behind you, Torak.

  Torak glanced over his shoulder – and ducked too late. The eagle owl struck him on the side of the head. He staggered, swaying on the edge. Above him the owl veered for another attack.

  At that moment, a great white bird came swooping out of the fog, its talons outstretched to strike the owl. The owl swerved to evade it, and flew round to come at Torak again.

  He tottered backwards and fell.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Torak woke up floating in a cloud. It was soft and light, and deliciously warm.

  With an effort, he lifted his eyelids. Through a mist, he glimpsed white reindeer leaping over him. White wolverines ambled peacefully among white lemmings and willow grouse. A snowy musk-ox grazed near a raven bright as frost.

  ‘Am I dead?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said a voice that seemed to come from a great distance.

  Torak sighed.

  Later, it occurred to him that the voice had been right, as he was still in his body. His outer clothes were gone, but he wore his jerkin and under-leggings. The cloud tickled his bare feet.

  ‘Where am I?’ he murmured.

  ‘Here,’ the voice said quietly.

  Torak tried to make sense of that. ‘Are you the Hidden People?’

  A pause. ‘I hide. But I’m not one of them.’

  The mist began to clear. Torak smelt woodsmoke. He heard water dripping; the spitting of a fire. He felt the tightness in his chest that he only got when he was in a cave.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He was lying on a mat of hare skins beneath a covering of musk-ox wool. The cave was so narrow he could have spanned it with his arms, but he guessed it must be deep. Beyond his feet, daylight rimmed a patchwork of hides that shut off the cave mouth. Nearer, a fire cast a ruddy glimmer. Torak saw piles of heather and dried musk-ox dung; and strings of herbs, mushrooms and trout, hanging to smoke.

  White reindeer and musk-ox had been painted on the walls in gypsum. Lemmings, wolverines and grouse, cramming every ledge, had been carved in slate and dusted with chalk. The white raven was real. It perched on a rock, peering at Torak. Feathers, legs, claws, even its beak were white. But its eyes were dark, and raven-keen.

  Shakily, Torak sat up. He felt giddy and bruised, but he could move all his limbs, so he guessed that the snow and his bulky clothes had broken his fall. His head throbbed. The eagle owl had reopened his scalp wound, which someone had bandaged.

  The eagle owl.

  Everything returned in a rush.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he said. ‘Where’s my knife! Where’s Wolf?’

  No answer.

  Torak staggered towards the cave mouth.

  ‘Stop!’ cried the voice.

  Torak heard running feet and clattering claws. He pushed past the hides into an icy blast. Hands yanked him back from a dizzying drop. He sat down hard, and Wolf pounced on him, snuffle-licking his face and whimpering with joy. You’re awake! I hate these long sleeps! I’m here!

  Torak reached for Wolf’s scruff. He stared up at the boy who had saved his life.

  He appeared to be about Torak’s own age. Grimy and thin, he was blinking and shielding his eyes from the light. He wore a shaggy robe of musk-ox wool, and had no visible clan-tattoos. But it wasn’t any of these which made him extraordinary.

  He looked as if someone had stolen all his colour. His long, tangled hair was white as cobwebs. His brows and lashes had the hue of dead grass, his face the pallor of fresh-cut chalk. His pale-grey eyes made Torak think of a sky full of snow.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the boy with an odd blend of fear and longing.

  ‘What are you?’ cried Torak, struggling to his feet. ‘You took my clothes and my knife. Give them back!’

  The boy stretched his lips in a gap-toothed smile that looked as if he hadn’t used it in a while. ‘Your knife is safe.’ He pointed to a ledge. ‘You’re dizzy. I made you sleep. You talked a lot.’

  ‘You’re one of her creatures!’ snarled Torak.

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Eostra!’

  ‘The one who has taken the Mountain?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know!’

  ‘Oh, I know. I’ve seen her.’

  Torak saw the shadows under his eyes. This boy had endured days and nights of fear.

  Or else he was a good liar.

  ‘You must be helping her!’ Torak insisted. ‘Why else would you be here?’

  ‘I was here before. I . . .’ He broke off, turning his head to listen. ‘I’m coming soon,’ he called.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said Torak suspiciously.

  ‘You should rest,’ urged the boy. ‘You’re dizzy.’

  As he said it, the giddiness got worse. ‘Are you a Mage?’ Torak said. ‘Making me feel whatever you want?’

  ‘A Mage? I don’t think so.’

  Wolf was licking Torak’s hand. Muzzily, Torak saw that his pack-brother’s wounds had been cleaned and smeared with salve, and that he seemed quite at ease with the stranger.

  ‘At first he wouldn’t let me near you,’ said the boy, holding out his fingers for Wolf to sniff.

  ‘Why did you make me sleep?’ said Torak, fighting to stay upright.

  ‘I had to go and check my snares. I couldn’t let you get away.’

  Torak blundered past him and grabbed his knife. ‘Give me my clothes. Let me out.’

  The cave was whirling. Gently, the boy took his knife and made him lie down on the hare skins.

  When Torak woke again, he was back under the musk-ox covering.

  And he was bound hand and foot.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’d get away.’

  ‘But I can’t stay here!’

  ‘Why?’

  Torak gave up struggling and stared at his captor.

  The boy’s hare-skin boots had been clumsily patched with bits of lemming, and his robe had been made by someone who’d never learnt to sew. He sat with his hands between his knees, gazing wistfully at Torak.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Torak.

  The pale lashes flickered. ‘I’m Dark.’

  Torak snorted. ‘Why’d they call you that?’

  ‘They didn’t. They threw me out before I got a name, so I chose Dark. I thought it might help.’

  Torak felt a flicker of pity, which he swiftly suppressed. ‘If you’re nothing to do with Eostra, how come she hasn’t killed you?’

  ‘I keep off her dogs and the child-demon things with my slingshot. That’s how I helped you when the dogs attacked. And Ark guards me when I sleep.’

  ‘Who’s Ark?’

  On its perch, the white raven fluffed its head-feathers.

  ‘If Eostra wanted you dead,’ said Torak, ‘she’d have found a way.’

  ‘Yes. I think she likes the power. For her, I’m a game.’ He gave Torak his odd, stretched smile. ‘But now I’ve got you. I’m not alone any more.’

  Torak couldn’t make him out. He was scrawny, but he’d managed to get Torak into his cave, and he’d done a good job of tying him up. Wolf sniffed the bindings, but when Torak told him in a furtive grunt-whine to chew the ones at his wrists, Wolf simply licked his fingers.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ said Dark.

  ‘No,’
lied Torak. ‘Who are you? How come you’re here?’

  Dark took half a dried trout from inside his robe and began to gnaw. ‘When my mother carried me in her belly, a white hare ran in front of her, so I was born like this.’ He touched his cobweb hair. ‘My mother said I was Swan Clan like her, but when I got older I began to see things, and they said I brought bad luck. My mother protected me, but when I was eight summers old, she died. Next day, Fa took me into the Gorge. I thought he was going to give me my clan-tattoos, but he left me. I kept the trail-markers clear so he could find me again. But he never came back.’

  ‘Didn’t you try to make your own way out?’

  ‘Oh, no. I knew I had to stay.’

  Torak thought about that. ‘So you’ve been here ever since?’

  Dark indicated the stone creatures thronging the ledges. ‘One for each moon.’

  ‘But – that must be seven winters. How did you survive?’

  ‘It was hard,’ said Dark, picking a fish bone from between his teeth. ‘The first three winters, someone left food. After that, nothing. I was cold till I gathered the musk-ox wool. Once, my teeth went bad. They hurt till I knocked some out with a rock.’ He paused. ‘I was alone. Then I found Ark. Some crows were pecking her because she was white. I named her Ark, it was the first thing she said to me.’ He grinned. ‘She likes her name, she says it a lot!’

  ‘So all this time, it’s been just you and the raven?’

  ‘And the ghosts.’

  Wolf got up and trotted deeper into the cave. Dark turned his head to listen.

  ‘You – can see ghosts,’ said Torak.

  Dark nodded calmly.

  It was very still in the cave. Torak said, ‘Was that a ghost you were talking to before?’

  ‘My sister, yes. But as she’s a ghost, she doesn’t remember she is my sister.’

  Torak peered into the shadows, but all he could see was Wolf, who sat sweeping the floor with his tail. He said, ‘Have you seen the ghost of a man who looks like me? Long dark hair? Wolf Clan tattoos?’

  ‘No. Who’s that?’

  Torak did not reply. ‘But we are inside the Mountain? The Mountain of Ghosts?’