Wolf sprang at them and they lifted into the Up, then swooped low, but just out of reach, taunting him.
He waited till they came again he leapt snapped a tail feather, tore it to pieces. With furious caws the ravens soared into the Up. Down they came in a flurry of angry wings, diving, pecking. Again and again Wolf leapt twisting, snapping until he forced them to seek refuge in a tree, where they sat, cawing and pelting him with sticks. This is our Den! Go away!
Wolf's snarls shook him from nose to tail. They didn't dare make another attack.
Bristling with fury, Wolf bit off a willow branch and savaged it to shreds. Then he turned and raced into the Forest. His limbs itched with the blood-urge, his pelt prickled with rage.
So. This was how it ended.
Don't ever leave me, Tall Tailless had said. Then he'd chased Wolf away with the Bright Beast-that-Bites-Hot, and made a new pack with ravens.
Well, let him! Wolf had another pack too.
TWENTY-THREE.
When Torak returned to the shelter, he knew at once that something was wrong.
The ravens sat in their pine tree looking ruffled and aggrieved, and the bigger one was missing a tail feather.
'What happened?' he said. But they were too upset to come down.
In the shelter, he found his pine-needle bedding pocked with odd, fist-sized hollows. He sensed that this ought to mean something, but it didn't. His mind was still healing, his tracking powers only slowly coming back; and over the last few days, a fever and a cough had crept up on him, which didn't help.
Outside, he found the remains of a branch, savaged to pieces. A shred of chewed raven feather. A paw-print.
Frowning, he squatted to examine it.
The sun sank below the trees, and the Lake turned a dark wolf grey. Wolf grey . . .
Slowly, Torak rose to his feet. 'Wolf,' he said out loud.
For the first time in days, he saw clearly. He saw Wolf coming to watch over him, as he had done since they'd parted and finding the ravens. He saw Wolf leaping at them, snapping a feather; taking out his rage and hurt on a branch.
The truth crashed over Torak. It wasn't Wolf who had forsaken him. It was he who had forsaken Wolf. Wolf, his faithful pack-brother, who had hunted by his side and guarded him from danger. And how had he repaid him? He had chased him away with burning brands; he had replaced him with ravens!
The guilt was almost more than he could bear. 'I've got to find him!' he cried. 'I've got to make it all right!'
He hadn't been in the Forest since his madness, and it felt unnervingly dark and still. He wondered if, like Wolf, it was angry with him for having forsaken it.
But trees live longer than people, and are slower to anger. The Forest welcomed him back. It gave him juicy strawberries which soothed his sore throat, and when the midges became annoying, it provided yarrow leaves to rub on his skin. For tinder it offered horsehoof mushroom; and best of all, it showed him Wolf's trail: a hair snagged on brambles, moss scuffed off a log.
The trail led uphill, past the little lake he'd found before, now ablaze with golden water lilies in the evening sun.
The wolves had chosen their denning place well: on a slope just west of the little lake, guarded by watchful pines. The Den was at the foot of a red boulder almost as tall as Torak, and around it the ground was hard-packed by the padding of many feet, and littered with shards of bone.
But no wolves. And no cubs either, although he saw plenty of tiny paw-prints. Then he realized his mistake. The cubs would be asleep in the Den, and the pack was out hunting, it wouldn't be back before dawn. He had a long wait ahead.
As he breathed in the rich, sweet scent of wolves, he was overcome by longing and remorse. Wolves had saved him when he was a baby; and yet for days, he had feared them as ravening monsters.
With shocking suddenness, a large wolf emerged from behind the boulder. Its muzzle wrinkled in a snarl as it stalked towards him.
Hardly daring to breathe, Torak edged back. The pack had left someone to guard the cubs. He should have thought.
The cub-watcher advanced on him.
Torak averted his gaze and whined distressfully. Sorry! Don't attack!
The cub-watcher growled. Go away!
Slowly, Torak withdrew to the far side of the water lily lake. To be threatened by a wolf! He was still far from full recovery.
The short summer night descended as he waited. Frogs piped in the reeds. An otter surfaced and stared at him, then flipped under, leaving the lily pads gently rocking.
He nodded off.
His dreams were troubled by strange yowls, and he woke with a start. He felt hot and thick-headed, and his throat was so sore that it hurt to swallow.
The night was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
Vaguely troubled, he decided to check the Den even though it wasn't yet dawn, and the pack wouldn't be back.
As before, the denning place seemed deserted, but mindful of the cub-watcher, Torak approached with caution. In the gloom, he made out a birch tree whose bark was badly scratched down one side. Too high for badger, too low for bear.
He felt a prickling between his shoulder blades. He knew that feeling; everyone does, who lives in a Forest. It's the feeling of being watched.
Drawing his knife, he moved as silently as his laboured breathing would allow.
Something lay at the foot of the boulder.
The cub-watcher. Its flank had been ripped open, its throat chewed to pulp. It had put up a desperate fight to save the cubs.
Torak knelt and placed his hand above one white paw. 'Go in peace. May you find the First Tree, and hunt for ever beneath its boughs.'
In the earth around the carcass he found tracks: rounder than a wolf's, their outline blurred by fur.
Lynx.
Rising, Torak looked about him.
Couldn't see anything. He must've scared it away.
But it was odd for a lynx to attack a full-grown wolf. Mostly they take hares and squirrels, and wolf cubs if they can get them. The lynx must have gone after the cubs, and the cub-watcher had leapt to their defence.
A whine from the Den told him that the wolf had done its job well. Sheathing his knife, Torak crawled inside.
The tunnel was just big enough to admit him. As he breathed its earthy wolf tang, he was back in the Den where Fa had put him as a baby. His pack-brothers mewed as they clambered over him, and the breath of the Mother heated his skin as she nose-nudged him to suckle. He snuggled into her furry flank, and her milk tasted rich and warm.
He was through the tunnel and into the birthing place. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was about the size of a Raven shelter, but only high enough for a wolf to stand in. He caught a gleam of eyes. A fluffy huddle shrank from him.
He whined to reassure the cubs, but they were terrified. He was a stranger, and they'd just lost their uncle.
Backing out, he emerged from the Den to see a large shadow bound away from the slaughtered wolf.
'Be off!' he shouted, waving his arms. His shouts ended in a coughing fit which bent him double.
The lynx leapt into a tree and sat, lashing its tail.
Drawing his knife, Torak took his place by the dead wolf at the foot of the boulder. He would guard the cubs till the pack returned.
It was strange, though, that his arrival hadn't frightened the lynx away. Lynx rarely attack people, and when they hunt, they target the young and the sick.
More coughing seized him. When it was over, he was sweating. His breath sounded like the crisping of dry leaves.
Then it came to him. The lynx knew he was sick. It heard it in his voice and smelt it on his skin.
Like the cubs, he was simply prey.
TWENTY-FOUR.
The lynx dropped soundlessly from the branch and began to prowl.
Torak tried howling for Wolf, but only managed a croak.
The night was warm, the stink of the slaughtered cub-watcher thick in his throat. The carcass lay so close that he could touch it.
Too close. He should drag it further off, so the lynx could feed in peace. Let it take the dead, and leave the living.
But while he was doing that, it might come for the cubs. He pictured the small souls padding about, nosing their corpses. He tightened his grip on his knife.
A noise behind him. He spun round. Saw only the boulder. But lynx are superb climbers: they leap on their prey from above.
If only he had his axe. Why had he left it at the shelter? To have left without food, axe or tinder . . .
No tinder.
Fire would have scared it away. He should have taken some of that horsehoof mushroom when he'd the chance. The old Torak the one before the madness would never have made that mistake.
Another spasm of coughing gripped. When it was over, his ribs ached, and black spots darted before his eyes.
The lynx crouched in the shadows, just out of reach. He saw its blank silver eyes, smelt its rank cat smell.
Then he saw something which made his belly turn over. At the mouth of the Den, directly behind the lynx, two stubby muzzles were emerging.
Torak barked a warning. Uff! Danger!
The muzzles edged back inside.
The lynx caught the movement and turned its head.
'Here! Here!' shouted Torak to distract it. Yelling, throwing stones, he edged away from the Den.
The lynx bared its teeth and hissed at him. But suddenly it twisted, snarling at a bolt of black lighting plummeting from the sky. Rip gave a deafening caw and soared out of reach, as Rek swept in to attack. Now both were mobbing the marauder: wheeling, swooping to peck. The lynx leapt for them and they took refuge in a pine tree, raucously cawing.
Lashing its tail, the lynx slunk back to the carcass.
Torak stood with legs braced, shaking with fever. The scab on his breastbone had reopened, and warmth seeped down his chest.
He could see no sign of the cubs. But he knew that soon they would be nosing their way out again.
When they did, the lynx would be on them.
Wolf loped through the trees. He recognized those caws! What were the ravens doing at the Den?
The wind turned, carrying scents of lynx and wolf flesh and Tall Tailless. He quickened his pace, and the pack ran with him.
The females were fastest, and reached the Den before him. He saw the lead female leap at the lynx and chase it into the Forest, with Darkfur and the others in pursuit.
Wolf skittered to a halt. He saw Whitepaw lying Not-Breath by the Den. He saw Tall Tailless clutching his great claw in his forepaw. He knew at once what had happened. Anger, joy and sorrow fought within him.
The ravens cawed from the trees, but Wolf ignored them. At the edge of the denning place, he saw the misty shape of a wolf. He cast it a reassuring glance, and what was left of Whitepaw the breath that walked lingered for a moment; then, satisfied that the cubs were safe, trotted into the Forest.
Blackear, Prowler and the lead wolf were staring at Tall Tailless, hackles raised.
Wolf trembled with longing to go to him; but it was for the lead wolf to decide if Tall Tailless was a friend of the pack.
The lead wolf went to the meat which had been Whitepaw, then walked stiffly towards Tall Tailless.
Tall Tailless stood quietly, with eyes averted, as a stranger should. Wolf was troubled to see that he swayed.
Still with hackles raised, the lead wolf sniffed Tall Tailless.