The last time he’d worn Death Marks had been three winters ago, when he’d prepared to hunt the demon bear. Then, Renn had helped him. Now it was Dark who must daub the earthblood circles on his breastbone, heels and brow.
As Dark stirred the ochre with thin fingers, he said, ‘I remember this. It’s for dead people.’
Torak didn’t reply.
Dark’s touch was light and skilled, and somehow reassuring. ‘There’s some left,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘You must put it in your hair. There will be ghosts. You don’t want them to come too close.’
The red paste chilled Torak’s scalp, but felt oddly comforting: maybe because his mother, who had been Red Deer, would also have worn ochre in her hair.
He rubbed the last of it between Wolf’s ears. Soon his pack-brother would be alone on the Mountain. This might keep him safe.
The thought of leaving Wolf was unbearable; but so was the thought of taking him into the Whispering Cave and seeing him die.
With an irritable growl, Wolf wriggled free and shot out of the cave, followed by Ark and Dark. Torak crawled after them into the blistering cold.
He found himself on a precipitous, snow-covered slope. The fog was gone. The sky was an ominous yellow. Soon the Mountain would release its ghosts.
As his eyes accustomed to the light, Torak realized that they were on its eastern face. The cleft he’d climbed lay somewhere to the west. Above him, the Mountain of Ghosts pierced the sky, its peak blazing in the last rays of the setting sun. The demon time was close.
Ark flew overhead, her white wings flashing. Wolf raced about, sniffing furiously, and stopping now and then to watch something move down the slope: something Torak couldn’t see.
Dark sealed the entrance to his cave with a clever arrangement of rocks which hid it from view. ‘That’s the way to the Cave,’ he said, pointing. ‘But it’s steep, so first we have to head east, then loop back.’
The hard-packed snow was treacherous, and Dark showed Torak how to kick into the snow with his toes. ‘You have to kick in straight, or your foot will slide out.’ A slab of snow broke off and exploded far below, demonstrating what would happen if Torak got it wrong. ‘Follow me,’ Dark called over his shoulder.
His voice rang out, and Torak was about to hush him when he thought, But what does it matter? Eostra knows we’re here. This is what she wants.
The madness of what he was about to do struck him. He had no axe, no bow and no plan, other than to find his way to the Whispering Cave and then – what? How did he imagine he could break the power of the Eagle Owl Mage? He would be as helpless as that young hare in the teeth of the pack.
Am I mad? he wondered. Is it because I’ve got too close to the sky?
Renn would have told him exactly what she thought with a roll of her dark eyes. Torak missed her so much he felt sick.
‘Here’s where we turn,’ said Dark, waiting for him to catch up.
Wolf stood beside Dark, panting and swinging his tail. Sensing Torak’s misery, he trotted back to him, his paws kicking up sparkling flakes of snow. I am with you, he told Torak.
‘Not far now,’ said Dark.
They tramped on with the sun in their eyes. Glancing down, Torak saw that shadows were creeping up the Mountain. Soon it would be Souls’ Night.
‘There,’ Dark said quietly. ‘That’s the way in. The Scar.’
Shading his eyes, Torak saw a slash in the face of the Mountain. On either side, a hand had been hammer-etched in the stone. Lines of power emanated from the middle fingers, warding off evil.
In vain. Claw-marks had gouged the hands, annihilating their power so that Eostra might enter.
Torak felt the breath of the Scar chilling his face, stiffening the earthblood on his skin. Inside, death waited to claim him. Or worse: the unimaginable horror of being Lost.
Every shred of his spirit rebelled. I won’t do it! Let someone else fight Eostra! It doesn’t have to be me!
He fled, scrambling blindly up the slope. He tripped and fell to his knees.
When he raised his head, he saw that his flight had taken him much higher. He saw what until now had been hidden from view. The Mountain was indeed the easternmost peak, but what lay beyond it was not the edge of the world. Far below, marching away to the horizon, was another Forest.
In awe, Torak made out rowan and birch, oak and beech; pine and spruce standing guard over their slumbering sisters. And he, whose spirit had walked in the most ancient trees of the Forest of the west, now heard the call of the Forest of the east. I am endless and enduring, it murmured in his mind. I give life to all who dwell in me. I am worth fighting for.
Defiance kindled in Torak’s souls. If he gave up now, then Eostra had won, and nowhere would be safe. The Soul-Eater would rip aside the skin between the living and the dead, and the balance of the world would be destroyed.
The sun sank. Brightness faded from the Forest. The demon time was come.
Torak trudged down the slope to where Wolf and Dark were waiting. He walked towards the Scar.
Two paces from it, he stopped. ‘Look after Wolf,’ he told Dark. ‘I’ve got to leave him behind.’
Dark was horrified. ‘But – we’re coming with you! You need me to show you the way.’
‘Dark, I don’t think I’m going to live through this. No point you getting killed, too. As for finding the way . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I think there are those inside who will lead me.’
He knelt to say his last goodbye to Wolf. Goodbye to Wolf. It wasn’t possible.
Don’t think about Wolf left behind on the Mountain: bewildered, unable to grasp why his pack-brother has forsaken him.
Wolf snuffled his cheek, and Torak felt the tickle of his whiskers and the warmth of his breath. Pack-brother, said the golden eyes, as clear as sunlight in honey.
Wolf knew nothing of prophecies, or of Eostra’s mad designs; but he would follow his pack-brother even into the terror of the Scar.
With a strangled sob, Torak buried his face in Wolf’s scruff. Wolf whined softly and licked his neck. I am with you.
To leave Wolf behind would be a betrayal he would never understand; from which he would never recover.
‘I can’t,’ Torak said in a cracked voice. ‘Where I go, he goes.’
As he rose to his feet, he caught a flicker of movement inside the Scar.
Wolf lowered his head and growled.
‘Do you see it?’ whispered Dark.
Deep within, on a shadowy pillar of stone, crouched a tokoroth.
Through a tangle of filthy hair, demon eyes glittered with malice. In silence the creature pointed one yellow claw at Torak, then swung its skeletal arm to the darkness within.
Torak glanced over his shoulder at the world he was about to leave. Then, with Wolf at his side, he entered the Scar.
‘I’m coming with you!’ cried Dark.
Unseen hands rolled a boulder across the entrance, shutting him out.
And the Mountain swallowed Torak and Wolf.
THIRTY-TWO
Renn fell to her knees before the sacred Mountain. Souls’ Night. She felt the presence of the ghosts to whom it belonged.
With trembling hands, she made an offering of earthblood and meat. In a hushed murmur she begged the Mountain to let her pass. Then she shook what was left of the ochre over her hair, to protect her from the ghosts.
Above her the sky was a deep, twilit blue. The cold was savage. Her breath crackled in her nostrils. Her ankle ached, and her feet were bruised from the hill of vicious slate blades.
A few paces away, a shadow moved. It gave a low bark. Darkfur bounded towards her. Her tail was high, her fur fluffed up with excitement. Her starlit eyes glowed silver.
Renn’s courage rallied. ‘Come on then,’ she said under her breath. ‘Let’s check your paws.’
To protect them from the hill of knives, Renn had cut up her food pouch and made paw-boots. They’d worked. The she-wolf’s pads were barely scratched.
&nb
sp; A good sleep and the poultice had done wonders for her, and after licking her wound clean and gulping most of Renn’s supplies, she’d been a new wolf. By midday she was circling the shelter, limping, but snuffing eagerly at the scent trail of her mate.
Renn, however, had been apprehensive after terrible dreams of ghosts who’d whispered with Torak’s voice. And when she’d crawled from the shelter, the ravens were gone.
She and Darkfur had made good speed as they’d found their way up the Gorge of the Hidden People, the she-wolf trotting ahead, then doubling back for Renn. She didn’t need to know wolf talk to interpret those impatient yips. Hurry up! Can’t you go any faster?
At times, though, Darkfur would halt, and turn her head to watch something Renn couldn’t see. Sometimes she wagged her tail. Sometimes her hackles rose.
A white bird flashed across the stars. Renn thought of the white guardian in her vision, and rose to her feet.
To her right, a scree slope fell away sharply. Ahead, a boulder-field led onto the sacred Mountain. The sky was immense and pitiless. No moon to give her courage. Only the cold stars and the red glare of the Great Auroch – and beyond, the endless dark.
Renn thought, perhaps Eostra has already won. Perhaps Torak is already a Lost One.
The stillness as she laboured over the boulder-field was terrible. The only sounds were the rasp of her breath and the creak of her clothes. Silent as a spirit, Darkfur raced ahead. A black wolf in blackness is hard to spot, and Renn had to follow the she-wolf’s breath: little puffs of life in the desolation.
Suddenly, she saw Darkfur streak over a stretch of snow to a shadowy spur, where she raced about, sniffing excitedly. She vanished into a cleft. Renn heard echoing growls. Then she emerged and loped back to the spur, lashing her tail.
Renn hurried to investigate. As she drew closer, the hairs on her forearms rose. Someone had dug a snow hole. Around it was a mess of paw-marks. Huge. Not Wolf’s.
Prickling with fear, she crawled into the shelter.
Her breath was loud in the cramped space. Her hands found a quiver of arrows. A food pouch. A waterskin. A sleeping-sack, rumpled and frozen stiff.
A bow.
Slipping off a mitten, she ran her fingers over the icy wood. There: the spiky Forest mark which Torak had notched in it last summer, matching the one his mother had carved on his medicine horn long ago.
Feeling sick, Renn set down the bow. The truth lay before her, crusted with frost. Some time before, Torak had scrambled from his shelter, leaving his gear behind. He had never returned.
Renn backed out and began to retch.
Darkfur gave a whine and shot to the edge of the scree slope, where she stood, listening intently.
Shakily, Renn straightened up.
Darkfur ignored her. Mewing, she ran in circles, as if she didn’t know what to do. Then she leapt down the slope.
‘Darkfur!’ called Renn in a horrified whisper. ‘Come back!’
The clatter of pebbles died away. Darkfur was gone.
Renn’s hand crept to her clan-creature feathers. She was alone on the Mountain of Ghosts.
Dimly, in the starlight, she made out the trail that led into the cleft, then out again; the swathe of churned snow heading east.
As she entered the cleft, she tripped over something. It was frozen to the ground: she had to wrench it free.
Torak’s axe.
Renn knew at once what had happened. He had climbed the cleft to escape Eostra’s pack. He had fallen. The churned snow was the drag-mark where someone had hauled away his body.
Renn dropped the axe and stood swaying in the gloom. ‘Torak!’ The cry burst from her. ‘Torak! Torak!’ The name echoed back and forth. Torak! Torak! Slowly it faded into the Mountain.
At the top of the cleft, a face peered at her.
Renn whipped out an arrow and nocked it to her bow.
‘Don’t shoot!’ called a voice.
Renn tightened her draw arm and got ready to do just that.
Supple as a pine marten, a figure let itself over the edge and started climbing down.
Holding her aim, Renn took a step back.
With startling speed, the creature made its descent and leapt to the ground, spinning to face her. In one astonished heartbeat she took in a bone-pale face and a shock of white hair.
‘Are you Renn?’ panted the boy.
Her jaw dropped.
‘Quick!’ He grabbed her wrist. ‘We’ve got to save Torak!’
THIRTY-THREE
Flames leapt. Shadows reared. On its pillar, the tokoroth clutched a sputtering torch and glared at Torak.
He glimpsed glistening fangs and hair heaving with lice. He saw unblinking eyes ringed with chalk to give them the stare of an owl. Then the creature sprang away, plunging him in darkness.
Slipping off his mittens, he drew his knife and followed. The tunnel was cold; he felt his way through a dank cloud of breath. Shadows scuttled. His hand moved over rock as ridged and slimy as guts. In a crack, something scaly withdrew from his touch.
Around him he felt the awesome weight of the Mountain. He was inside it: this vast, ancient creature which had only to twitch, to crush him to pulp.
Behind him came the subdued click of Wolf’s claws. He’d stopped growling, and hadn’t tried to attack the tokoroth, perhaps sensing it would stay out of reach. But what alarmed Torak was that the tokoroth ignored Wolf, as if it knew that he posed no threat.
As they went deeper, Torak began to regret having let his pack-brother come with him. Eostra would never allow Wolf to reach the Whispering Cave. She would find some way to separate them – and Wolf would be killed.
He wondered how many more tokoroths lay in wait. Where was Eostra’s pack? Her owl?
Crouching, he asked Wolf if this cub-demon was the only one.
More, replied Wolf, his whiskers brushing Torak’s eyelids. Can’t smell where.
Up ahead, the tokoroth bared its fangs and snarled at them to keep up.
On they went, always downwards. The cold lessened. Torak felt an uprush of warmer air. Strange signs loomed at him from the dark. A chalk zigzag. A yellow handprint. An alarming charcoal creature with many limbs. Were they a warning? Or had they been put here to keep the demons behind the rocks?
His groping fingers found a nest of pebbles, smooth and rounded as eyes. A memory surfaced from three summers ago: the riddle of the Nanuak. Deepest of all, the drowned sight.
Behind him, Wolf gave a low uff!
The tokoroth disappeared round a corner.
Torak felt his way past – and jolted to a halt.
Firelight glimmered beyond an arch of white rock; around it, a chaos of red handprints: Go back, go back!
Then everything happened at once. Torak saw the tokoroth douse the torch in a pool and scramble up the arch. Something came crashing down behind him: a wall of rawhide, barring his way. On the other side, Wolf was yowling and scrabbling to reach him. Torak tried to cut through, but the rawhide was tough, his knife bounced off. The tokoroth dropped on him like a spider, gouging at his face. As he sank to his knees, it yanked back his hood to throttle him. He slashed with his knife. The tokoroth shrieked, let go of his hood. Torak grabbed its arm and twisted. It squirmed out of his grip and vanished through the arch.
Panting, sick with the demon stench, Torak hauled himself upright. He stumbled, took a step back.
Into nothingness.
Wolf lunged and snapped at the cub-demons, and they fought back with their great stone claws.
Wolf pretended to spring one way, they leapt after him; he turned the other way, sinking his teeth into a scaly leg. The cub-demon howled and dropped its stone claw. Another bit Wolf’s shoulder. He went for it, missing by a whisker. Both demons fled up the rocks where he couldn’t reach.
It was too dark to see, but he sensed them. He heard their breath; the lice crawling on their flesh. Why didn’t they attack?
In a snap, he knew. They might be demons, but they were in
tailless bodies, so they had only feeble tailless ears and noses. If Wolf didn’t move, they didn’t know where he was.
Quietly, he closed his muzzle and took a silent sniff.
The stink of blood and hate was all around; but it was strongest above.
He heard Tall Tailless yowl on the other side of the hide. Wolf couldn’t bear it, he leapt at the hide – and the cub-demons were on him.
They were quick, but Wolf was quicker. Whipping round, he sank his fangs in a bony neck. It snapped. The demon went limp. Wolf smelt the other and gave chase. It disappeared over the hide.
Wolf went to sniff the fallen tailless cub to make sure it was really Not-Breath. Yes. The meat was cooling. But Wolf saw the demon which had hidden inside the carcass slip out and scurry off to find a new body. He raced after it, cornered it in a Den where it couldn’t escape, and chased it into the rocks. There. Now it couldn’t get out again.
When he got back to the hide, he found the Breath-that-Walks of the tailless cub shivering beside its carcass. It was bewildered. After so long trapped with the demon, it didn’t know what to do.
Wolf felt a lick of pity. It was only a cub. He nosed it up the tunnel towards the others. Go on, up there. You won’t be lonely, we passed lots of your kind on the way down.
Whimpering, the Breath-that-Walks wandered off to find its pack.
From the other side of the hide came many noises. Wolf caught the growls of dogs and the click of cub-demon claws; the sly hiss of owl wings, and the distant whisper of a Fast Wet, all coming from far below.
He smelt his pack-brother, and another tailless he’d once known, but couldn’t remember. Then the air shifted and he caught a smell that made his fur stand on end: the Stone-Faced One with the terrible, stiff muzzle.
Wild to reach his pack-brother, Wolf made a desperate leap at the hide. It was too high, he couldn’t get over. He tried to tear it with his fangs, but it was too flat, he couldn’t get his jaws around it. He had to find another way.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 111