Instantly Wolf leapt back and apologized with a grin.
Renn gasped. ‘You can talk to him!’
‘No!’ cried Torak. ‘No, you’re wrong-’
‘I saw you!’ Her face was paler than ever. ‘So it’s true. The Prophecy is true. You are the Listener.’
‘No!’
‘What were you saying to him? What were you plotting?’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t -’
‘I won’t give you the chance,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t let you plot against us. Neither will Fin-Kedinn.’ Drawing her knife, she cut Wolf’s leash, scooped him up in her arms, and raced across the clearing towards the clan meet.
‘Come back!’ yelled Torak. Furiously he yanked at the bindings, but they held fast. Wolf hadn’t had time to bite them through.
Terror washed over him. He’d put all his hopes in Wolf, and now Wolf was gone. Dawn was not far off. Already the birds were stirring in the trees.
Again he tugged at the bindings round his wrists. Again they held tight.
Across the clearing, Fin-Kedinn and the old woman called Saeunn rose to their feet and started towards him.
‘How much do you know?’ said Fin-Kedinn.
‘Nothing,’ said Torak, eyeing the jagged bone knife at the Raven Leader’s belt. ‘Are you going to sacrifice me?’
Fin-Kedinn did not reply. He and Saeunn crouched at either side of the doorway, watching him. He felt like prey.
Behind his back, he scrabbled around for something - anything - that he could use to cut the rawhide. His fingers found only a willow-branch mat: smooth and useless.
‘How much do you know?’ Fin-Kedinn said again.
Torak took a deep breath. ‘I am not your Listener,’ he said as steadily as he could. ‘I can’t be. I’ve never even heard of the Prophecy.’ And yet, he wondered, why was Renn so certain? What does speaking wolf talk have to do with it?
Fin-Kedinn turned away. His face was as unreadable as ever, but Torak saw his hand tighten on his knife.
Saeunn leaned forwards and peered into Torak’s eyes. In the firelight, he saw her closely. He’d never encountered anyone so old. Through her scant white hair, her scalp gleamed like polished bone. Her face was sharp as a bird’s. Age had scorched away all kindly feelings to leave only the fierce raven essence.
‘According to Renn,’ she said harshly, ‘you can talk to the wolf. That’s part of the Prophecy. The part we didn’t tell you.’
Torak stared at her. ‘Renn’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I can’t -’
‘Don’t lie to us,’ said Fin-Kedinn without turning his head.
Torak swallowed.
Again he groped behind him. This time - yes! A tiny flake of flint, no bigger than his thumbnail: probably dropped by someone sharpening a knife. His fingers closed over it. If only Fin-Kedinn and Saeunn would return to the clan meet, he might be able to cut himself free. Then he would find wherever Renn had taken Wolf, and dodge between the guards and...
His spirits sank. He’d need a lot of luck to manage all that.
‘Shall I tell you,’ said Saeunn, ‘why you can talk to the wolf?’
‘Saeunn, what’s the use?’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘We’re wasting time-’
‘He must be told,’ said the old woman. She fell silent. Then, with one yellow, claw-like finger, she touched the amulet at her breast, and began tracing the spiral.
Torak watched her talon going round and round. He started to feel dizzy.
‘Many summers ago,’ said the Raven Mage, ‘your father and mother left their clan. They went to hide from their enemies. Far, far away in the Deep Forest, among the green souls of the talking trees.’ Still her talon traced the spiral: drawing Torak down into the past.
Three moons after you were born,’ Saeunn went on, ‘your mother died.’
Fin-Kedinn got up, crossed his arms over his chest, and stood staring out into the darkness.
Torak blinked, as if waking from a dream.
Saeunn didn’t even glance at Fin-Kedinn. Her attention was fixed on Torak. ‘You were only an infant,’ she said. ‘Your father couldn’t feed you. Usually when that happens, the father smothers his child, to spare it a slow death from starvation. But your father found another way. A she-wolf with a litter. He put you in her den.’
Torak struggled to take it in.
‘Three moons you were with her in the den. There moons to learn the wolf talk.’
Torak gripped the flint flake so hard that it dug into his palm. He could feel that Saeunn was telling the truth. This was why he could talk to Wolf. This was why he’d had that vision when he’d found the den. The squirming cubs. The rich, fatty milk…
How could Saeunn possibly know?
‘No,’ he said. This is a trap. You couldn’t know this. You weren’t there.’
‘Your father told me,’ said Saeunn.
‘He can’t have done. We never went near people -’
‘Oh, but you did once. Five summers ago. Don’t you remember? The clan meet by the Sea.’
Torak’s pulse began to race.
‘Your father went there to find me. To tell me about you.’ Her talon came to rest at the heart of the spiral. ‘You are not like others,’ she said in her raven’s croak. ‘You are the Listener.’
Again Torak’s grip on the flint tightened. ‘I -I can’t be. I don’t understand.’
‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Fin-Kedinn over his shoulder. He turned to Torak. ‘Your father told you nothing about who you are. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Torak nodded.
The Raven Leader was silent for a moment. His face was still, but Torak sensed a battle raging beneath his mask-like features. There is only one thing you need to know,’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘It’s this. It is not by chance that the bear attacked your father. It’s because of him that it came into being.’
Torak’s heart missed a beat. ‘Because of my father?’
‘Fin-Kedinn -’ warned Saeunn.
The Raven Leader shot her a sharp glance. ‘You said he should know. Now I’m telling him.’
‘But,’ said Torak, ‘it was the crippled wanderer who -’
The crippled wanderer,’ cut in Fin-Kedinn, ‘was your father’s sworn enemy.’
Torak shrank back against the roof post. ‘My father didn’t have enemies.’
The Raven Leader’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Your father wasn’t just some hunter from the Wolf Clan. He was the Wolf Clan Mage.’
Torak forgot to breathe.
‘He didn’t tell you that either, did he?’ said Fin-Kedinn. ‘Oh yes, he was the Wolf Mage. And it’s because of him that this -creature -is rampaging through the Forest -’
‘No,’ whispered Torak. That isn’t true.’
‘He kept you ignorant of everything, didn’t he?’
‘Fin-Kedinn,’ said Saeunn, ‘he was trying to protect -’
‘Yes, and look at the result!’ Fin-Kedinn rounded on her. ‘A half-grown boy who knows nothing! Yet you ask me to believe that he is the only one who can - ‘ He stopped short, shaking his head.
There was a taut silence. Fin-Kedinn took a deep breath. The man who created the bear,’ he told Torak quietly, ‘did it for a single purpose. He created the bear to kill your father.
The sky was lightening in the east when Torak finally cut the rope round his wrists with the flake of flint. There was no time to lose. Fin-Kedinn had just gone back to the clan meet with Saeunn, where they were locked in heated argument with the others. At any moment they might reach a decision and come to get him.
It was an effort to saw through the binding at his ankles. His head was reeling. ‘Your father put you in the den of a she-wolf ... He was the Wolf Mage ... He was murdered ... ‘
Th
e flake of flint was slippery with sweat. He dropped it. Fumbled for it again. At last the binding was cut. He flexed his ankles - and nearly cried out in pain. His legs burned from being cramped for so long.
Worse than that was the pain in his heart. Fa had been murdered. Murdered by the crippled wanderer, who had created the demon bear with the sole aim of hunting him down ...
It wasn’t possible. There had to be some mistake.
And yet, deep down, Torak knew it was true. He remembered the grimness in Fa’s face as he lay dying. It will come for me soon, he had said. He had known what his enemy had done. He had known why the bear had been created.
It was too much to take in. Torak felt as if everything he’d ever known had been swept away: as if he stood on day-old ice, watching the cracks spreading like lightning beneath his feet.
The pain in his legs wrenched him back to the present. He tried to rub some feeling into them. His bare feet were cold, but there was nothing he could do. He hadn’t been able to see where Oslak had taken his boots.
Somehow, without being spotted, he had to get out of the shelter, across to the hazel bushes at the edge of the clearing. Somehow, he had to evade the guards.
He couldn’t do it. He’d be seen. If only he could find some way to distract them ...
At the far end of the camp, a lonely yowl rose into the misty morning air. Where are you? cried Wolf. Why did you leave me this time?
Torak froze. He heard the camp dogs taking up the howl. He saw people leaping up from the clan meet and running to investigate. He knew that Wolf had given him his chance.
He had to act fast. Quickly, he edged out of the shelter and dived into the shadows behind the hazel bushes. He knew what he had to do - and he hated it.
He had to leave Wolf behind.
Cold air burned Torak’s throat as he tore through a willow thicket towards the river. Stones bloodied his bare feet. He hardly noticed.
Thanks to Wolf, he’d got out of the camp unseen, but not for long. Behind him came a deep, echoing boom. Birch-bark horns were sounding the alarm. He heard men shouting, dogs baying. The Ravens were coming after him.
Brambles snagged his leggings as he skidded over the riverbank and splashed down into a bed of tall reeds. Knee-deep in icy black mud, he clamped his hand over his mouth to stop his steamy breath betraying him.
Fortunately, he was downwind of his pursuers, but the sweat was pouring off him, and he was still clutching the rawhide rope from his ankles; the dogs would easily pick up his scent. He didn’t know whether to toss it away or keep it in case he needed it.
Confusion swirled in his head like an angry river. He had no boots, no pack, no weapons - and nothing with which to make any more, apart from the knowledge in his head and the skill in his hands. If he managed to escape, what then?
Suddenly, above the horns, he heard a yowl. Where are you?
At the sound, Torak’s doubts cleared. He couldn’t leave Wolf. He had to rescue him.
He wished there was some way he could howl back - I’m coming. Don’t be afraid, I haven’t abandoned you - but of course there wasn’t. The yowling went on.
His feet were freezing. He had to get out of the river or he’d be too numb to run. He thought fast.
The Ravens would expect him to head north, because that was where he’d said he was going when they’d captured him; so he decided to do exactly that - at least for a while - and then double back to the camp, and find some way of reaching Wolf, hoping that the Ravens would be tricked into continuing north.
Further downstream, a branch snapped.
Torak wheeled round.
A soft splash. A muttered curse.
He peered through the reeds.
About fifty paces downstream, two men were stealing down the bank towards the reed-bed. They moved carefully, intent on hunting him. One held a bow that was taller than Torak, with an arrow already fitted to the string; the other gripped a basalt throwing-axe.
It had been a mistake to hide in the reed-bed. If he stayed where he was, they’d find him; if he tried to swim the river he’d be seen, and speared like a pike. He had to get back into the cover of the Forest.
As quietly as he could, he started clambering up the bank. It was thick with willows which gave good cover, but very steep. Red earth crumbled beneath him. If he fell back into the river, they’d hear the splash...
Pebbles trickled into the water as he clawed at the dirt. Luckily the booming of the birch-bark horns masked the noise, and the men didn’t hear.
Chest heaving, he made it to the top. Now to head north. The sky was overcast, so he couldn’t get his bearings from the sun, but since the river flowed west, he knew that if he kept it directly behind him, he’d be heading roughly north.
He set off through a thick wood of aspen and beech, taking care to trail the rawhide behind him so as to leave a good strong scent.
A furious baying erupted behind him, terrifyingly close. He’d trailed the rope too soon. Already the dogs had picked up his scent.
In panic he scrambled up the nearest tree - a spindly aspen - and had just managed to screw the rawhide into a ball and throw it as far as he could towards the river when a massive red dog burst through the brambles.
It cast about beneath Torak’s tree, loops of spit swinging from its jaws. Then it picked up the scent of the rawhide, and raced off in pursuit.
There!’ came a shout from downstream. ‘One of the dogs has found the trail!’
Three men ran beneath Torak’s aspen, panting as they struggled to catch up with the dog. Torak clung to the tree trunk. If one of them looked up...
They pushed on and disappeared. Moments later, Torak heard faint splashes. They must be searching the reeds.
He waited in case more followed, then jumped down from the tree.
He ran north through the aspens, putting some distance between himself and the river, then skidded to a halt. It was time to turn east and head back towards the camp - provided he could find some way of putting the dogs off his trail.
Desperately he looked round for something to mask his scent. Deer droppings! No good: the dogs would still chase after him. Yarrow leaves! Maybe. Their strong, nutty smell should be powerful enough to mask his sweat.
At the foot of a beech tree, he found a pile of wolverine droppings: twisted, hairy, and so foul-smelling that they made his eyes water. Much better. Gagging on the stench, he smeared his feet, shins and hands. Wolverines are about the same size as badgers, but they’ll fight anything that moves, and they usually win. The dogs probably wouldn’t risk an encounter.
The booming of the horns suddenly cut off.
The silence beat at his ears. With a clutch of terror he realized that Wolf’s yowls had also ceased. Was he all right? Surely - surely the Ravens wouldn’t dare harm him!
Torak fought his way through the undergrowth towards the camp. The ground rose, and the river ran swiftly between tumbled boulders slippery with moss.
Ahead, smoke curled into the heavy grey sky. He must be getting close. He crouched, straining for sounds of pursuit above the rushing water. With every breath, he expected to hear the thwang of a bowstring; to feel an arrow slicing between his shoulder blades.
Nothing. Maybe they’d fallen for his trick, and were following his trail north.
Through the trees, something big and domed rose into sight. Torak lurched to a halt. He guessed what it was, and hoped he was wrong.
Like a huge toad, the mound squatted above him. It was a head taller than him, and thickly covered with moss and blueberry scrub. Behind it stood two smaller mounds, and around them loomed a dense thicket of yews and ivy choked holly trees.
Torak hung back, wondering what to do. Once, he and Fa had come across mounds like these. This must be the Raven Clan’s bone-ground: the place where the
y laid the bones of their Dead.
His way to the camp - to Wolf - lay through the bone-ground. But would he dare? He wasn’t Raven Clan. He couldn’t venture into another clan’s bone-ground without angering their ancestors ...
Mist floated in the hollows between the mounds, where the pale, ghostly skeletons of hemlock reared above his head, and the purple stalks of dying willowherb released their eerily drifting down. All around stood the dark, listening trees: trees that stayed green all winter, that never slept. In the branches of the tallest yew perched three ravens, watching him. He wondered which one was the clan guardian.
A baying of dogs behind him.
He was caught in a trap. Clever Fin-Kedinn: throwing his net wide, then tightening it around the quarry.
Torak had nowhere to go. The river was too fast to swim, and if he climbed a tree, the ravens would tell the hunters where he was, and he’d be dropped like a shot squirrel. If he burrowed into the thicket, the dogs would drag him out like a weasel.
He turned to face his pursuers. He had nothing with which to defend himself; not even a rock.
He edged backwards - straight into the largest mound. He stifled a cry. He was caught between the living and the dead.
Something grabbed him from behind and dragged him down into darkness.
‘Don’t move,’ breathed a voice in Torak’s ear, ‘don’t make a sound, and don’t touch the bones!’
Torak couldn’t even see the bones; he couldn’t see anything. He was huddled in rotten-smelling blackness with a knife pressed to his throat.
He gritted his teeth to stop them chattering. Around him, he sensed the chill weight of earth, and the massed and moldering bones of the Raven Dead. He prayed that all the souls would be far away on the Death Journey. But what if some had been left behind?
He had to get out of here. In the first shock of being caught, he’d heard a scraping of stone, as if his captor were sealing the mound. Now, as his eyes adjusted to the dark he made out a faint edge of light. Whatever had been dragged across the entrance didn’t seem to be a perfect fit.
Michelle Paver - [Chronicles of Ancient Darkness 01] Page 7