Chronicles of Ancient Darkness
Chapter 80 : Torak lifted his chin. 'It was my father's,' he said proudly.A hush fell

Torak lifted his chin. 'It was my father's,' he said proudly.

A hush fell upon the Soul-Eaters. The eagle owl swivelled its head and stared.

'Your father,' said Nef, aghast. 'He was the Wolf Mage?'

'Yes,' said Torak. 'The man who saved your life.'

'The man who betrayed us!' spat Thiazzi.

Torak shot him a look of pure hatred. 'The man who discovered what you were! The man you murdered!'

'His son,' whispered Nef. Her brow creased. 'What what's your name?'

'Torak.'

'Torak,' repeated the Bat Mage. Her eyes sought his, and Torak could tell that for the first time she was seeing him not merely as "boy", the ninth hunter in the sacrifice, but as Torak, the son of the Wolf Mage.

'"The Wolf lives"', the Viper Mage said again. Her lips curved in her sideways smile. 'So that's what it means. What a disappointment.'

The Oak Mage had reached the limits of his patience. Pus.h.i.+ng past Seshru, he seized Torak by the hair and twisted back his head, pressing a blade against his throat. 'Tell us where you hid the fire-opal, or I'll slit your throat!'

Torak stared into the green eyes, and saw that he meant it. He thought fast. 'The girl has it,' he panted. 'The spirit walker.'

'What girl?' sneered Thiazzi.

'A spirit walker?' Nef said hoa.r.s.ely.

Torak flicked Seshru a glance. 'She knows,' he said. 'She knows, and she hasn't told you!'

Thiazzi and Nef stared at the Viper Mage.

'You knew?' said Thiazzi accusingly, releasing Torak with such force that he fell to his knees.

'He's making it up,' said Seshru. 'Can't you see? He's trying to set us against each other.'

'I'm telling the truth!' cried Torak. Then to Nef and Thiazzi, 'You know there was a girl with me, you must have seen the tracks!'

They had. He could tell from their faces.

Nef turned to Seshru. 'There was a moment in the caves, when you sensed souls. But you never told us what.'

'She knew,' said Torak. 'She sensed the spirit walker, she sensed souls walking free, between bodies.' A plan was forming. A desperate, deadly plan that would put both him and Renn in danger. But he couldn't think of any other way.

Out loud he said, 'The girl is the spirit walker. She's got the fire-opal.'

'Take us to her,' said Nef.

'It's a trick!' cried Seshru. 'He's tricking us!'

'What can he do to us?' growled Thiazzi.

'If you let me live,' said Torak, 'I'll take you to the fire-opal. I swear it on my three souls.'

Silently, Seshru glided towards him, and brought her face close to his. Her breath heated his skin. He felt himself drowning in her peerless gaze.

Slowly she took off her mitten and raised her hand.

He flinched.

The perfect lips curved in a smile. Her chill fingers smoothed the sign of the hand from his forehead, 'You won't need that any more,' she murmured. One long forefinger caressed his cheek: gently, but letting him feel the edge of her nail.

'Your father tried to trick us,' she breathed, 'and we killed him.' She leaned closer, and whispered in his ear. 'If you trick me, I shall make sure that you will never be free of me.'

Torak swallowed. 'I will take you to the fire-opal. I swear.'

Nef thrust Fa's knife into her belt, and stared at Torak with a strange, unreadable expression. 'How?'

'The wolf,' said Torak, jerking his head at the paw-prints that wound south across the ice. 'We must follow the tracks of the wolf.'

THIRTY-SIX.

Wolf felt as if he was being torn in pieces.

He had to find the pack-sister. He had to save Tall Tailless from the bad ones. And he had to chase the demons back into the Underneath. But he couldn't do it alone, he needed help. He could think of only one way of finding it. That way would be dangerous: the most dangerous thing a lone wolf could attempt. But he had to try.

On and on he loped through the glittering Dark. In the Up, the Bright White Eye was hiding, but her many little cubs shed their light upon the land.

As Wolf ran, he thought of Tall Tailless, and felt a fresh snap of worry. Would his pack-brother understand why he'd gone? Would he wait for his return, or blunder off and fall prey to the Great Wet?

It was too terrible to think about, so Wolf tried to lose himself in the sounds and smells carried on the wind. The furtive scratchings of a white grouse snuggling deeper into her burrow. The growls of the Great White Cold up ahead. The sharp, familiar scent of the pack-sister.

On Wolf went, following her scent. He knew that he had to find her before he went for help against the demons, although he didn't know why; he just felt it in his fur, with the sureness that came to him at times.

He raced up a long, sparkling slope, and paused at the top. Down there. She was sleeping down there in the dark.

A new scent a.s.sailed his nose, tightening his pelt and making his claws tingle. Demons. The urge to hunt them ran hot in his limbs. But not yet. And not alone.

Turning on one paw, he raced down the slope, the same way he'd come then struck out to seek help.

The Dark wore on, and tirelessly he flew over the Bright Soft Cold. He came to a broken land where stunted willows rattled dry leaves in the wind. He slowed to a trot.

The scent-markings of the lead wolf were fresh, strong, and rich. This told Wolf that the stranger wolves had recently made a kill, and that the pack wasn't far away.

He kept close to the scent-markings, which would tell the stranger wolves that he'd entered their range on purpose, and was here because he wanted to be. He hoped this would make them curious rather than angry, but he didn't know. He didn't know what manner of wolves they were, or most importantly what kind of wolf their leader was. Wolves guard their ranges fiercely, seldom permitting a lone wolf to enter; and it's only rarely that a pack will allow a stranger to run with them, as Wolf had run with the pack on the Mountain, and Tall Tailless with the tailless pack that smelt of ravens.

The scent-markings were getting stronger, closer together. It wouldn't be long now.

It wasn't.

The white wolves came racing through the willows at a speed that took even Wolf by surprise. They were a big pack, and like Forest wolves, they ran in a line in the tracks of the leader; but they were slightly shorter than Forest wolves, and stockier. Wolf thought they looked very, very strong.

He stood absolutely still, waiting for them to approach. His heart tumbled in his chest, but he held his head and tail high. He must not look scared.

On they came over the Bright Soft Cold.

The leader glanced over his shoulder and the pack spread out, forming a ring around Wolf.

In silence they halted. Their pelts glowed, their breath drifted like mist. Their eyes glinted silver.

Wolf stilled his own breathing, so that he would appear calm.

Stiffly the lead wolf walked towards him. His ears were p.r.i.c.ked, his tail high, and his fur was fluffed out to the full.

Wolf dropped his own ears, but only slightly. His fur was fluffed up, but not as much as the leader's, and his tail was very slightly lower. Too high, and he'd seem disrespectful; too low, and he'd appear weak.

Sternly, the leader stared past him: too proud to meet his eyes.

Wolf turned his head a whisker to one side, and slid his gaze down and away.

The lead wolf moved closer, till he stood within pawing distance of Wolf's nose.

Hardly daring to breathe, Wolf stood his ground. He saw the scars on the leader's muzzle, and the bitten edge of one ear. This was a wolf who had fought many fights, and won.

The lead wolf took another step, and sniffed under Wolf's tail, then at the bark binding the tip. He drew back sharply, twitching his ears in puzzlement. Then he brought his muzzle close to Wolf's. Close, but not touching; breathing in his scent.

Wolf, too, took deep breaths, tasting the strong, sweet scent of the leader, while around them the white wolves waited in silence.

The leader raised his forepaw and touched Wolf's shoulder.

Wolf tensed.

The next moment would decide it. Either they would help him or tear him to pieces.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

After a wretched night in a hastily hacked-out snow shelter, Renn sat waiting for dawn to come. Her last dawn. She kept saying it in her head, to make it real.last She knew she should have had the courage to end it last night, but she hadn't. She needed to see the sun one final time.

The night was quiet. Nothing but the restless wind, and an occasional rumble as the ice river s.h.i.+fted in its sleep. The stars had never looked so distant or so cold. She longed for voices. People, foxes, anyone. "Voice hunger" is what the clans of the north call it: when you're alone on the ice, and you crave voices more than warmth or meat; because you don't want to die alone.

It wasn't fair. Why should she go down into the ice with the demons? She wanted to see Torak again, and Fin-Kedinn, and Wolf.

'What you want doesn't matter,' she said out loud, 'this is how it is.' Her voice sounded old and cracked, like Saeunn's.

Above the ice river, a slash of deep crimson appeared: a wound in the sky.

She watched the crimson melt to orange, then to a blazing yellow. No more excuses. She got to her feet. The Death Marks were stiff on her skin. The fire-opal was heavy on her breast. Shouldering her faithful bow, she started for the cliffs.

It began to snow. White flakes speckling black ice, an eerie reversal of how things should be. The ice was jagged. She had to fight her way over towering ridges and bottomless cracks. One slip, and she'd be swallowed, with no hope of getting out. And she had to get further in, to the black chasm right under the cliffs. That was where she would unmask the fire-opal, and summon the demons. That was where she would lead them down into the dark.

An ear-splitting groan and to the south, part of the cliff-face collapsed. Billowing clouds of ice blasted her face. Nothing could withstand the might of the ice river. Not even demons.

She brushed off her parka, and pressed on.

It was noon by the time she neared the darkness under the cliffs. In the driving snow she stood on a ridge, staring down at the slash in the belly of the ice river.

There, she thought. In there it will be buried for good.

Torak had been walking all night, following Wolf's tracks by the glimmer of the Soul-Eaters' rushlight. Behind him Nef and Thiazzi trudged with the skinboats on their shoulders; in front went Seshru, the rushlight in one hand, the rope that bound his wrists in the other. At times, he sensed the sinister presence of Eostra, although he never saw her; but when he glanced up, there was the shadowy form of an eagle owl, wheeling against the stars.

His chest ached, his feet dragged. He forced himself to keep going. Nothing mattered, except finding Renn. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he twisted his wrists so that the rawhide bit into his flesh. He had to leave a blood trail. That was part of the plan.

Dawn came. In the ashen light, the land was humped and menacing. He sensed they were being followed. Either Wolf had come back, or his plan was working but far too soon.

Seshru jerked at the rope, yanking him forwards.

Pretending to stumble, Torak fell to his knees, rubbing his b.l.o.o.d.y wrists in the snow.

'Up!' snapped Seshru, giving a tug that made him cry out.

'Listen to him whine,' sneered Thiazzi. 'Like that wolf when I stamped on his tail. Whining like a cub.'

You'll pay for that, thought Torak as he staggered to his feet. I don't know how, but you will pay.

Noon approached. It began to snow. Through the flying whiteness, Torak made out a long, low hill. Beyond it he heard the boom of the ice river; far to the south, on the very edge of hearing, the howling of wolves.

Seshru had reached the top of the hill. Her face was blank as a mask in its slit-eyed visor, and her black tongue flicked out to taste the air. She smiled. 'The demons are coming.'

Nef dropped the skinboat and hobbled up the slope. As she whipped off her visor, Torak was shocked to see how she'd aged in the course of one night. 'There,' said the Bat Mage. 'She's down there in the shadow of the cliffs.'

Renn halted twenty paces from the chasm, in the lee of a ridge of black ice.

Slipping her hands out of her mittens, she drew the swansfoot pouch from inside her parka. Her fingers were shaking so badly that it took several attempts to loosen the neck of the pouch, but at last she managed, and the fire-opal rolled onto her palm. It lay dull and lifeless; strangely heavier than when she'd carried it in the pouch, and so cold that it burned her skin.