Outcast by Michelle Paver Read Free Book Online Page A

wildly for something to climb. Nothing: the river behind her, knee-high willows in front.
     
The elk gave a bellow that shook the earth, then put down its head to charge. One kick from those enormous hooves would brain a boar, or snap a wolf's spine in two. Renn didn't stand a chance.
    The elk crashed toward her, and Torak felt the ground tremble; he smelled its musky rage. Suddenly he felt a jolting pain in his belly--a pain that was horribly familiar ... ... and now it was his rage which powered the great body forward, his antlers thrusting aside the branches as he thundered toward Renn. This isn't a dream, he thought. This is really happening!
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EIGHT
The elk burst from the thicket, and Renn flung herself behind the oak. With terrifying agility the elk spun on one hoof. Renn dodged--and dodged again. The elk galloped off, then swung around for another attack.
     
Breathless, sweating, she crouched behind the stump. Nothing climbable within reach--this slope had been cleared for a camp two summers before--and although the river was ten paces away, she'd never make it. Besides, elk can swim.
    A root was digging into her knee, and as she shifted position, she nearly fell down a hole. Some kind of
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burrow. Muttering thanks to her guardian, she hugged her weapons and wriggled in backward. The elk couldn't reach her down here; the hole was too narrow for those antlers. And elk didn't dig. At least, not normal ones.
     
But this was nothing like a normal elk.
     
She'd had no warning, nothing at all. After a sleepless night, she'd crawled blearily from the shelter and set off upriver. If anyone asked, she would tell them she was hunting, but the truth was, she was worried about Torak. She wanted to find some trace of him, even though he was probably long gone. Then the elk had emerged from the waterlogged thicket.
     
Renn had been startled, but not alarmed. The elk had probably been browsing on sedge, or diving for water lily roots. She would give it space to show that she wasn't hunting, and it would wander off.
     
Then everything changed.
     
Earth trickled onto her face, and she shook it off. Peering up at a gray disc of sky, her hunter's eye spotted a few black and white hairs snagged on the edge. She hoped the badger whose sett she'd invaded was fast asleep and a lot farther inside. Caught between a mad elk and an outraged badger. Not much of a choice.
    What to do now? Her bow and arrows were mercifully unharmed, her axe still in her hand. She
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could either wait till help came along or fight her way out.
    Fighting would get her killed. The elk was so tall that she could have run under its belly without ducking, and its antlers were wider than her outstretched arms; one swipe would gut her like a fish. And those hooves ... Once, she'd seen a cow elk kill a bear with just two kicks: one on the jaw to stun, and then--rearing on its hind legs
-both front hooves hammering down to split the skull.
    But this elk wasn't a cow protecting her calf. It was a bull; and the rut, when bulls become lethal, was four moons away.
So why had it attacked? Sickness? A wound gone bad? She'd seen no sign of either. Demons? No. It didn't feel like that. And yet--there was something. More earth trickled onto her face, and she spat out gritty crumbs. With infinite care, she pushed herself up and peered over the edge.
Early sunlight speared the bracken. A breeze woke the willows. The river murmured on its way to the Sea. So peaceful ...
There. Beside that clump of burdock: the edge of a huge, splayed hoof; a fetlock dark with sweat.
The blood roared in her ears.
The elk lowered its head, and its long tongue curled out, moistening its nose to sharpen its sense of smell. Its
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large ears tilted toward her. She froze.
It knew she was there. One eye was blind red jelly, punctured by a rival's antler the previous rut. The other was fixed on hers.
She caught her breath. She sensed the spirit behind that stare.
"It can't be," she whispered.
The elk