Ghost Hunter (20 page)

In the distance, a raven croaked.

Renn raised her head. That was Rip.

Moments later, even farther off, she heard Rek answer him.

As Renn listened to their cries slowly fading, she clenched her fists. Rip and Rek didn't sound defeated.

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They sounded intent on some mysterious raven matter of their own; probably concerning food.

As if in sympathy, her belly growled. Fog or no fog, she was hungry.

Opening her food pouch, she took out two strips of smoked reindeer tongue stuck together with marrowfat. Then she sat on a boulder and began to eat. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted.

She decided that her bow could do with some food, too. Juksakai had given her a bladder of oil from reindeer foot joints, which he'd said was better than anything for keeping wood and sinew supple, even in the coldest weather. Renn lavished some on her bow. Then she checked her arrows: a gift from Krukoslik, with fine quartz heads and white owl-feather fletching.
"Good
owls," she muttered under her breath.

The fog swirled about her angrily.

The food, the oil, the arrows: these had been prepared by kind people. The clothes they'd given her were meant to confer courage as well as warmth. The Mountain Hares had said that they always made the fronts of their robes from reindeer chest fur, "For in the breast of the antlered one, there beats a great heart."

A great heart.
Renn's thoughts went to Fin-Kedinn. She sat straighter. "I'm bone kin to the Raven Leader," she told the fog--and it writhed at the resolution in her

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voice. "I'm Renn. I am a Mage."

As she headed off, the fog no longer seemed quite so thick.

Feeling more equal to the struggle than she had all day, Renn turned over what she knew of Eostra's plans.

The Eagle Owl Mage meant to live forever. She meant to eat Torak's world-soul and take his power.

Renn halted.

Until now, she'd never asked herself
how
Eostra meant to do that. But if she could work out how, then she might have some chance of stopping her.

The best Renn could come up with was a rite for
holding
souls which Saeunn had once told her about. This was carried out when a mother or father was grieving so fiercely for their dead child that they risked going mad. Their Mage would catch the newly disembodied spirit in a rowanbark box and tie it shut with a lock of the dead one's hair. The mourner must then live apart from the clan for six moons, with only the souls in the box for company. Then the souls were freed by opening the box and burning the hair on a hilltop, so that the smoke would waft up to the First Tree in the sky.

Taking off her mitten, Renn scratched her head. What did this have to do with Eostra?

Her fingers stilled.

Hair.

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Your hair holds part of your Nanuak. That's why the Death Mark for the world-soul is daubed on the forehead.

And that, thought Renn in a flash of insight, is what the tokoroth was after on the night after the ice storm. Torak's hair. If Eostra could get some of his hair by Souls' Night, she could take his world-soul and his power.

It was horribly simple. And maybe it was also why Eostra had sent her tokoroth. She'd been taunting them, telling them that she could get Torak's hair whenever she wanted.

Renn began to run. She floundered through snowdrifts and slithered over icy scree. She ran past patches of bearberry, crimson as spilled blood.

A large bird swooped overhead, skimming her hood.

Its wingbeats faded. Renn hid behind a rock. The wingbeats were coming back. Too noisy for an owl, she thought.

Rip lit onto the rock and rattled an excited
kek-kek-kek!

Renn gave an edgy laugh. Rip hitched himself into the air and flew off.
Quork!

When Renn didn't follow, he flew back.

Renn chewed her lip. Torak's trail led straight ahead, but Rip wanted her to follow him down a gully.

Quork!
he cawed impatiently.

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Renn followed.

She hadn't gone far when the fog thinned, and she made out something lying on the rocks. Rip and Rek wheeled above it, as if circling a carcass.

Renn's belly turned over. It
was
a carcass.

Sound cut away as she stumbled toward it.

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[Image: Darkfur.]

THIRTY

Darkfur's breath came in rasping coughs that made her flanks heave. As Renn knelt beside her, the she-wolf raised her head and attempted one of her little greeting snaps. The effort was too much. She slumped back.

Drawing off her mitten, Renn laid her hand on Darkfur's side. She could feel each rib. The she-wolf hadn't eaten for days.

How had she managed to get all this way? Renn pictured Darkfur hauling herself from the river after the owl's attack, and setting off: battered, longing for her cubs, determined to find her mate. Perhaps she'd been

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drawn by Wolf's howls; perhaps by the strength of the bond between them. With the resilience of wolves which surpasses that of the toughest man, she had survived the ice storm and made it across the fells. Renn remembered Krukoslik speaking of hunters finding a dead wolf, and leaving food for its spirit. Maybe that had been Darkfur. Maybe the kindness of strangers had saved her life.

Wrenching open her food pouch, Renn placed a slip of meat by the she-wolf's muzzle. Darkfur ignored it.

Rip flew down and sidled closer.

"No," scolded Renn. "She needs it more."

The raven gave her a reproachful look, and stalked off to sulk.

Renn nudged the meat closer. Still no response.

Puzzled, Renn touched one large black forepaw.

Darkfur tensed, and uttered a low growl.

Renn's alarm deepened. That pad was burning hot. Then she noticed that Darkfur's nose looked dull. Her tongue was tinged gray.

Renn leaned nearer--and recoiled at the stink. It wasn't hunger which had felled the she-wolf. The owl's claws had gashed her foreleg from shoulder to shin, and the wound was festering. Renn saw foul, oozing green pus.

Her thoughts raced. Darkfur lay in a hollow under a rock. It shouldn't take long to turn it into a shelter. Farther back in the gully, she'd passed a clump of the

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heathery plant which Juksakai used for waking fires. She had herbs in her medicine pouch--she'd refilled it before leaving the Swans--and she knew a healing charm.

It flashed through her mind that all this would lessen her chances of finding Torak, but she told herself the delay would be slight. Dress the wound, coax Darkfur to eat, then leave her to get better. How long could that take?

Sure of herself now, Renn worked fast. Soon the shelter was built and a small fire woken. At the foot of a boulder where a hawk had perched to eat its prey, she found the tiny skull of a snow-vole: strong medicine against fevers. Best of all, the purple droppings on the boulder led her to a nearby stand of juniper. That would be a powerful aid to the healing charm.

Back with Darkfur, she heated water and made a brew of crushed sorrel root, vole bones, and juniper berries. Cooling this with snow, she started cleaning the wound by trickling a few drops onto the injured shoulder.

Darkfur's growls shook her whole body.

Renn swallowed. She tried again. Same result.

She wished she was Torak, and could speak wolf. If only she could tell Darkfur that this would do her good. "Darkfur,
please"
she said. "I'm trying to help you."

Darkfur swiveled one ear.

"You have to let me clean your wound."

The green-amber gaze touched hers, then slid away.

Maybe that's it, thought Renn. Just talk.

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"I'm--I'm sorry about the cubs," she stammered. "And that the owl hurt you. But Wolf is alive. You will see him again. Only you have to let me help you."

Darkfur remained tense, the sinews on her long legs standing out like cords. But she was listening.

Renn went on talking: softly, continuously. Praying that the she-wolf would hear from her voice that she meant no harm. The next time she dribbled medicine onto the wound, Darkfur lay quiet.

Washing the injured leg was agonizingly slow. Renn did as much as she dared, then prepared the poultice. She chewed juniper berries, then ground sorrel root with earthblood and juniper bast, and mashed the whole into a warm pulp.

Muttering the charm under her breath, she leaned closer, hiding the poultice behind her back.

Darfkur bared her fearsome white teeth.

Renn froze. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. When the she-wolf's muzzle relaxed, Renn slowly brought out the poultice.

Darkfur swung her head close to Renn's face. Renn felt her hot breath. She stared into the open jaws. "It--it's all right," she faltered. "Let me do this."

The jaws slackened. The she-wolf lay back and shut her eyes.

Trembling, Renn laid the poultice on the wound. Darkfur didn't stir.

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The ravens edged in and made off with the meat. Renn was too drained to care. She heard them squabbling; then a sleepy rustle of feathers as they settled down to roost.

To roost?

She crawled out of the shelter.

While she'd been tending Darkfur, the rest of the day had slipped away. By now, Torak might already have reached the Mountain of Ghosts. Tomorrow night, when the sun went down, it would be Souls' Night.

Too late, Renn perceived Eostra's cunning. The Soul-Eater had allowed Darkfur to get this far for a reason: to keep Renn away from Torak. And it wasn't hard to work out why the dogs hadn't menaced them. They had other prey to hunt. Somewhere, in some lonely place, they were cornering Torak and Wolf. Renn saw their evil heads sunk between their shoulders as they closed in for the kill....

Angrily, she pushed that away, and crawled back inside, where she found Darkfur twitching in her sleep.

Renn bit her lip. She knew she would have to spend the night here--but what then? Should she stay and look after Darkfur? Or let the she-wolf take her chances, and catch up with Torak?

Wolves heal much faster than people, but even so, the wound would need bathing and dressing. Perhaps another whole day would be lost.

Renn didn't know what to do. She felt pulled in

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different directions by ropes of loyalty and love.

Beside her, Darkfur's tail thumped in her sleep. Her muzzle quivered. She was smiling. She gave an eager, keening whine. Renn's heart twisted with pity. In her dreams, Darkfur was calling her dead cubs.