Chronicles of Ancient Darkness
Chapter 152 : The cleft was the height of four tall men, but narrow enough for him to climb by braci

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 cras.h.i.+ng 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-p.r.o.nged 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 s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the light. He wore a s.h.a.ggy 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 gra.s.s, 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.