Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Ahead, the men’s voices stopped abruptly. They’d heard something. Hafoc hesitated. When they saw Nelda, would they guess he was following? Maybe not. Hafoc stood still and stared into the shadows. If this was a hunt, he’d know what to do. The tribe had signals, sounds they could make to keep in touch with each other. But this was different. Here, there could be any number of enemies. Here, the tribe were not the hunters, but the prey. Hafoc took a breath and dropped into a half crouch. He crept forward. For all he knew, the men ahead might already be training their arrows on him.

  A voice hissed in the darkness: “Hafoc.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s me, Hafoc.”

  “Come here. Stop making so much noise.”

  Hafoc stood tall. What noise? His face grew hot. He hadn’t made a sound. But this was not the time to argue. He walked forward as quietly as he could. And suddenly, there they were. The men stood in silence and watched him as he approached.

  Hafoc’s careful footsteps faltered. Even though he could only make out the men’s outlines, Hafoc knew they’d had no luck. There was no sign of Brond’s familiar shape among them. But even worse than that, the group were standing very still, as though they didn’t know what to do, as though they’d given up hope.

  A cold knot of fear tightened in Hafoc’s stomach. He took a breath. “Brond?”

  One of the men stepped forward. “No. No sign of Brond.”

  Hafoc recognised the man’s voice. It was Tostig, one of the best hunters in the tribe.

  “What do you mean, no sign?” Hafoc asked. “There has to be a trail.”

  Tostig stepped closer and put his hand on Hafoc’s shoulder. “Hafoc, Brond was here. We found the few pieces of firewood he’d gathered. But that’s all we’ve found. No trail. It’s too dark.”

  “But… he didn’t just disappear,” Hafoc said. “We’ve got to do something.”

  Tostig tightened his grip on Hafoc’s shoulder. “Yes. We’ve got to go back to the tribe and tell Sceldon.”

  Hafoc pushed Tostig’s hand from his shoulder. “That will take too long. We can’t—”

  But Tostig didn’t let him finish. “We tell Sceldon,” he snapped, “and that’s an end to it.” He pushed past Hafoc and strode away. The other men fell in behind him and Hafoc was left standing in the darkness. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. This could not be happening. People did not just vanish into the air. But he was on his own. What could he do? A roar of frustration rose in his throat but he stifled it, swallowed it down. He had to go back to the tribe. He needed to convince Sceldon to send a search party. But we have to start now, he thought. If we wait until morning it will be too late to save him.

  He took his hands away from his face and stood up straight. He must hurry. If Tostig beat him back to the tribe, he’d probably tell Sceldon there was nothing to be done. Hafoc turned back toward the camp, and as he hurried to catch up with the other men, once again he heard the sound of paws trotting quietly along behind him. He smiled grimly. If nothing else, at least Nelda would be on his side.

  Hafoc stepped out into the clearing and marched into the camp. Already, a knot of men stood around Sceldon, their faces grim, their arms folded across their chests. It doesn’t look good, Hafoc thought. But they must listen to me. He strode toward the group. “Quick,” he called. “We’ve got to get going. We’ve got to find Brond—get him back.”

  Sceldon and Tostig turned to face him, but the other men looked away or at the ground. Sceldon beckoned for him to join them. “Hafoc, Brond is your kin, so you must help us decide.”

  Hafoc stopped in front of the group. Was Sceldon just saying that, or were they really going to listen to him? “There’s nothing to decide. We need to find Brond. We need to help him.”

  “And if someone has taken him?” Tostig asked. “If the Wandrian have captured him, what then? Do we all just walk into their trap?”

  I knew it, Hafoc thought. I knew they wouldn’t care what I think. He furrowed his brow. He wouldn’t let them treat him like a child—he’d make them listen. “We don’t know that it was the Wandrian,” he said. “We don’t know what’s happened to Brond. That’s what we need to find out.”

  Another of the men, Sceort, stepped forward. “Brond is a strong fighter, but he did not call out a proper warning to the tribe,” he said. “He must have been taken quickly and that means he was attacked by more than one man—perhaps by a whole raiding party.”

  Hafoc formed his hands into fists and tried to control his temper. “If there’d been a lot of men, they’d have left a trail. You’d have seen it.”

  “The Wandrian don’t leave a trail,” Tostig said. The other men nodded at this.

  Hafoc snorted in disbelief. “If it was the Wandrian, then why didn’t they attack the camp? Why didn’t we see or hear them?”

  Tostig raised his voice. “You know nothing,” he spat. “The Wandrian attack only when they can win. They take those who are foolish enough to hunt alone—which you have done today. It is you who has led them to our camp.”

  Hafoc stared at them, his eyes wide. Every face wore the same stern expression. They blame me, he thought. Every single one of them thinks I brought the Wandrian to our camp. “No,” he said. “You can’t think that. I walked in with Brond. With Nelda. She’d have smelled them, heard them. She would’ve warned us.”

  No one spoke. The men exchanged knowing looks; they would not be surprised if the Wandrian could not even be detected by dogs. Sceldon took a deep breath. “Enough,” he said. “Tostig, you found spilled blood? Any of you?”

  “A little,” Tostig said. “The dogs found it straight away.”

  “That means Brond was not attacked by an animal. More likely he was wounded by an arrow or a club,” Sceldon said.

  “That’s right,” Tostig said. A few of the other men grunted in agreement.

  “So Brond is still alive,” Sceldon said. “He was taken by a raiding party. Perhaps they were from the Wandrian, perhaps not.”

  Tostig opened his mouth to speak, but Sceldon held up a hand to silence him. “A raiding party may be just two men. If there had been a bigger group, they would have made more noise, left a bigger trail. Hafoc is right. A bigger party might even have attacked our camp.”

  Tostig shook his head but it looked as though Sceldon hadn’t finished speaking and Tostig knew better than to interrupt.

  “So, this is what we will do,” Sceldon continued. “We will send a small scouting party. They will go now and they will find the trail. When they find Brond, they will bring him back if they can. Otherwise, they will return to tell me what has happened.”

  “What?” Tostig spluttered. “We’ve lost one man already. Do we send more men to die?”

  Sceldon puffed out his chest and took a step toward Tostig. “We send the best hunters we have. We send men who have the courage to do what is right.”

  Tostig held his tongue. He looked at the ground, his eyes blazing with anger. The other men looked on, stony-faced. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

  Sceldon looked around the group, studying the men’s faces. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tostig didn’t give him the chance.

  “Three men should be enough,” Tostig said.

  All eyes turned to Tostig. What? Hafoc thought. First he’s against the plan and now he wants to take charge?

  Most of the men stood impassive but a few frowned or shook their heads in disbelief. Tostig ignored them. He stood tall and held his head high. “So I need two of you to come with me. Sceort? Flyta?”

  Sceort and Flyta looked at each other. “Of course,” Sceort said.

  Flyta shouldered his bow. “I’m ready.”

  “And me,” Hafoc said. “I’m ready too.”

  Tostig threw him a look of pure malice. “I said men,” he growled. “Not boys who are more trouble than they’re worth.” He took a step toward Hafoc.

  Hafoc stood his ground. “I was man enough not to be scared of you
r stories about the Wandrian,” he said.

  Tostig’s nostrils flared. His hand went to his knife.

  I’ve pushed him too far, Hafoc thought. But he couldn’t back down now. “Brond is my kin,” he said. “I have a right to know what’s happened—”

  “Tostig,” Sceldon interrupted. “You will lead the scouting party. Sceort, Flyta, you will go with him. Hafoc…” Sceldon paused and looked Hafoc in the eye, and then he spoke slowly, as if he was loath to let each word pass his lips. “You will go with them. But I expect you to do exactly what Tostig tells you. Do you understand?”

  Tostig set his lips in a firm line, but his nostrils flared and a flash of anger danced in his eyes.

  Hafoc nodded. “I won’t let you down, Sceldon.”

  Tostig took a deep breath. “Hafoc, you will stay at the back of the group. You will do exactly what you’re told—nothing less, nothing more.”

  “Yes, Tostig,” Hafoc said. “I understand.”

  “That’s good,” Sceldon added. “But, Hafoc, if you’re a danger to yourself or to the group, Tostig will tie you to a tree and leave you behind. He can collect you on the way back.”

  Tostig flashed Hafoc a cruel smile. “Good idea. Sceort, fetch a rope.”

  Hafoc studied their faces. If they were just teasing him, it didn’t show. I’ve got to stand up for myself now, or they’ll leave me behind as soon as they can. But if he argued with Sceldon, he’d just get himself into trouble. There had to be a way to make himself useful, to prove he was good enough to go with the scouting party. His mind raced. The older men were better hunters than him, but they were set in their ways. He was better than them at using his wits. But he had to come up with something quickly.

  Hafoc looked around the camp, and once more, Nelda’s restless pacing drew his attention. But this time, it gave him an idea. Yes. It would work. But he’d have to be careful how he explained it to the others. “Tostig,” he said, “do you think it would be a good idea to bring Nelda?”

  Tostig looked doubtful. “Why would I need a dog? This isn’t a deer hunt.”

  “I know that,” Hafoc said. “But she always seems to know where Brond is—maybe she could help us to find him.”

  Tostig shook his head. “A dog is just a dog,” he said. “She might know his voice but she doesn’t understand. She hasn’t the wit of a man.” He looked down at Nelda for a moment, then back at Hafoc. “Bring her anyway. She’ll warn us of danger.” He turned away. “Let’s get ready,” he said. “Gather everything you need but don’t bring too much. We’ll travel fast.”

  Hafoc smiled to himself. At least he listened to me. It was a start. But now he mustn’t make the others wait. He checked and adjusted his quiver, running his fingers over the shafts of his arrows and making sure the leather held them tight so they wouldn’t rattle against each other as he walked. Good. He had plenty of arrows. And his knife was secure in its sheath. He ran his hand over the soft deerskin pouch he wore at his waist, making sure he could feel the precious spare bowstring curled up within. He lifted his flask on the strap that ran diagonally across his body. It was half-empty, but it would have to do. I could do with a drink now, he thought. And then he realised something: I haven’t eaten since dawn. He turned to look for the rest of the scouting party. Tostig was talking to his wife and Flyta stood waiting nearby. But at least Sceort was nowhere to be seen yet. This is my only chance. Hafoc darted to the fireside and pulled a handful of meat from the carcass. He crammed the lukewarm meat into his mouth and chewed as fast as he could, while helping himself to another couple of handfuls. One was for him to eat as they set off, the other handful could be traded for a little loyalty.

  “Nelda,” he called. “Come here.”

  The dog padded toward him, eyeing the carcass by the fire warily. Going too close to tribe’s meat was a quick way to get a good beating. But Hafoc was leading her away from the fire and he was holding something out to her.

  “Come on, Nelda,” he coaxed. “Come to me.” Again he held the meat out. Nelda sidled up to him, sniffing the air. She licked her lips and nose. She was confused. This man was not her master, but the meat smelled very good. She watched him carefully, studied his face. And then, to her surprise, the boy threw the meat onto the ground in front of her. She snatched it up and swallowed it before any of the other dogs could see it.

  “Good girl, Nelda,” Hafoc said. “Come on. You might get some more.” He waved a second handful of meat and walked away. Nelda followed.

  As Hafoc walked toward Tostig, he put the second handful of meat into his mouth and chewed.

  “Are you ready?” Tostig said.

  Hafoc’s mouth was too full of meat to speak properly. He nodded and hoped he didn’t look too foolish.

  Tostig glared at him. “Do you want to stay here and eat with the other children?”

  Hafoc held Tostig’s hostile gaze. He was ready, wasn’t he? What did he have to do to get Tostig to take him seriously? He chewed furiously, and forced himself to swallow his food so he could explain himself. But he was still searching for something to say when Sceort marched up and stood at Tostig’s side. He looked Hafoc up and down and frowned.

  “Where have you been?” Hafoc asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

  Sceort gave him a cold look. “To get this, of course,” he said. “For you.” He held out his hand, and showed them a length of coiled rope.

  “Very good,” Tostig said. “Now we’re ready. Let’s go.” And he turned and led the way into the forest, with Sceort and Flyta close behind him.

  Hafoc took a last look at the camp and then he also turned away, walking quickly to catch up with the others. “Come on, Nelda,” he said. And Nelda pricked up her ears and followed the scouting party into the darkness.

  Chapter 6

  NO NEED TO PANIC, I told myself. I’d just lost my sense of direction for a moment, that was all. I needed to calm down and figure out what to do. But first, I needed to rest. My legs ached, my head was buzzing, and whenever I blinked it was a struggle to bring the forest back into focus. I ran my hands over my face and took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. There was a small patch of grass just ahead, and I walked over to it and sat down, resting my back against a tree trunk. The grass was damp and I could already feel the moisture seeping into the seat of my jeans, but that didn’t matter. The gentle coolness of the wet cloth against my skin was almost pleasant. I put my head back against the tree trunk’s rough bark and a wave of pure exhaustion surged over me, washing clean through the mess of my muddled mind. I let out a slow breath. I mustn’t fall asleep, I thought. Whatever happens, I mustn’t fall asleep. I closed my eyes.

  ***

  When I woke up, my throat burned with an aching thirst. I tried to swallow, but my tongue was thick and coarse. Oh man, how long have I been asleep? I coughed; a dry, hacking cough as though something was caught in my throat. I turned my head and tried to spit on the ground but nothing would come. My mouth was too dry.

  “Oh god,” I moaned. Or tried to. My voice was scratchy and distant. I swallowed again and this time it was a little easier. I staggered to my feet and the blood rushed to my head as I stood. For a moment, the world seemed to shift and blur. My legs were weak and unsteady. I pressed one hand against the tree for support and with the other, I rubbed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. This must be what a hangover feels like, I thought. I allowed myself a wry smile. I’d tried lager and I hadn’t really liked it, but right now, the thought of a cold glass of golden beer seemed pretty good. Maybe I’d give it another go—if I ever got out of this damned forest. I shook my head. Of course I was going to get out of there. “I’ve just got to figure it out,” I muttered.

  I kept my hand on the tree trunk, to steady myself, and peered out into the trees. Keeping one hand on the tree, I walked all the way around its trunk, looking carefully in every direction. But what was I searching for? Yes, I needed to find water. That was obvious. But what should I actually do? I’d already tried
heading vaguely downhill, but that hadn’t got me anywhere. I had no idea how to backtrack to the hill, and anyway, I knew for certain there was no water up there. For a moment, I remembered the dew I’d seen on the grass. Now, I’d happily lick every last drop, snails and all.

  I sighed and looked up to the dense tree canopy overhead. From the glimpses of sunlight, I could tell the sun had risen higher since I’d entered the forest. But that didn’t help much because I didn’t know what time it was. Surely, if I’d slept until it was past noon, the sun would already be heading toward the west. I rubbed my forehead, the grit and grime on my hand scratching against my sweat-damp skin. Maybe I should stay here, I thought. I could stay in the shade of the trees until it isn’t so hot outside the forest. I chewed my lip. Wasn’t that the sort of advice they gave on those survival shows—“stay put, conserve your strength”? But my parched throat and my tortured stomach said otherwise. I had to have water, and soon.

  I tried to judge the lie of the land. It still seemed like a good idea to head downhill if I could. The problem was, the ferns were so lush and tall, it was hard to decide which way to go. “I’ll just have to take a chance,” I said. I nodded to myself and chose a direction, then I picked up my backpack and set off, walking in as straight a line as I could, the ferns swishing and rustling against my legs as I went.

  At least I was doing something. At least I was getting somewhere. And that thought helped. For a while. But as I walked, my headache crept back and tightened like a metal band around my skull. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, hear the blood whistling in my ears. My legs were weak and wobbly, as though I’d run for miles. “Come on,” I croaked. “You’ve only been walking for a few minutes.” I staggered on, breathing hard through my mouth, feeling my throat grow drier with every breath. But I had to keep going. I had to. “One more step,” I whispered. “One more step,” over and over again, until I wasn’t even sure if I was still saying it out loud or just imagining the words. I probably shouldn’t talk anyway. I should’ve been breathing through my nose, trying to conserve moisture. One more step. Those words were my mantra. They were the only thing that stopped me from giving up, lying down, and closing my eyes. I was so focused on those words, so intent on putting one foot in front of the other, I almost didn’t notice the splash.