Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Part 9

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 ma.s.sive 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, s.h.i.+ns 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 realised 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 rus.h.i.+ng water. With every breath, he expected to hear the thw.a.n.g 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 they 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.

THIRTEEN.

'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 ma.s.sed and mouldering 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 sc.r.a.ping 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.

He was thinking about making a run for it when he heard voices outside. Faint, but coming closer.

Torak tensed. So did his captor.

The crunch and rustle drew nearer, then halted about three paces away. 'He'd never dare come here,' said a man's hushed, frightened voice.

'He might,' whispered a woman. 'He's different. You saw the way he won against Hord. Who knows what he'd do?'

Torak heard the squelch of moss. His foot twitched and in the darkness, something clinked. He winced.

's.h.!.+' said the woman. 'I heard something!'

Torak held his breath. His captor's knife pressed harder.

'Cark!' A raven's cry echoed through the trees.

'The guardian doesn't want us here,' muttered the woman. 'We should go. You're right. The boy wouldn't dare.'

Sick with relief, Torak listened to them move away.

After a while he tried to s.h.i.+ft position, but the knife-point stopped him. 'Stay still!' hissed his captor.

He recognised that voice. It was Renn. Renn?

'You stink,' she whispered.

He tried to turn his head, but again the knife stopped him. 'It's to keep the dogs away,' he whispered back.

'They'd never come here anyway, they're not allowed.'

Torak thought for a moment. 'How did you know I'd be coming this way? And why '

'I didn't. Now be quiet. They might come back.'

After a cold, cramped wait that seemed to last for ever, Renn gave him a kick and told him to move. He thought about trying to overpower her, but decided against it. If there was a struggle, they would disturb the bones. Instead, he heaved aside the slate slab which blocked the entrance, and crawled into the daylight. The mounds were deserted. Even the ravens had gone.

Renn came after him, backing out on hands and knees and dragging two hazelwood packs one of them his own. Perplexed, he crouched in the willowherb and watched her go back inside, emerging with two rolled up sleeping-sacks, two quivers and bows both wrapped in salmon-skin against the damp and a buckskin bag that was wriggling furiously.

'Wolf!' cried Torak.

'Quiet!' Renn darted a wary glance in the direction of the camp.

Torak wrenched open the bag and Wolf shot out, sweaty and bedraggled. He took one sniff and would have fled if Torak hadn't grabbed him and a.s.sured him in low half-barks that it really was him, and not some murderous wolverine. Wolf broke into a big wolf smile, wagging his hindquarters and nibble-greeting Torak rapturously under the chin.

'Hurry up,' said Renn behind him.

'Coming,' snapped Torak. Grabbing handfuls of dew-soaked moss, he wiped off the worst of the dung, then yanked on his boots. Renn had had the foresight to bring them too.

As he turned to reach for his pack, he saw to his astonishment that she had fitted an arrow to her bow and was training it on him. She'd also slung his own bow and quiver over her shoulder, and stuck his axe and knife in her belt.

'What are you doing?' he said. 'I thought you were helping me.'

She looked at him in disgust. 'Why would I help you? The only thing I'm helping is my clan.'

'Then why didn't you give me away just now?'

'Because I intend to make sure that you get to the Mountain of the World Spirit. If I didn't make you, you wouldn't even try. You'd just turn tail and run. Because you're a coward.'

Torak gasped. 'A coward?'

'A coward, a liar and a thief. You stole our roe buck, you tricked Hord into losing the fight, and you lied about not being the Listener. Then you ran away. Now for the last time, move!'

With Renn's arrow at his back and her accusation burning in his ears, Torak headed west downriver, keeping to the willows for cover, and carrying Wolf in his arms to prevent his pads leaving a scent trail for the dogs.

Amazingly, there were no sounds of pursuit. Torak found that even more disturbing than the birch-bark horns.

Renn set a fast pace, and he stumbled often. He was tired and hungry, while she was rested and fed; that would make getting away from her more difficult. But she was smaller than him, and he thought he could probably overpower her before she did too much damage with that bow.

The question was, when? For the moment, she seemed genuinely keen to evade the Ravens, guiding him along little twisting deer-paths that clung to the best cover. He decided to wait till they were further from the camp. But her insult rankled.

'I'm not a coward,' he said over his shoulder as they followed the river into a shady oak wood, and the threat of pursuit seemed to lessen.

'Then why did you run away from our camp?'

'They were going to sacrifice me!'

'They hadn't decided that yet. That's why they were arguing.'

'So what should I have done? Waited to find out?'

'The Prophecy,' Renn said coldly, 'could mean two different things. If you hadn't run away, you would have learnt that.'

'And I suppose you're going to tell me,' said Torak, 'because you know everything.'

She heaved a sigh. 'The Prophecy could mean that we sacrifice you and give your blood to the Mountain and by doing so, destroy the bear. That's what Hord thinks it means. He wants to kill you, so that he can take your blood to the Mountain.' She paused. 'Saeunn thinks it means something else: that only you can find the Mountain, and destroy the bear.'

Torak turned and stared at her. 'Me. Destroy the bear.'

She looked him up and down. 'I know, it doesn't seem possible. But Saeunn's sure of it. So am I. The Listener must find the Mountain of the World Spirit and then, with the Spirit's help, he must destroy the bear.'

Torak blinked. It couldn't be. They'd got it wrong.

'Why must you go on denying it?' Renn said angrily. 'You are the Listener. You know you are. You fought with air, just as the Prophecy says. You spoke with silence: that whistle. And the very first words of the Prophecy say that the Listener can talk to the other hunters in the Forest and you can talk to them, because your father put you in a wolf den when you were small.'

Torak narrowed his eyes. 'How do you know about that?'

'Because I listened,' she said.

They followed the river west. As he walked, Torak heard the soft piping of bullfinches eating the brambles; a nuthatch tapping a branch for grubs. With all these birds around, the bear couldn't be anywhere close . . .

Suddenly, Wolf p.r.i.c.ked his ears and twitched his whiskers.

'Down!' hissed Torak, pulling Renn with him.

Moments later, two dugout canoes slid past. Torak had a good view of the one closest to him. The man who paddled it had short brown hair cut in a fringe on the brow. He wore a stiff hide mantle across his broad shoulders, and a boar's tusk on a thong at his breast. A black slate throwing-axe lay on his knees. Like his companion in the other canoe, he was scanning the banks as he sliced the water with powerful strokes. It was only too clear what he was seeking.

'Boar Clan,' whispered Renn in Torak's ear. 'Fin-Kedinn must have got them to help search for us.'

Torak was instantly suspicious. 'How did they know we'd come this way? Did you leave them some kind of trail?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Why would I do that?'

'For all I know, you're leading me to some other clan, to be sacrificed.'

'Or maybe,' she said wearily, 'those Boar Clan were pa.s.sing this way because their autumn camp is downstream, and ' She stopped. 'How did you know they were coming?'

'I didn't. Wolf told me.'

She looked startled then alarmed. 'You really can talk to him, can't you?'

He did not reply.