OUTCAST
The Darkeningstone Book II
Mikey Campling
Somewhere, Sometime, The Stone is Listening
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Thank You for Reading Outcast
Get an Exclusive Free Book
Coming Soon
Connect with the Author
Also by Mikey Campling
About the Author
Copyright
Author’s Note
To get the most from this book, you should really have read Trespass first. You do not need to have read Breaking Ground, but since it’s free and a quick read, you may enjoy the extra detail that it provides.
Explore the World of the Darkeningstone
Read the Exclusive Prequel for Free
Use the link below and I’ll send you Breaking Ground, the prequel to The Darkeningstone Trilogy, for free.
NB Breaking Ground is not available to buy as an ebook. This is an exclusive offer that’s just for my readers.
Visit: mikeycampling.com/freebooks
Dedication
This book is for my readers.
Thank you for allowing me to join your tribe so that I may tell my tales at your fireside. I’m very grateful for your kind words, your patience, and above all, your encouragement.
Who knows what true loneliness is—not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.
—Joseph Conrad
Mikey Campling
mikeycampling.com
Editors: Michael-Israel Jarvis & Sophie B. Thomas
Chapter 1
3650 BC
HAFOC PAUSED AND SNIFFED THE AIR. The evening was crisp and cool and his mind whirled with a confusion of scents from the forest; the deep sweetness of the soft earth mingled with the mellow scent of forest flowers. But there it was—the hint of bitterness he’d been hoping for: wood smoke. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispered. The spirits had not helped him in his hunt today, but they’d brought him back to his tribe. At last.
Hafoc started forward, turning his head as he walked, tracking the scent of the fire. He would soon be back with the others. Just in time. The sun was already low and the shadows beneath the trees were already as dark as a demon’s eyes. He glanced over his shoulder as he walked. Had he heard something? He walked on, raising his right hand over his shoulder to touch the shafts of the arrows he carried on his back. Good. There were plenty there. It’s not as if I’ve had the chance to lose any of them today. He stopped. Ahead, something stirred in the undergrowth. Hafoc dropped into a half crouch. He swallowed hard. First there’d been sounds behind him, and now in front. Had he allowed himself to be surrounded? He drew an arrow and held it against his bowstring, but then he hesitated. Should he draw his knife instead? He glanced down to the knife he wore sheathed on the strap across his chest, but it was already too late. As he watched, the tall ferns in front of him whispered and swayed as something pushed its way through the fronds. Hafoc set his jaw and raised his bow. Despite himself, he took a faltering step backward. And to think that, only a moment ago, he’d thanked the spirits for keeping him safe.
From the shadows, a low growl. A wolf. But was it alone, or was the pack even now circling around him? Hafoc tilted his head. Where are you? Another growl filtered through the undergrowth and Hafoc fixed his eyes on the place. He drew back his bowstring, but he couldn’t loose the arrow yet. He couldn’t be sure of a good hit and if he missed, he would not have time for a second shot. The trees nearby were too spindly to climb. His only chance of survival was to make a kill. If there was a pack, he needed to break it up long enough to make a dash toward the camp. And then he’d have no choice but to hope a cry for help would be heard.
The creature crept closer. A trickle of sweat stung Hafoc’s eye. He blinked and took a steadying breath. He was ready. A dark shape moved through the undergrowth, but just as Hafoc prepared to let his arrow fly, the creature’s growl changed, growing louder as it turned into a gruff bark that was too low, too grumbling to be the yap of a wolf. Hafoc sighed and lowered his bow. The dog barked once more, then, still growling, it pushed its way out of the ferns. Its ears lay flat against the top of its head and it kept its body low, ready to launch itself at Hafoc’s throat.
Hafoc stood straight and looked the dog in the eye. He knew its brindled coat, the shape of its muzzle. “Nelda, I almost put an arrow in you.” He put his arrow back in its quiver and held out his right arm, forming his hand into a fist. The dog raised its nose and sniffed. For a heartbeat, it stared at Hafoc and then it stood taller, its body relaxed. It raised its ears and gave a small grunt of recognition. Hafoc smiled. “Good dog,” he said. “I must be nearer the camp than I thought.”
It wasn’t long before Hafoc heard the distant murmur of voices from the camp. He stopped and cocked his head, listening. All seemed well, but he turned to scan the forest behind him. Earlier, he’d heard a noise at his back, and since Nelda had appeared in front of him, the dog could not have been the culprit. He’d only heard it once, but Hafoc would not rejoin the tribe until he was sure he wasn’t being followed.
Nelda watched him for a moment, then moved toward the camp. If there was a threat, she would’ve heard it long ago and let him know. Hafoc sighed then followed Nelda, changing the way he walked so he made some noise as he went along. It was always better to be heard as you approached the camp. A stealthy visitor’s only welcome would be an arrow in his chest. Hafoc deliberately brushed against the branches of a bush and the sound, unnaturally loud in the stillness, made him wince. A dog barked and its warning was quickly taken up by two or three more. Nelda paused and pricked her ears. She gave an answering bark then trotted forward. The voices from the camp stopped and Hafoc knew that men were even now taking up their weapons. He squared his shoulders and strode onward. He did not hesitate until he stepped into the fire-lit clearing.
The tribe were gathered around the fire and every head was turned in Hafoc’s direction. Most of the tribe were squatting on the ground, though three men stood, their bows in their hands. They stared at Hafoc for a moment and then their eyes went to the darkening forest behind him. For a heartbeat, Hafoc wondered what they were looking at. And then he found out. The shove sent him staggering forward, his arms flailing for balance. He caught hi
mself, just in time and whirled around, his hand on his knife. Brond faced him, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Hafoc jutted his chin forward. He pictured his knife ripping across Brond’s throat, could almost feel the spray of hot blood against his skin. But Brond was bigger, stronger, and faster. And they both knew it. Hafoc took his hand away from his knife and stood up straight. He looked Brond in the eye. “I knew you were there,” he said.
“Ha,” Brond sneered. “I think not, little brother.”
Hafoc wanted to say that he’d heard something, that he knew someone was behind him ages ago, but what was the point? His brother would just ask him why he hadn’t done anything about it. Instead, Hafoc pulled a face and looked down. And there was Nelda, sitting by Brond’s side and watching Hafoc with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out. She looked as though she was sharing the joke. I should’ve known, Hafoc thought. Wherever his brother went, Nelda was never far from his side. Treacherous dog. He’d know better than to trust her next time.
Hafoc fought the urge to walk away. If he turned his back on Brond now, he was asking for another shove. He tilted his head to one side and looked up at Brond. Is that it? Have you finished making a fool of me?
Brond shifted his weight and stood tall. “You broke from the other hunters. You went off alone. Now, you return late and with nothing to show for it.”
Hafoc nodded. It would be a waste of breath to argue. Better to accept the insults and get it over with.
“Do you have nothing to say?”
Hafoc shook his head, but that wasn’t good enough for Brond, who stepped closer. “Well you’d better think of something, before I beat it out of you.”
Hafoc sighed unhappily. “I was tracking a deer. I wanted to do it on my own. But, it got too late, it was too dark to see the trail. I…I thought I’d better come home.”
Brond snorted in disgust. “No. We tracked a deer. We worked together. We brought it home. You—you wandered away. You could have been killed, or worse, you could have brought danger to our home.”
Hafoc hung his head. It was all true. He should’ve known better. But why did Brond always have to make him feel so small?
“You never learn,” Brond said. “You won’t do what you’re told. If our father were alive he would be ashamed of—”
“No!” Hafoc yelled. He glared at Brond. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever—” In his rage, he didn’t see the punch coming. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, the wind knocked from his chest. Brond stood over him and put his foot on Hafoc’s right arm, pressing down hard.
Hafoc’s mind burned with the need to draw his knife, but its sheath was angled diagonally across his chest. The knife was easy to draw with his right hand, but much harder with his left. But it wasn’t impossible. Hafoc dropped his bow and his fingers scrabbled for the knife’s handle.
Brond snarled and pressed his foot harder onto Hafoc’s arm, twisting it to grind the bones against the hard ground. A flash of white pain burst in Hafoc’s mind and he cried out.
Brond bent over him and slapped him across the face. “Be quiet,” he barked. “Do you want to tell the Wandrian where we are?”
Hafoc glared up at him. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “There’s no such thing,” he hissed.
Brond took his foot from Hafoc’s arm. He bent down and, grabbing the front of Hafoc’s tunic with both hands, he shook his brother. Brond’s face was a mask of cold fury. “You fool,” he spat. “They’d take you without a thought. They’d rip out your heart with their bare hands.”
Hafoc blinked rapidly. He couldn’t help but picture the Wandrian: a savage people who killed men, women and children without mercy and ate their victims’ flesh to steal away their spirits. The Wandrian crept silently through the forest, their skin covered with strange patterns to help them blend into the shadows. They had stalked Hafoc’s dreams since he’d been old enough to sit and listen to tales at the fireside.
“And you say there’s no such thing,” Brond sneered. “You. A man who gives up a trail because he’s afraid of the dark. You’re no better than a child.”
“No,” Hafoc shouted. “I was not afraid. It was too dark to track anything.” He put his hands on Brond’s arms and tried to push himself away but it was useless.
“Afraid,” Brond spat. “Afraid of the spirits. Afraid that the stories our mother told you will come true.”
Hafoc said nothing. He did not trust himself to speak. He screwed his eyes tight shut, and felt the hot tears of anger and frustration building up inside him.
“No,” he whispered. “Not afraid.”
“Brond!”
Brond looked up. On the other side of the fire, Sceldon was standing, his arms folded across his chest. “That’s enough,” he said.
Brond hesitated, then, giving his brother a look of pure contempt, he let go of his tunic.
“Brond, if you’re so unafraid,” Sceldon said, “you’ll go into the forest to get more firewood.”
Brond snorted. “I fear nothing.” For a moment, he glared at Sceldon, but then he dropped his gaze. “I’ll get the wood.” He cast a glance at Hafoc then turned away and strode toward the edge of the clearing.
Hafoc sat up, rubbing his shoulder. He was sick of being treated like this. Who did Brond think he was? He wasn’t his father. He’d never take their father’s place. Brond was nothing more than a bully. Hafoc shook his head in frustration. And a malicious thought came into his head. “Brond,” he called. “You forgot your talisman.”
“What?” Brond spun on his heel, clutching at his chest, his eyes wide in horror.
Hafoc laughed. It was a childish trick but Brond was stupid enough to be taken in by it. “My mistake,” he said. “It looks like you’ve got it after all.”
Brond growled, his hand going slowly toward the flint knife at his belt.
Hafoc didn’t see Sceldon moving toward him, but suddenly the older man stood above him. Sceldon grabbed Hafoc’s tunic with both hands and hoisted him to his feet. Hafoc twisted his face away, preparing himself.
Sceldon’s voice was a low growl. “When will you learn? In our tribe, we show respect for our elders.”
Hafoc closed his eyes. He’d gone too far and now he’d pay for it. He sniffed, tried to stop his bottom lip from trembling.
“Ha,” Brond said. “Look at him—snivelling. Don’t waste your time, Sceldon. I’ll deal with him later. For now, I’ll go and get the wood.”
“Yes,” Sceldon said. He let go of Hafoc’s tunic and took a step back.
Hafoc opened his eyes and gave Sceldon a guarded look. Was that it? Had he been punished enough? Sceldon smiled. Hafoc smiled back. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”
Sceldon shook his head. “Yes you did.” Sceldon’s smile vanished, replaced with a mask of stony condemnation. Slowly, he raised a fist in front of Hafoc’s face. “And that is why you must be punished.”
Hafoc wanted to run. He wanted to hide. But that wasn’t their way. He took a breath and looked Sceldon in the eye as steadily as he could. The blow to the side of his face was powerful enough to knock him off his feet. He sat down heavily on his backside, his ears ringing. His hand went to his jaw.
“Let this be a lesson to you, Hafoc,” Sceldon said.
Hafoc nodded sadly. He ran his tongue around his mouth and tasted blood.
Sceldon turned and walked back to his place by the fire. “Now eat,” he said as he sat down. “And in the morning, you’ll be the first out of camp and you’ll fetch water for the whole tribe.”
Hafoc stood up and shuffled over to the fire, thinking how long it would take him to fill everyone’s flasks in the morning. Still, it could be worse. He’d seen Sceldon dole out much harsher punishments. The tribe had watched all this with interest, but now it was forgotten as they returned to the more important business of eating. No one took any notice of Hafoc as he sat down by the fire. He rubbed his jaw. It would be tender for a while, but it wouldn’t stop him
from eating. Sceldon had judged the blow well. A year ago, Sceldon would’ve hit him only with the flat of his hand. Hafoc longed to be treated as a man, but he hadn’t realised it would hurt so much.
He reached forward for a piece of meat from the deer carcass that lay on the ground by the fire. The meat smelled good. Of course, he’d missed all the best bits, but at least it was still warm. His stomach churned and his mouth watered as he tore a hunk of the dark flesh from the bones. But as he raised the meat to his open mouth, he froze.
A savage scream tore into the still night air, and every head in the tribe turned as one. Meat was dropped to the ground as swift hands reached for weapons. The dogs barked and snarled, their hackles raised. Men leaped to their feet, turning their heads to search the darkness for the threat. And many of the tribe cast anxious glances at Hafoc. Yes. The look in their eyes confirmed what Hafoc already knew. The scream they’d heard could only be from one person.
Brond.
Chapter 2
FOR A WHILE, ON THAT FIRST NIGHT ON THE HILLTOP, I just sat on the damp grass next to the black stone, hugging my knees to my chest, staring out into the darkness.
I wish I could tell you that a hundred thoughts and ideas were whirling around my head. I wish I could tell you that I was already coming up with a plan and springing into action. But the truth is, my mind was empty, my body drained. Whatever had happened to me on the stone, it had left me utterly exhausted. All I really knew was that I was alone. Lost. Disconnected.
Eventually, the first pale-grey shades of sunlight seeped into the sky and I took a few slow, steadying breaths and watched the sunrise. “That’s east,” I murmured. At last I’d found something I could cling on to, and it gave me some comfort.
Slowly, I pushed myself up to my feet and stood, half-heartedly stretching my back, rubbing my arms to get some life into my cramped muscles. The hilltop where I stood was the highest point for miles around and I looked out across the landscape, searching for a landmark, hoping to see something I could get a fix on. But there was nothing—just an endless forest stretching in every direction. I rubbed my hands across my face. This can’t be right. But I had to accept what I was seeing. It didn’t make any sense, but what could I do about it? “Think,” I whispered. “You’ve got to think of something.” I closed my eyes and a whirl of muddled memories and disjointed thoughts flooded through my mind: the glint of Robbo’s knife as he’d walked toward me; the tall fence that should’ve kept me out of the quarry; Matt’s frightened face as we’d cowered up on the ledge; the strange old man I’d imagined when I’d made contact with the stone slab.
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 1
