Chronicles of Ancient Darkness
Chapter 55 : Torak nodded, too numb to speak.'Tomorrow,' said Fin-Kedinn, 'I'll

Torak nodded, too numb to speak.

'Tomorrow,' said Fin-Kedinn, 'I'll teach you how to make rope.'

Torak had run till he could run no further, but his thoughts would not be stilled. Fa had been a Soul-Eater. Fa, his own Fa . . .

There was a tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe. A storm of rage and grief and fear.

He came to a halt by a boisterous stream that tumbled over big, mossy boulders. A squirrel shot up a sycamore tree. An otter stopped eating a trout and fled into the ferns.

Torak knelt to drink, and his name-soul stared back at him. Torak of the Wolf Clan. Torak the spirit walker.

With a cry he s.n.a.t.c.hed a clump of yellow suncups, and tore them to pieces. He didn't belong with the Ravens. He didn't belong anywhere . . .

After a while, the otter came back for its half-eaten trout, and settled down to finish its meal. In the sycamore, the squirrel started nibbling bark to get at the sweet, sticky tree-blood.

Torak sat with his back against the trunk, watching them and some of his tumult eased. They didn't care that his father had been a Soul-Eater. They didn't care that he was a spirit walker. As long as he left them in peace, they were content for him to remain.

He placed his palm on the tree's rough bark, and felt its power coursing through him. The power of the Forest.

Deep within him, he felt a stirring of resolve. This was where he belonged: here in the Forest. Through all the bad things that had happened, the Forest had given him strength. Strength to defeat the bear. Strength to survive Tenris and the Sea Mother. Strength to face his destiny. And maybe Fa's spirit wherever it was knew that, and was proud.

Above him the sycamore stirred in the breeze: spreading wide its arms, watching over him. Torak raised his head and stared at the glowing green leaves. With the help of the Forest, he would face his destiny. He would do whatever lay in his power to vanquish the Soul-Eaters.

'I will do this,' he said out loud. 'I will do this.'

Wolf found his pack-brother sitting by the little Fast Wet, tearing up s.h.i.+ny grey petals in his forepaws.

Wolf splashed into the wet to cool his pads, then ate some of the flowers to be companionable. He wagged his tail. Tall Tailless did not smile back. Wolf smelt his sadness, and was puzzled.

Wolf was feeling very happy. His confusion was gone. He knew what he was for. When he'd been a cub, he'd helped Tall Tailless fight the demon bear. Then on the island of the fish-birds, he'd chased the demons out of the half-grown taillesses. This was what he was for: to help Tall Tailless fight demons.

It meant never returning to his pack on the Mountain, but Wolf didn't mind too much, because he would be with his pack-brother. If only Tall Tailless wasn't so sad.

To make him feel better, Wolf leaned against him, and rubbed his scent into his pelt.

Tall Tailless turned to him and said, Do you know what I am?

Wolf was surprised. My pack-brother.

But do you know what creature I am? What I can do?

Yes, I know, Wolf replied a little impatiently. He'd always known.

To his surprise, Tall Tailless stared at him hard which was scarcely polite. Then he began to smile. You know? he said.

Wolf wagged his tail.

He decided they'd had enough talk, and went down on his forepaws, barking and asking Tall Tailless to play. When his pack-brother still didn't move, Wolf pounced.

His pack-brother gave a startled yowl and toppled backwards onto the bank. Wolf nose-nudged him in the flanks. His pack-brother grabbed Wolf's scruff and play-bit him on the ear.

Soon they were rolling about in the gra.s.s, and Tall Tailless was making the odd, breathless yip-and-yowl that was his way of laughing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

Torak's world is the world of six thousand years ago: a time after the Ice Age and before farming, when the whole of north-west Europe was covered by Forest.

The people in Torak's time looked just like you or me, but their way of life was very different. They didn't have writing, metals or the wheel, but they didn't need them. They were superb survivors. They knew all about the animals, trees, plants and rocks of the Forest. When they wanted something, they knew where to find it, or how to make it.

They lived in small clans, and many of them moved around a lot: some only staying in camp for a few days, like Torak of the Wolf Clan; others staying for a whole moon or a season, like the Raven and Boar Clans; while others stayed put all year round, like the Seal Clan. And in case you're wondering, the Ravens and the Boars have moved a bit since the events in Wolf Brother, as you'll see from the slightly amended map.

When I was researching Spirit Walker, I spent time in the Lofoten Islands of north-west Norway, and also in Greenland. I studied the traditional ways of life of the Sami and Inuit peoples, and learned about their ways of building boats, hunting seals and making clothes.

The inspiration for the Crag came from a visit to the ancient rock carvings of the Dyreberget at Leiknes in north-west Norway.

The inspiration for the Hunters came from swimming with wild killer whales in Tysfjord, north Norway. I couldn't have written about Torak's experiences in the water without having been there too; and like Torak, I found that swimming in the sea with killer whales altered for ever my perception of these amazing creatures.

I want to thank the people at the Polaria in Trms, Norway, for helping me understand what it's like to be a seal; the people of western Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some unforgettable times with some wonderful wolves; the people of Tysfjord for helping me get close to killer whales and white-tailed eagles; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Raven Master of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. Lastly, as always, I want to thank my agent Peter c.o.x and my editor Fiona Kennedy for their unfailing enthusiasm and support.

Mich.e.l.le Paver.

London, 2005.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

I want to thank the people at the Polaria in Trms, Norway, for helping me understand what it's like to be a seal; the people of western Greenland for their hospitality, openness and good humour; the UK Wolf Conservation Trust for some unforgettable times with some wonderful wolves; the people of Tysfjord for helping me get close to killer whales and white-tailed eagles; and Mr Derrick Coyle, the Yeoman Raven Master of the Tower of London, for sharing his extensive knowledge of some very special ravens. Lastly, as always, I want to thank my agent Peter c.o.x and my editor Fiona Kennedy for their unfailing enthusiasm and support.

Mich.e.l.le Paver.

London.

Soul Eater.

ONE.

Torak didn't want it to be an omen.

He didn't want it to be anything more than an owl feather lying in the snow. So he ignored it. That was his first mistake.

Quietly, he went back to the tracks they'd been following since dawn. They looked fresh. He slipped off his mitten and felt them. No ice in the bottom. Yes, fresh.

Turning to Renn, further uphill, he tapped his sleeve and raised his forefinger, then pointed down into the beech wood. One reindeer, heading south.

Renn gave a nod, whipped an arrow from her quiver, and nocked it to her bow. Like Torak, she was hard to see in a pale reindeer-hide parka and leggings, with wood-ash smeared on her face to mask her scent. Like him, she was hungry, having eaten nothing since a slip of dried boar meat for daymeal.

Unlike him, she hadn't seen the owl feather.

So don't tell her, he thought.

That was his second mistake.

A few paces below him, Wolf was sniffing at a patch where the reindeer had sc.r.a.ped away the snow to get at the lichen. His ears were p.r.i.c.ked, his silver fur fluffed up with excitement. If he sensed Torak's unease, he didn't show it. Another sniff, then he raised his muzzle to catch the scent-laden breeze, and his amber gaze grazed Torak's. Smells bad.

Torak tilted his head. What do you mean? he asked in wolf talk.

Wolf twitched his whiskers. Bad muzzle.

Torak went to examine what he'd found, and spotted a tiny bead of yellow pus on the bare earth. Wolf was telling him that the reindeer was old, its teeth rotten after many winters of munching gritty lichen.

Torak wrinkled his nose in a brief wolf smile. Thank you, pack-brother. Then he glanced at Renn, and headed downhill as silently as his beaver-hide boots would allow.

Not silently enough for Wolf, who flicked a reproachful ear as he moved over the snow as soundlessly as smoke.

Together they crept between the sleeping trees. Black oaks and silvery beeches glittered with frost. Here and there, Torak saw the crimson blaze of holly berries; the deep green of a wakeful spruce standing guard over its slumbering sisters. The Forest was hushed. The rivers were frozen. Most of the birds had flown south.

Except for that owl, thought Torak.

He'd known it was an owl's feather as soon as he'd seen its furry upper side, which m.u.f.fled the sound of flight when the owl was hunting. If it had been the dusky grey of a forest owl, he wouldn't have worried, he'd simply have given it to Renn, who used them to fletch her arrows. But this feather was barred with black and tawny; shadow and flame. That told Torak it belonged to the greatest, the fiercest of owls: the eagle owl. And to find one of those that was bad.

Wolf's black nose twitched.

Torak was instantly alert.

Through the trees, he glimpsed the reindeer, nibbling beard-moss. He heard the crunch of its hooves, saw its misting breath. Good, they were still downwind. He forgot the feather, and thought of juicy meat and rich marrowfat.

Behind him, the faint creak of Renn's bow. He fitted an arrow to his own, then realized he was blocking her view, and dropped to one knee, since she was the better shot.

The reindeer moved behind a beech tree. They'd have to wait.

As Torak waited, he noticed a spruce, five paces below him. The way it spread its snowladen arms . . . warning him back.

Gripping his bow, he fixed his gaze on the prey.

A gust of wind stirred the beeches around him, and last summer's leaves rustled like dry, dead hands.

He swallowed. It felt as if the Forest were trying to tell him something.

Overhead, a branch s.h.i.+fted, and a flurry of snow hissed down. He glanced up. His heart jerked. An eagle owl. Tufted ears as sharp as spearpoints. Huge orange eyes like twin suns.

With a cry he leapt to his feet.

The reindeer fled.

Wolf raced off in pursuit.

Renn's arrow sped past Torak's hood.

The eagle owl spread its enormous wings and silently flew away.

'What were you doing?' shouted Renn furiously. 'Standing up like that? I might have killed you!'

Torak didn't reply. He was watching the eagle owl soar into the fierce blue of the noonday sky. But eagle owls, he thought, hunt by night.

Wolf came bounding through the trees and skittered to a halt beside him, shaking off snow and las.h.i.+ng his tail. He hadn't expected to catch the reindeer, but he'd enjoyed the chase.

Sensing Torak's unease, he rubbed against him. Torak knelt, burying his face in the deep, coa.r.s.e scruff; breathing in Wolf's familiar, sweet-gra.s.s scent.

'What's wrong?' said Renn.

Torak raised his head. 'That owl, of course.'

'What owl?"

He blinked. 'But you must have seen it. The eagle owl, it was so close I could have touched it!'

When she still looked blank, he ran back up the hill, and found the feather. 'Here,' he panted, holding it out.

Wolf flattened his ears and growled.

Renn put her hand to her clan-creature feathers.

'What does it mean?' said Torak.

'I don't know, but it's bad. We should get back. Fin-Kedinn will know what to do. And Torak ' She eyed the feather, 'leave it here.'

As he threw it in the snow, he wished he hadn't picked it up with his bare hand. A fine grey powder dusted his palm. He wiped it off on his parka, but his skin carried a whiff of rottenness that reminded him of the Raven bone-grounds.