'Yes, Mage,' the woman said humbly.
Torak caught Renn's eye. The horses.
To give him a chance to tackle the woman, she asked Durrain to explain how the Red Deer went into a trance. The Mage gave her a look, and took her into the shelter.
'We should go in,' bleated the woman. She had flaky skin which reminded Torak of dried reindeer meat, and she kept blinking as if anticipating a blow. Her bark head-binding was filthy and needed replacing.
To set her at ease, he asked whom she mourned.
'M-my child,' she mumbled. 'We should go in.'
'And you make offerings to the horses? In their valley?'
'The Windriver, yes.' She gestured behind her, then clapped her hand to her mouth. 'We should go in!'
Simmering with excitement, Torak left his axe and bow where he could find them, and followed her in. It was almost too easy.
Inside, it was as dim as the Forest at Midsummer. From the cross-beams, thousands of nettle fibres hung to dry: they brushed his face like long green hair. Men and women sat on opposite sides with Durrain in the middle, cradling a pair of deer-hoof rattles. There was no fire. The only warmth was the dank heat of breath.
Torak made out Renn, who gave him a conspiratorial smile. He felt guilty, because she wasn't coming with him. He couldn't have said why; he just knew that when he confronted Thiazzi, she mustn't be there to see it.
Making his way to the men's side, he found a place in front of one of the doorways.
The last Red Deer crawled in and set a bowl and a platter before Durrain. She lifted the bowl and drank. 'Rain from the tracks of the tree-headed guardian,' she intoned. 'Drink the wisdom of the Forest.' She handed on the bowl.
From the platter she took a piece of flatcake. 'Bark of the ever-watchful pine. Eat the wisdom of the Forest.'
When it was Torak's turn, he hid the flatcake up his sleeve and only pretended to sip from the bowl. Surreptitiously, he put out his hand, and felt cool air beneath the hide flap.
Durrain's gaze raked the throng.
He froze.
Durrain began shaking the rattles in a steady, cantering rhythm. 'Forest,' she chanted, 'You see all. You know all. Not a swallow falls, not a bat breathes, but you know it. Hear us.'
'Hear us,' echoed the others.
'End the strife between the clans. Bring the stag-headed Spirit back to your sacred valleys.'
On and on went the chanting and the galloping hooves, and still Durrain watched her people. Middle-night came and went. Torak had almost given up hope, when, without breaking rhythm, she cast her hood over her face and the others did the same.
As the Red Deer chanted themselves deeper into the trance, Torak backed closer to the flap. The men flanking him were lost in their wovenstem darkness. They didn't see him escape.
Grabbing his weapons, he headed up the trail.
He hadn't gone far when Rip and Rek swooped and gave him a welcoming caw. Where have you been?
Wolf appeared like a grey shadow and ran at his side. Bitten One. Not far.
The half-eaten moon was setting, dawn was not far off. Torak quickened his pace. The thrill of the chase fizzed in his blood. He felt swift and invincible, a hunter closing on his prey. This was meant to be.
The boy escapes. This was meant to be.
For three days and nights the Chosen One has watched the unbelievers, as the Master willed. The girl drains the power from a curse stick as easily as pouring water from a pail. The boy summons ravens from the sky and speaks with the great grey wolf and his spirit walks.
The boy believes he is cunning, tracking the Master to the sacred grove. No-one tracks the Master. The Master summons, and others obey. Even the fire obeys the Master.
The will of the Master must be done.
SIXTEEN.
Dawn had broken, and neither the Red Deer nor Renn came after him. Torak almost wished they would. Soon, nothing would stand between him and his vengeance.
As the day wore on, he followed the trail up the Windriver, although this swift brown torrent bore scant resemblance to the mighty river it would become in the Open Forest.
Wolf padded at his side with drooping tail and lowered head. Even the ravens had stopped swooping after butterflies. The thrill of the hunt had given way to apprehension.
The valley narrowed to a gorge and the river became a rushing stream. A dry south wind had been blowing all day, but now it dropped to a whisper. Torak felt a tingling in his spine. They were entering the foothills of the High Mountains.
Wolf sniffed a clod of earth that had been kicked up by a horse's hoof. Torak stooped for a long black tail-hair. Above him, the new leaves of beech and birch glowed a brilliant green. Blackthorn blossom glittered like snow. The air was fresh with the scent of spruce, and alive with birdsong: chaffinch, warbler, thrush, wren. Even the speedwell on the trail was a preternatural blue, like flowers in a dream. He had reached the valley of the horses.
Wolf raised his head. Do we go on?
I must, Torak told him. Not you. Dangerous.
If you must, I must.
They walked on in the flickering shade.
The trail, Torak noticed, had been trodden by many hooves and paws, but no boots. The prey showed no fear of him, and he guessed that here, people were forbidden to hunt. A black woodpecker hopped backwards along a branch, probing for ants. It was so close that Torak glimpsed its long grey tongue. A roe buck munched deadnettle. He could have touched its coarse brown fur. He came upon a boar snuffling for roots; she watched him pass without raising her snout.
The valley narrowed to a gorge, and birch gave way to mossy spruce. The breeze died. The birds fell silent. Torak's footfalls sounded loud. He touched his shoulder, where his clan-creature skin used to be. A knot of dread tightened under his heart.
Ever since Bale's death, his whole purpose had been to find Thiazzi. He hadn't thought about what came after. He did now. He had to kill the strongest man in the Forest.
He had to kill a man.
Perhaps this was why he'd left Renn behind: because he didn't want her to see him do it. But he missed her.
A murmur of wings behind him and he turned, hoping it was Rip and Rek. It was a sparrowhawk on a stump, plucking the breast of a headless thrush.
Maybe, thought Torak, the ravens have gone because they know what I'm going to do.
But Wolf was still with him. He was gazing at Torak, and his amber eyes held the pure, steady light of the guide. Do not go on.
I must, Torak replied.
This is bad.
I know. I must.
The sun sank lower and the trees closed in. The river disappeared, but Torak heard it echoing underground. Finally, its voice fell to nothing.
A stone clattered behind him. When it came to rest, the stillness surged back like something alive.
The trail rounded a bend and the Mountains reared before him, startlingly close. The valley walls leaned in, shutting out the dying light. Ahead, the tallest holly trees he'd ever seen warded him back. Beyond them, he knew, lay the sacred grove: the heart of the Forest.
Some places hold an echo of events; others possess their own spirit. Torak sensed the spirit of this place as a soundless humming in his bones. From his pouch, he drew his mother's medicine horn. He shook earthblood into his palm and daubed some on his cheeks and brow. The horn seemed to vibrate, like the humming in his marrow.
Wolf nosed his hand. His ears were flat against his skull. He was no longer the guide. He was Torak's pack-brother, and frightened.
Torak knelt and blew gently on his muzzle, feeling the tickle of his whiskers and breathing his sweet, clean smell.
He couldn't let Wolf come any further. It was too dangerous. He had to do this alone. Hating the confusion he would cause, he told Wolf to go.
Wolf refused.
Torak repeated the command.
Wolf ran in a circle. You must not hunt the Bitten One!
Go, Torak replied.
Wolf pawed his knee. Danger! Uff!
Torak hardened his heart. Go!
Wolf gave an anxious whimper and raced off into the Forest.
So now you're alone, thought Torak. He felt the chill of the night seeping out of the earth. He rose and walked into the dark beneath the trees.
As Wolf raced up the slope, worry and fear fought within him. This was a terrible place. The holly trees whispered warnings he didn't understand. They were very old, and they didn't want him here.
He reached a ridge above the whispering trees and skittered to a halt. The breeze carried a tangle of scents to his nose. He smelt the Bright Beast-that-Bites-Hot, and the Bitten One, and a whiff of demon. He smelt his pack-brother's fear and his blood-hunger. This was not the hunger of the hunt, it was deeper, fiercer. It was not-wolf. Wolf didn't understand it, but he feared it. And he feared for Tall Tailless, because he felt in his fur that if Tall Tailless attacked the Bitten One, he would be killed.
The Bitten One was stronger than a bear. Not even the Bright Beast dared attack him. What could one wolf do?
Wolf trotted up and down the ridge, mewing in distress.
He felt a faint shudder in the earth. He swivelled his ears. Loping to the top of the ridge, he leapt onto a log. He caught the rich scent of the huge prey that is like auroch but not.
He smelt that a herd of these not-aurochs was feeding in the next valley. They were enormous creatures, but timid, although they could be extremely bad-tempered, and hated being chased, as Wolf had learnt the previous Dark.
He raced off to find them.
The holly trees smelt of dust and spiders. Their vigilance pressed upon Torak, drawing the breath from his lungs as the wind draws smoke from a shelter.
Eventually, the hollies thinned, and between their straight black trunks he saw the red glimmer of a fire. He drew his knife. As he went closer, he heard the crackle of flames. He caught the stink of charred flesh.
He reached the last tree and edged behind it. The holly's bark felt cold as slate beneath his palm.
The sacred grove was washed in blue moonlight, and shadowed by the broken shoulders of the Mountains. A circle of raked embers smouldered on stony ground. Beyond it, hazed by smoke, two enormous trees stood side by side, their upper branches intertwining like hands.
The Great Oak pushed skywards in eternal struggle. Its mighty trunk was furrowed like an ice river, and in the uncertain light, Torak saw gnarled bark faces glaring at him. No leaves softened the oak's twig fingers: its buds had been gnawed by demons. But from some branches hung small, lumpy shapes. Torak couldn't see what they were. He dreaded finding out.
The Great Yew was ancient beyond imagining. Torak knew, because he had walked in its deep green souls. Its twisted limbs were weathered to a driftwood silver, but underneath, the golden sapwood pulsed. Its ever-wakeful boughs had survived fire and flood, lightning and drought. Its roots were harder than stone, and held down the Mountains. The Great Yew feared nothing, not even demons.
From nowhere, a gust of wind cleared the smoke and breathed life into the fire. Torak saw that a stake had been driven into its heart, and from this hung a slender, blackened carcass.
Torak felt sick. Now he understood what dangled from the Great Oak. Carcasses. Too small to be human, too charred to be recognizable.
To murder a hunter. He remembered the Soul-Eaters' dreadful sacrifices in the caves of the Far North. He remembered Fin-Kedinn telling of the bad times long ago, when the clans had killed hunters, including people.
This, he thought, is evil. He could feel it in the air: a rotten, choking sickness, palsying the heart of the Forest.
His hand on his knife-hilt was slippery with sweat. There was no turning back. He had to leave the shelter of the holly trees and find Thiazzi.
He was about to take the first step when one of the rocks beyond the fire rose, spread its arms and became a man.
SEVENTEEN.
The Mage rose from the very roots of the sacred grove. He wore a mantle of flowing horsehide and a long, graven mask crested with a mane of horsetails. Painted eyes glared scarlet, and the gaping mouth was fringed with black feathers that shuddered at every breath.
Spirit breath, Renn had told Torak once. A mask is a spirit's face. When you put on a mask, you become that spirit. The feathers show that the spirit lives.
Mask and mantle declared him to be the Forest Horse Mage, but upon his breast he wore a wreath of acorns and mistletoe, the tokens of his true clan, and from it hung a small, heavy pouch. The fire-opal.
Behind the holly tree, Torak clumsily sheathed his knife. It would be useless against such power. He unslung his bow and fumbled in his quiver for an arrow. His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. He felt like a mouse about to attack an auroch.
Standing before the fire, the Mage began to pant, forcing the air from his chest in harsh exhalations, ugh ugh ugh. He stepped closer to the fire. He stepped into it. Through the shimmering heat, Torak watched his naked feet tread the living embers. Not possible, he thought.
Panting faster, ugh ugh ugh, the Mage snatched the carcass from the stake and walked back to solid ground.