Thull took Torak's fishing spear and buried it under the trees.
Luta laid his cooking-skin on the fire.
Dari did the same with his auroch-horn spoon.
Etan stamped on his birch-bark drinking cup.
Sialot and Poi took his arrows and snapped them in two.
Others took his waterskin and his seal-hide winter clothing which he'd outgrown and had been saving for bedding and burnt it.
Finally, Renn laid his medicine pouch gently on the embers. She was the only one to look him in the eye. Torak knew she would have said sorry if she could.
As the clearing filled with the bitter stink of burning hide, Saeunn made Torak lie on his back, and tattooed his forehead with the mark of the outcast: a small black ring, like a Death Mark.
At last he stood alone, with nothing but his bow, three arrows, his knife, medicine horn and tinder pouch. All had been daubed with red ochre. As one who is dead.
So far, Fin-Kedinn had taken no part in the rite, but now he walked towards Torak. His hand shook slightly as he took his knife from its sheath.
Torak braced himself.
It hurt more than he could have imagined. Without a word, the Raven Leader cut the clan-creature skin from Torak's jerkin, and placed the tattered wolf fur on the fire.
Torak bit his lower lip as he watched the fur blacken and smoke.
'The outcast has until dawn to get away,' said Fin-Kedinn. His voice was steady, but the glitter in his eyes betrayed what this was costing him. 'Until then, he may pass freely in the Forest. After that, anyone who sees him must kill him.' He paused. Then he made the sideways cut of the palm, which meant outcast. 'It is done.'
Torak stared at the fire, where the last trace of the boy he had been Torak of the Wolf Clan blazed, collapsed in a heap of glowing ash, and was blown to nothingness by the wind.
Behind him, a murmur ran through the crowd. He turned, and was startled to see the watchers parting to let someone through. He saw Maheegun place a hand on his breast and bow low to the newcomer. He saw the rest of the Wolf Clan do the same.
Then he realized why.
A great grey wolf padded into the clearing. Raindrops beaded his silver fur, and his eyes were amber, like sunlight in clear water.
Dogs fled. People drew back. All except Renn, who gave Torak a defiant nod.
Torak knelt as Wolf padded towards him.
There were times when Wolf would have leapt at Torak and given him an ecstatic welcome, waggling his paws and grunt-whining as he licked his nose and smothered him in wolf kisses. This wasn't one of them. Tonight Wolf was the guide, his eyes alight with the mysterious certainty which came to him at times.
They touched noses, and Torak's gaze briefly grazed Wolf's in greeting. Pack-brother, he said in wolf talk.
He saw Maheegun stiffen. Yes, he told the Wolf Leader silently. I may not be Wolf Clan, but I can do what you cannot. I can talk wolf.
He rose to his feet, and together, he and Wolf passed through the crowd to the edge of the clearing. Then Torak turned for one last look at the people who had cast him out.
'I may be outcast,' he told them, 'and clanless, but I'm no Soul-Eater. And I will find a way to prove it!'
It was a dank, chill night, and Torak ran through the Forest with Wolf running tirelessly beside him. They didn't stop to rest: without a sleeping-sack, Torak would have frozen. Better to keep going. That way, too, it was harder to think.
The sky was beginning to turn grey when Wolf halted: ears pricked, hackles raised. 'Uff!' he barked softly. Danger!
Soon afterwards, Torak heard it too. Birch-bark horns in the distance. The baying of dogs.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his knife.
Aki hadn't wasted any time.
FOUR.
Wolf heard the dogs baying, and flicked one ear in scorn. They couldn't catch him!
But they might catch Tall Tailless.
As always, his pack-brother ran on his hind legs, which made him piteously slow: Wolf had to keep stopping to let him catch up. And because he couldn't smell or hear very much, he would never get away from the dogs if it weren't for Wolf.
But he made up for it by being so clever. Sometimes he was even cleverer than a normal wolf. Earlier, he'd hidden his scent by swimming through a Fast Wet. Then he'd woken a Bright Beast-that-Bites Hot and smeared ash on his face, paws and overpelt. Wolf didn't like that because it made him sneeze, but he understood why it had to be done.
He just wished Tall Tailless were faster.
With the wind behind them, they wound through the trees, following the trails which wolves made long ago when the Forest was young. The baying faded, and Wolf raised his tail to tell his pack-brother that the pursuers were far behind.
They kept going.
The ground became stony. They climbed a rise where watchful pines whispered encouragement. Tall Tailless slipped, scattering pebbles which hit Wolf on the nose. Wolf moved past him then realized he'd gone too far and fell behind, because Tall Tailless was the lead wolf.
Tall Tailless pulled off his beaver-hide overpaws and climbed on in his bare pads. Wolf had often seen him do this, but he still found it disturbing. And Tall Tailless had such strange paws! The toes of his hindpaws were stubby and useless, while his front toes were very long and good at gripping. Wolf watched in admiration as his pack-brother used them to grab juniper branches and haul himself up the slope.
Suddenly, Tall Tailless disappeared.
Wolf's pelt tightened with alarm.
Then he saw that his pack-brother had found a Den. It was hidden behind the junipers, and it smelt of pine marten and hawk. Wolf gave a disapproving bark. Not here! During the Great Cold, he'd been trapped by the bad taillesses in a Den like this one.
Tall Tailless stayed on all fours, panting. If he'd had a tail, it would have drooped. If only he didn't need so many rests!
Then Wolf remembered when he was a cub, and needed lots of rests himself, and Tall Tailless had carried him in his forepaws.
Feeling bad, Wolf rubbed against his pack-brother and licked his ear. Tall Tailless was shaking. Wolf smelt pain and anger, chewed up with loneliness and fear.
Why was this happening? Wolf didn't understand. Many lopes away, the dogs were angry because they couldn't find the scent. Where! Where! they yapped. The wind carried the smell of their anger, and that of the young male tailless from the pack which smelt of boar. But why were they hunting Tall Tailless? And why had he left the raven pack? Sometimes a young wolf leaves his pack to start one of his own, but this didn't feel like that. This felt wrong.
The lead wolf of the raven pack had spoken harshly in tailless talk. He'd taken his great claw and torn the wolf fur from Tall Tailless' overpelt: the wolf fur that had been part of Tall Tailless since Wolf first knew him. The lead wolf had done this terrible thing but underneath, Wolf had sensed his biting sorrow.
The pack-sister puzzled Wolf even more. She hadn't tried to stop the pack leader, and she hadn't come with Tall Tailless.
What did it mean?
Down in the valley, the dogs were casting for the scent. His pack-brother couldn't hear them yet, but Wolf's fur prickled.
What is it? Tall Tailless asked with his eyes.
Wolf glanced at the beloved, furless face. Tall Tailless couldn't lope much further. Wolf had to make sure that the dogs didn't find him.
Grunt-whining softly, he nudged his pack-brother under the chin. I'm sorry, I must leave. Don't follow. Then he was out of the Den, racing down the slope.
He flew over the rocks and splashed through the Fast Wet, thrusting it aside with his big paws. Scrambling up the bank, he shook himself dry and set off again. It was good to run freely, without waiting for Tall Tailless, and he felt no fear of the dogs. Compared to a wolf, dogs are like cubs.
As he ran, he noticed things in the Forest which troubled him. A viper gliding up-Wet with her head held high. An owl feather caught in bracken. An oak tree whispering secrets to its vast and ancient pack. It reminded him of the bad taillesses who'd kept him tied up in the tiny stone Den.
'Where! Where!' yelped the dogs.
Wolf forgot the bad taillesses and slowed to a walk.
He reached the valley bottom, and a tangle of scent trails. Through the trees, he saw the young male from the boar pack, clutching a great claw in his forepaw and stinking of blood-hunger. In the other paw he held a scrap of silver hide which smelt of fish-dog and Tall Tailless. Wolf recognized this as a scrap of Tall Tailless' old overpelt.
One of the dogs sniffed the silver pelt to remind herself of the scent.
Now Wolf understood. The pelt was helping the dogs find his pack-brother. He must take it. Then they would chase him, and he would lead them away from Tall Tailless.
Wolf's claws tightened with excitement. He felt the power in his shoulders and haunches, and knew with a fierce joy that he could lope faster than the fastest dog.
Placing his pads with care, he crept forwards.
FIVE.
Asmell of earth and decay clogged Torak's nostrils. The cramped little cave reminded him of the Raven bone-grounds.
Don't think about that. Think about staying alive.
The clamour of dogs had faded. Whatever Wolf had done, it seemed to have worked; but Torak wished he would return. He told himself that Wolf would find him when he was ready.
Forcing his stiff legs to move, he crawled out and started up the slope. The rocks were slippery with rain. He kept his boots off till his feet grew numb.
His plan had been to set a false trail north from the Raven camp, then double back and make for the valleys to the south, where he'd lived with Fa. Instead, Aki had forced him into a huge loop up and down the Green River. He was now somewhere on Broken Ridge, not far from where he'd found the red deer antlers.
His sides ached, and on his forehead the new tattoo throbbed. He found a willow tree, muttered a quick apology, and peeled off a slip of bast. Having chewed it, he smeared the stinging pulp on the wound; then cut a strip of buckskin from his jerkin and tied it round as a headband. It would keep the medicine in place, and hide the outcast tattoo.
With a jolt, he remembered that he'd used the same medicine on the night Fa was killed. For a moment, it seemed as if everything that had happened since finding Wolf, meeting Renn and Fin-Kedinn as if none of that had been real. Here he was alone again, and on the run.
Before him the ground fell away into dense woods of oak, beech and pine. He caught the distant glint of the Axehandle. Many canoes plied its course, especially during the salmon run. He must stay well back from its banks.
Keeping to deep cover, he began the descent through willowherb and waist-high bracken. He was light-headed with hunger, but he had no food, no axe, and only three arrows. Somehow he had to eat before he got too weak to run. Somehow he had to find a hidden valley where he could survive on his own. Somehow he had to get rid of the mark of the Soul-Eater and force the clans to take him back . . .
The task was too huge. He'd never do it.
Then he remembered something Fin-Kedinn had said the previous moon, when they were gathering bark to make a fishing net. It had been a bitter day like this one, and Torak had stared at the slimy willow wands piled at his feet, wondering how he was ever going to turn them into a net.
'Don't think about the net,' Fin-Kedinn had told him. 'Take a single willow wand and strip it. You can do that, can't you?'
'Of course.' He'd learnt how to strip a stick before he was old enough to hold a knife.
'Then do it,' said the Raven Leader. 'Step by step. One branch at a time. Don't think about the net.'
Now, as Torak felt the rain soaking his buckskins, he nodded. Step by step. Food. Shelter. Yes. Leave the rest till tomorrow.
He found an elk trail which stayed concealed as it wound east along the valley flank. The rain stopped. The sun came out.
As he went, he became aware that although the Ravens were lost to him, the Forest was not. 'Forest,' he said softly. 'I've always honoured you. Help me survive.'
The Forest shook the raindrops from its boughs, and told him to look around.
By the trail he saw a sturdy birch tree with leaves still pleated from the bud. It would give him a quick, strengthening drink. Why hadn't he thought of that before?
Asking the tree's permission, he used his knife to cut a shallow hole in the bark at the base of the trunk. Tree-blood oozed. He stuck a hollow elder stem in the wound to funnel the drips, and tied on a birch-bark cone with honeysuckle, to catch them.
While the cone was filling, he found a digging stick and dug up some crow garlic. Sticking one bulb in a fork of the birch for the clan guardian, he ate the rest. They made his eyes water, but they warmed him up a bit.
After that he found some comfrey roots very acrid and sticky and, in a boggy hollow, the best of all: a clump of spotted orchid. The roots were so starchy it was like eating glue, but they were the most nourishing food in the Forest, if you couldn't get meat.
By now, the cone was brimming. After thanking the tree's spirit and pressing the bark over the wound to heal it, he drained the cone. The birch-blood tasted cool and dizzyingly sweet. The strength of the Forest became his.
Food made him feel a little better.
I can do this, he told himself. I can make dogwood arrows and harden the tips in a fire. I can make willowherb snares, and catch fish with bramble-thorn hooks. The Forest will help me.
Mid-afternoon was wearing on as he neared the valley bottom, where he had to wade through piles of last autumn's leaves. His confidence waned. His legs wouldn't carry him much further.
With no axe, building a shelter would be hard; but again, the Forest helped. He found a storm-toppled beech which had fallen onto a boulder. It gave him the perfect frame. All he had to do was pile branches on either side and leafmould on top of that. It was well placed, too: on the edge of a willow thicket where he could hide if he had to.
The air was turning sharp, but he couldn't risk a fire, so for warmth, he stuffed grass down his jerkin, boots and leggings. It was scratchy, and it tickled when beetles and spiders scuttled out, but it would stop him freezing.