They tried to keep east, steering by the sun and the stars, but clouds defeated them, and they were led astray by what looked like reindeer, and turned out to be boulders.
They survived because of what they'd learned in the Far North. They wore masks against the glare,
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and rubbed their faces with Renn's marrowfat salve to prevent windburn. They dug snow holes for shelter, and snared a ptarmigan and ate it raw, saving whatever twiggy firewood they could gather for melting ice. They kept their gear inside the snow hole so it wouldn't get lost in a drift, and their waterskins in their sleeping-sacks, to stop them from freezing. Nights were cold. They dreamed of stacks of beautiful, dry wood.
On the third day, they spotted people in the distance, and hurried to meet them--only to find a man made of turf. He was bearded with icicles and his outstretched arms were antlers, supported by a spear in either hand. He didn't feel threatening, just oddly welcoming.
"Some kind of guardian?" said Renn. "Maybe the Rowan Clan's--they build their shelters out of turf."
"Then they made him last autumn," said Torak. "There's moss on those antlers." He scanned the fells. The Forest was long gone. All he could see were white hills. Beneath his boots, snow hid the ice which sealed off the land. Eostra had not relaxed her grip. And she was watching him.
"Dusk soon," said Renn. "We need to stop."
They camped under the gaze of the turf man, in the lee of a hill by a frozen lake ringed with scrub. Renn said she would dig a snow hole, then try a finding charm for the Mountain clans. Torak went to set fishing lines and snares. Their supplies were down to a handful of hazelnuts, and
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so far they'd only caught a single ptarmigan.
Wolf trotted off to hunt, followed by Rip and Rek, who clearly thought he had a better chance than Torak.
On the lake, Torak hacked holes with his axe, then fed in juniper hooks on pine-root twine he'd brought from the Forest. To stop the holes from refreezing in the night, he plugged them with twigs and covered them with snow. Then he planted his knife beside them to deter Rip and Rek, who were quite capable of hauling in the lines with their beaks, and stealing the catch.
Back on shore, he circled the lake. The land felt empty, but his hunter's eye told him it was not. He spotted splayed wing prints where a gray owl had punched into the snow after a lemming. Farther on, a cluster of shallow hollows, each with a tiny pile of frozen droppings, where willow grouse had huddled together for company. And a web of ptarmigan prints, although no sign of their beds; ptarmigans like to fly high, then dive into soft snow to make a snug, invisible burrow.
They also love birch twigs, so Torak broke off some ankle-high branches of dwarf birch, rubbed off the ice, and stuck them in a patch of snow to make a tempting cluster, in which he hid snares of looped twine. He did the same with willow for the grouse.
Farther up the slope, he found a hare trail. Following it to a windy ridge, he set his snare just before the point where the hare would have to leave the safety of the
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scrub and cross open ground. It would be preoccupied, and so less likely to notice a snare.
By now, Torak was giddy with hunger. All that awaited him at camp was his share of the hazelnuts. The sky was a deep, cold blue, strewn with stars. The moon was not yet up, but he made out the fanged blackness of the Mountains--and above them, faint and far, the red star of winter. The eye of the Great Auroch.
When the red eye is highest, Fa had said as he lay dying, the demons are strongest.
The Eagle Owl Mage and her minions were vivid in Torak's mind; but Fa's face was a blur. With a shock, Torak realized that he'd become a different person since his father had died. Maybe Fa wouldn't even recognize him. Maybe that was why his spirit had fled from him at the Raven camp.
"Fa," he said into the dark. "It's me. Torak. Where are you? How do I find you?"
The only answer was the hiss of windblown snow.
Huddled in her sleeping-sack, Renn listened to the whispering snow.
She was hungry and tired, but she knew she wouldn't sleep. The finding charm had been worse than a failure. A wall of ice had slammed shut in her mind. Turn back, commanded the Eagle Owl Mage. None can hinder Eostra.
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Renn had been left dazed, clutching her pounding head. She felt so bad that when Torak returned, she had to ask him to sprinkle the earthblood around their snow hole. It wasn't a line of power, only a Mage could do that, but it was better than nothing. And maybe the turf man would help keep the tokoroths away.
Curled on her side, Renn watched the sky through the slit in the snow hole, and tried to work out Eostra's purpose.
The Eagle Owl Mage wanted Torak's spirit walking power, that much was clear. But how did she mean to take it? And when?
Torak crawled into the shelter, and Renn heard him take off his boots, pat them down for a pillow, and get into his sleeping-sack. He asked if she felt better, and she said no, and he said he was sorry. A few moments later, his breathing changed. Like a wolf, he had the knack of falling asleep in an instant.
Around middle-night, the half-eaten moon rose, and Renn asked it for help. She'd always felt close to the moon. She was sorry when the sky bear ate it, and she took strength from the fact that it always came back.
The moon.
Renn started awake. Why didn't I see it before? I've been ignoring the moon!
In several days, it would be the dark of the moon. And this moon was special: Souls' Night, when the
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World Spirit turns from a stag-headed man to a woman with red willow hair. A dangerous time, when ghosts are abroad, seeking the clans they have lost. When the dead get closest to the living. Souls' Night.
This was what Eostra was waiting for. With a clutch of dread, Renn saw how it fitted with what she and Saeunn had foreseen. The Listener shall die....
Until now, she had pushed that to the back of her mind. But soon, Torak would have to be told.
Sitting up, she saw that he was deeply asleep, frowning in his dreams. These days, he slept as if he didn't want to wake up.
It isn't fair, thought Renn. Why does he have to be the Listener? Why does he have to be different?
Turning on his side, Torak burrowed into his sleeping-sack, his hair falling over his face.
I'll tell him soon, Renn decided. But not yet.
Besides. A dark night on the fells was a bad time to talk of prophecies; and that line of earthblood around the camp was fragile. There was no knowing what might be listening.
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[Image: Fin-Kedinn.]
FIFTEEN
Fin-Kedinn watched the pine marten dart up the tree. Then he moved on, careful and silent. The one he sought might be listening.
For days he had searched the places where his quarry used to hunt long ago. On the fringes of the Deep Forest, the Lynx Clan had heard rumors; the Bat Clan had found traces which had brought him south again, to this gully. And all the time, Torak and Renn were out there alone against the might of Eostra.
In the gully, nothing stirred. A while ago, these rocks would have echoed with the chatter of water, but the ice storm had silenced the stream with a blast of freezing
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breath. Now each ripple would last the whole winter. That wave cresting the boulder must wait till spring to fall.
Fin-Kedinn reached a fork in the trail. One path wound west, the other east, deeper into the hills. There were no tracks. He had to rely on the Forest to guide him, and on what he knew of the one he sought.
He took a few paces up the first trail. A woodpecker alighted on a pine trunk, cocked its scarlet head, and peered at him. Kik! Kik! Then it flew away.
He heard a distant clicking as a squirrel scampered from branch to branch. Farther along, he found a small pile of droppings on a tree stump: twisted, musky smelling. Pine marten, perhaps the one he'd just seen.
Too many inhabitants on this trail. It probably wasn't the one.
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Retracing his steps, he started up the other trail. Around him, spruce trees were frozen white cones. Under one, an auroch had cracked the ice with its hoof to get at a clump of willowherb.
In itself, this told Fin-Kedinn little, but among the remains of the willowherb, he found an exposed pine root which had been only partly stripped of bark. On it lay a brittle brown hair. He guessed that after the auroch had left, a red deer had come along and nibbled the bark; but it hadn't had the chance to eat it all. Its tracks were deep and splayed as it fled up the trail. Something had frightened it.
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Not a bear; they were asleep for the winter. Lynx? Wolf? Fin-Kedinn didn't think so. He'd seen no yellow scent-markings in the snow, no claw-marks on trees. Perhaps, he thought, a lone hunter had caused the deer to flee.
Dusk was falling. Soon the first early stars would appear, although the half-eaten moon would not rise until middle-night. Fin-Kedinn hadn't gone far when he paused to listen. In the distance, a jay's warning call. A moment later, the dry swish of wings as it flew overhead, saw him, and gave another rattling kshaach!
It had been higher up the ridge when it uttered its first cry; Fin-Kedinn guessed that whatever it had spotted was near the top. He knew these hills. Ahead lay a rocky overhang: a good place to hide and keep an eye on what approached. And if he was wrong, he could shelter there for the night.
As he climbed, he caught a whiff of woodsmoke.
He heard the crack of a branch. Or was it the crackle of a fire?
Moving behind a holly tree, he scanned his surroundings.
Ah. Clever. Nowhere near the overhang, but down in that dell, thirty paces off the trail. The fire was hidden behind a boulder, and cast only the faintest glow. Fin-Kedinn hadn't expected less. The one he sought knew how to hide.
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Quietly, he descended into the dell.
In the gloom, he made out a shadow that wasn't a rock. It sat hunched over the remains of a small deer, with an axe near to hand.
Fin-Kedinn loosened his knife in its sheath and took a step closer. Stopped. Went on again.
The shadow rose, snatched the axe, and swung at him.
Fin-Kedinn gripped the axe-arm by the wrist. Face to face, they strained against each other. Abruptly, the tension went out of the axe-arm. Fin-Kedinn relaxed his hold. "Time to make amends, old friend."
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SIXTEEN
The fish-hooks came up empty, and a wolverine had raided the snares in the night. "So no daymeal," said Torak, flinging down the lines.
Renn blinked at the empty hooks. "We'll have to eat lichen."
He threw her a doubtful look. "Can people eat that?"
"I think so." But she didn't sound too sure.
Torak helped her scrape a few handfuls from under the ice, and they put them to soak in her waterskin. While she fed the fire, he went foraging. After a long, cold search, all he'd managed were a few crowberries and
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some frost-bitten sorrel.
Renn added them to the cooking-skin, where the lichen had stewed to a dark, slimy sludge.
"Are you sure people can eat this?" said Torak after the first mouthful.
"The Mountain clans do. If times are bad."
"They'd have to be bad. Very bad."
"Maybe Wolf will have better luck. We could share some of his."
Torak didn't relish the idea of scavenging one of Wolf's kills, but Renn was right. It had been two days since their last ptarmigan. It was now vital to find the reindeer: not only to find the Mountain clans, but to eat.
By midmorning, they reached a river which, surprisingly, was still awake. It rushed noisily between stony hills crowned with three more of the strange turf men. Its shallows were free of ice. Torak and Renn grubbed up clumps of brilliant green horsetails, and munched the swollen root-buds raw.
As he straightened up, Torak's head whirled. The horsetails had done little to assuage his hunger. His belly was beginning to hurt.
Renn slumped on a rock and took off her mask. Her eyes were ringed with blue shadows. "You'd think there'd be fish in it," she said. "But I haven't seen any."
They glanced at each other. How long could they go on?
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"When we find the reindeer," said Torak, "I'm going to eat a whole one. Starting at the neck and working my way down. I'll kill another one for you."
She smiled wanly.
He squatted to refill his waterskin. "What river is this, anyway?"
"I don't know and I don't care. If I don't get meat soon, I'll eat my medicine pouch."
But Torak had stopped listening. Whipping off his mitten, he plucked something from the water.
"What is it?" said Renn.
He showed her: a light-brown hair, as long as his thumb.
Reindeer.
"They must be upstream," said Renn.
They listened. The river was too loud.
Its banks were boulder-strewn and impassable. They'd have to make a lengthy detour around the hills, or climb them. They decided to climb. It would be quicker, and give them a better view of whatever lay on the other side.
Climbing proved harder than they expected. Torak was appalled at how weak he'd become. Black spots swam before his eyes, and every step was an effort. Beside him, Renn's breath came in gasps.
Wolf appeared above them, pausing beside a turf man before racing down to Torak. His fur was fluffed up with
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excitement. Reindeer! Hurry! We hunt! Torak translated for Renn.
Behind her snow mask, her eyes gleamed. "Let's go."
Swiftly, Torak told his pack-brother in wolf talk that he must hunt without them, as he'd have a better chance of making a kill. Wolf didn't argue, and disappeared over the hill.
The thrill of the hunt gave Torak and Renn new strength. As they neared the top of the hill, they dropped to the ground and belly-crawled. Reindeer have keen senses. If there were any on the other side, it was vital not to spook them.
Slipping his bow from his shoulder, Torak took an arrow from his quiver. Renn had already done so. She'd also tied back her red hair and tucked it inside her hood, so the prey wouldn't see. Catching his eye, she touched her clan-creature feathers and gave him her familiar, sharp-toothed grin.
The wind chilled Torak's face. Good. It was blowing his scent away from the prey.
Stealthily, he crawled forward. He crested the ridge. He caught his breath.
Below him the hill fell away to the glittering sweep of the river. Another river flowed across it: a river of reindeer. Clouds of frosty breath hazed golden in the sun from thousands of muzzles. The air rang with the bleating of calves and the grunts of their mothers; the nasal hoots
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of rutting bucks. And beneath it all, like the beating of a great heart, the steady drumming of thousands of hooves.
Torak had only ever seen small groups of reindeer in the Forest. Awestruck, he watched the herd flowing slowly, purposefully, endlessly across the river. The hill where he lay dropped steeply through a thicket of willows to a flat expanse of gravelly riverbank, then rose again to another hill, also thick with willows. He guessed that the gap in between was one of the reindeer's ancient crossing places. Fin-Kedinn had once told him that the herds have followed the trails of their ancestors for thousands of winters.
He saw how they converged in a dense press of bodies as they passed through the gap. He saw the lifted heads and jostling antlers of swimming reindeer, the quick heave as they climbed the banks and scattered on the other side. He knew that this river of life would be trailed by many hunters: eagles, wolves, ravens, wolverines, people.
But where were the people?
He spotted Rip and Rek flying high, turning their heads from side to side as they searched for carcasses. He saw a buck rise on its hind legs and run a few paces to warn the others of danger, then thud to earth and charge a wolverine, which bounded away. And there in the distance was Wolf, a gray shadow at the edge of the
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herd, seeking an abandoned calf, or a reindeer too sick or injured to put up a fight.
But no people. Just three more turf men on the hill opposite, standing with antler arms outstretched.
Renn whispered in his ear. "We're out of arrowshot. We've got to get downhill, into the thicket."
She was right. Forget about people. The only thing that mattered now was meat.
And they'd have to get close. Success in a reindeer hunt depends on making a swift kill which fells the prey quietly, without alerting the herd. If you miss, they'll be off, and you'll have lost your chance.
Renn muttered a prayer to her guardian, and Torak asked the Forest to bring him luck. They began to edge down the slope toward the willows.
Torak glimpsed Wolf weaving among the reindeer. In his head, he wished him good hunting.
Wolf ran through the rich, swirling scent that made his pelt tighten with hunger.
He smelled the bloody tatters that swung from the reindeers' head-branches, and snuffed the delicious scent of calves. To his relief, he smelled no other wolves: no stranger pack which would attack a lone wolf who dared enter its range.
To make the prey run, he let them see him.
A big bull put down his head and thundered toward
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him: Get away from my females! Wolf dodged the lunging head-branches and bounded away.
In the din, he caught an anguished bleating. He loped toward it.
The calf stood shivering on a small, pebbly island in the middle of the Fast Wet. Wolf smelled its fear. It was unprotected. Its mother lay dead, her carcass already picked clean.
Wolf lowered his head and moved down the bank and into the Wet. He swam with the reindeer, and they ignored him, sensing that he wasn't after them.
The calf smelled him. Its bleating turned shrill. Wolf saw it move behind its mother's rib cage, ducking its head so that it couldn't see him, but sticking out its pale, fluffy rump.