Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  The Renault driver looked up into his rear view mirror and started. He slowed down and Tom closed the distance between them. The man stared into his mirror and, in the reflection, Tom saw the man’s eyes widen. “Hello,” Tom said. “Surprised to see me?”

  The Renault driver broke his gaze and accelerated away. Tom put his foot down. In seconds, the Astra matched the Renault’s speed. Tom laughed. “You won’t get away in that old rust bucket.” As if he’d heard him, the Renault driver changed tactics. Without slowing down, the hatchback turned left suddenly, careening around the corner and into a housing development. The Renault leaned dangerously on its flabby suspension, its tyres screeching across the tarmac. Tom changed gear and followed, taking the corner perfectly. The Renault’s body rocked back and forth and the car veered across the road as the driver fought for control. Suddenly, and still travelling too fast, the old car took a sharp right turn, its back end swinging wide as its worn tyres lost their grip on the road. Tom shook his head. What did this guy think he was doing? Tom checked the traffic and followed, cruising smoothly through the turn. The Renault straightened up and accelerated away, speeding through the empty street. It’s a good job the kids are all in school, Tom thought. Still, if someone stepped into the road, the battered Renault would never stop in time. Tom slowed a little. If he gave the man some space, he might not be panicked into doing something stupid. At first, it seemed to work. The Renault slowed, but then the driver did something so bizarre, that Tom braked and pulled over to park at the kerb.

  Beside the road, two concrete posts marked the entrance to a narrow track. It was clearly not meant for anything much wider than a wheelbarrow, but the Renault drove through. Its left wing mirror clipped a concrete post and the glass shattered with a sharp crack. The driver pressed on and the whole mirror was wrenched from the car’s body and left dangling from its wires. The driver overcorrected, and Tom winced as the Renault scraped against the opposite post. A long, juddering screech rang out as concrete bit into metal.

  He must be out of his mind, Tom thought. That’s just a track. A dead end. Tom ran a hand over his chin. What was going on here? The man knew he was being followed, so why would he let himself be cornered like this? Perhaps he figured he could escape because Tom wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk his car through the narrow gateposts. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek. On the other hand, maybe the man wanted to force Tom to follow on foot. Yes. That made more sense. It would make Tom vulnerable, while the middle-aged man would feel safe inside his car.

  Tom eyed up the narrow entrance. The gravel track led to the back of the playing fields. It had been a road once, but the council had torn up the tarmac and now it was just a cycle path, mainly used by people going to play football. If he took it slowly, he could probably get his Astra between the posts—just. But was it worth the risk? Or should he just give up and go home? After all, he had chased the man away. That should be enough. But then he remembered the night before: the way his baseball bat had crashed down onto the Renault, denting the metal, and terrifying the driver. If that didn’t work, then what will? He shook his head slowly. It was time to teach this weirdo a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

  All he had to do was take off his handbrake and drive slowly through those gateposts. He had the man exactly where he wanted him—cornered, alone and out of sight. Perfect.

  But Tom hesitated. This was one of those turning points he taught the lads at work about. The moment he drove onto that track, he’d be committing himself to a conflict. And then, whatever happened, whatever the other man did, Tom would have to react. He’d have to see it through. He’d have no choice.

  Tom gripped the steering wheel with both hands and tried to think straight. One, two, three. He watched his knuckles turn white, the tendons straining against the skin on the back of his hands as he flexed his fingers against the steering wheel’s cushioned surface. Four, five, six. He stared down at the Astra’s dashboard, scanning the gleaming dials for traces of dust, though of course there were none. Just last week he’d given the dash a thorough clean, trying out a new brand of polish, and he could still detect that new car smell. Sure, the Astra had more miles on the clock than he cared to admit, but it was the best he could afford. The payments stretched his budget to the limit, and now, with his problems at work, he was in real danger of losing his job. Tom closed his eyes for a moment. If he lost his job, he wouldn’t just lose the car, he’d lose everything. And that’s when it hit him.

  His eyes flew open.

  “It was you,” he hissed under his breath. He remembered how the man had been lurking in the car park at work. Tom had known he was being watched. He recalled the guilty start the man had given when he’d realised he’d been spotted. It all tied in together. “You sent that letter,” Tom whispered. “You followed me home, you called my phone, you kept me up half the night.” Tom pounded the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. And now, when he spoke, his voice was hoarse with anger. “You broke into my house,” he said. “It was you. You sent that bloody letter. You got me suspended. You’re trying to get me sacked.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at the gateposts. His blood hissed in his ears, filling his mind with white noise. “You,” he whispered.

  Tom kept his eyes on the concrete gateposts as he reached down and put the car into gear. Slowly, he pushed the handbrake to the floor and released the clutch. He eased the Astra across the road, swinging it out in a wide turn to line the wheels up with the narrow entrance.

  And as Tom drove forward, the gravel on the track crunched and popped beneath his tyres.

  Chapter 17

  3650 BC

  I SAT ON THE GRASS and stared at the ground, a single question running through my mind over and over again: Why did I have to find that damned knife? I had no idea who these lunatics were, but now they thought I’d trespassed on their land, barged into their campsite, messed with their campfire and stolen their phony flint knife. I put my head in my hands and ran my fingertips around my bruised eye. The skin was tender, swollen.

  “Flint knife,” I grumbled. “Who the hell has a flint knife?”

  I closed my eyes. Think, I told myself. But my head was spinning. A cold shiver ran through me and sweat prickled my forehead. “I’ve had enough of this,” I muttered. “I just want to go home.”

  But what could I do? These men weren’t going to help me, and they clearly weren’t going to just let me go. I couldn’t reason with them because, as far as I could tell, they couldn’t understand a word I said. So I’d have to get away from them. I’d have to escape. But how?

  I opened my eyes and looked over at the men. The adults were muttering among themselves while the teenage boy was busy pulling wood off the fire. The smoke caught in my throat and I coughed, but no one so much as glanced in my direction. They were too busy talking to pay me much attention. It sounded like they were having a disagreement. Perhaps this was my chance to slip away. I looked across the clearing. My bag was too close to the men—I’d have to leave it behind. It was a shame, but I needed as much of a head start as I could get. These men weren’t big, but they were lean and strong. And they were very fast on their feet.

  As I watched, the men raised their voices in anger. That’s it, I thought. Just keep arguing. Slowly, carefully, I shuffled my bottom along the ground, moving myself a tiny bit closer to the edge of the clearing. No one noticed. I kept my eyes on the men and shuffled along a little farther. One of the men glanced at me and I froze. I bit my bottom lip and stared at the ground. Please don’t let them notice. Please. But there was no break in their argument, no change in their tone. I risked a quick look from the corner of my eye. They were still squabbling among themselves. And now the teenager was getting involved, too. Great. As long as they were wrapped up in their argument, I could get farther away from them.

  I shuffled a little farther. At this rate, I’d soon be at the edge of the clearing. If I picked the right moment, I could get to my feet and duck into the forest. All I need
ed was a few minutes more.

  “Hafoc,” Tostig said, “pull that damp wood off the fire.”

  Hafoc nodded once, then bent to his task. He started with the largest of the smouldering branches, grabbing it with both hands and dragging it onto the grass. The wood was hot in his hands, but he held on. He beat the charred wood against the ground until the glow of the embers faded and died. He moved back to the fire and grabbed two smaller branches, one in each hand. He laid the branches on the grass and stamped on them to extinguish the meagre flames. Smoke curled around his face and stung his eyes. Hafoc blinked and carried on with his task as quickly and quietly as he could. He needed to hear what the older men were saying, but they were speaking in hushed tones.

  “What are we waiting for?” Sceort said. “We kill him now and be on our way.”

  “Sceort is right,” Flyta said. “We’ve found Brond’s knife. We’re finally on the right trail. We should get moving.”

  “I don’t know,” Tostig said. “I’m not sure.” He paused and looked over to where the stranger was sitting on the ground. He looked miserable, defeated. “Something’s not right.”

  Sceort followed Tostig’s gaze. He shuddered. “Yes. The Wandrian are evil. You can feel it.”

  Tostig looked Sceort in the eye. “And you’re sure of that? You’re sure he’s Wandrian?”

  Sceort snorted. “What else could he be?” He pulled a face. “Ugh! He makes me feel sick.”

  Tostig glanced back at the stranger. The man was staring at the ground, his face pale and drawn. He was a poor excuse for a man. Could he really be one of the feared Wandrian? Tostig frowned and turned back to the men. “Flyta, do you think he is Wandrian?”

  Flyta glanced at Sceort. “Yes, I do.”

  Tostig ran a hand over his face. “The Wandrian are strong and stealthy. This man is weak and clumsy—worse than a child.”

  Sceort shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what such creatures do? They’re not like us.”

  “True,” Tostig said, “but we all know that the Wandrian have strange markings across their faces—dark lines to help them hide among the shadows.”

  Sceort grunted. “Tales. Stories told by old men to frighten the children and keep them quiet.”

  Tostig stared at Sceort. “Men who do not learn from their elders, do not live long enough to join them.”

  Sceort scowled and held Tostig’s stare. He opened his mouth to speak but Flyta cut in.

  “I don’t think it matters,” he said. “Wandrian or not—whatever he is, he’s holding us up. I agree with Sceort. We kill him and move on.”

  Tostig looked from one man to the other. Both their faces were set, determined. Perhaps they were right. Tostig looked down at the ground, thinking. The stranger did have Brond’s knife and Brond would not have given it up without a fight. But how could this pale weakling have fought Brond and won?

  “What have you decided?” Hafoc said.

  The three men turned as one. Tostig raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t heard Hafoc approaching. Good—the young man was learning.

  “Well?” Hafoc asked. “Is he Wandrian or not?”

  Tostig hesitated. “We can’t be sure.”

  Hafoc looked from one man to the other. Their eyes were clouded with doubt. For a moment, their uncertainty made him uncomfortable, but then he realised something he should’ve guessed long ago. They don’t know what they’re talking about. They’ve never even seen the Wandrian! He sighed. So much for trusting your elders and betters, he thought bitterly. They’re full of nothing but brave words. Now they were faced with something they didn’t understand, all their bold words meant nothing. They’re just as confused as I am. Hafoc chewed his bottom lip. Tostig was still their leader and this was not the time to challenge him. He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. “Do you think…do you think he killed Brond?”

  Sceort let out a derisive laugh. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Hafoc looked at Sceort. “All right. I will.” He held out his hand toward Tostig. “Give me the knife.”

  Tostig hesitated. He’d half a mind to slap Hafoc down, but there was something in the young man’s voice, a hint of strength and determination that made him listen. Tostig reached into his pouch and pulled out Brond’s knife. He offered the handle to Hafoc. “You should have this anyway.” He glared at Sceort, defying him to argue. “Brond would want his brother to have his knife.”

  Slowly, Hafoc took the knife from Tostig’s hand. “I’ll look after it. But only until we find Brond.”

  Tostig nodded solemnly.

  Hafoc turned away from them and walked toward the stranger. The man raised his head, his pale face almost white with fear, and his eyes flicked nervously from Hafoc to the other men and back. He watched Hafoc warily.

  Hafoc stopped one pace away from the man and said, “Stand up.” The man opened his mouth and mumbled something Hafoc couldn’t understand. Hafoc frowned and with an upward wave of his hands, gestured for the man to stand.

  The stranger nodded and, grimacing in pain, he struggled to his feet. He looked to Hafoc and shrugged his shoulders.

  Hafoc smiled to himself. The stranger had obeyed him. He held out Brond’s knife and opened his hand so the knife lay flat in his palm. He didn’t want the stranger to think he was being threatened—the man was scared enough already. “How did you get this?”

  The stranger held up his palms and shook his head. He started his strange bleating. It turned Hafoc’s stomach to hear it. He held up a hand to silence him, and again the man understood. For a moment, they stood in silence. Then slowly, the stranger reached out a hand and gestured toward the knife.

  Hafoc curled his fingers around the handle and snatched the knife away. “No,” he snapped. “It’s mine.” He glared at the stranger. I should have said “Brond’s”—I meant to say it. He shook his head. The stranger confused him. He’s disgusting. The way he moans and bleats, his strange clothes, his pale skin—everything about him is wrong. But at the same time, it was exciting, thrilling even, to stand so close to this strange man, to talk to him. It would make a fine tale. But what was the use if he couldn’t get through to him? How was this helping to find Brond?

  Hafoc started to turn away, but the stranger called something out to him. Hafoc paused and looked the man up and down. Now, the man seemed desperate. He waved his hands toward the knife and then toward himself.

  Hafoc nodded and watched.

  The stranger beckoned Hafoc and then he walked, uncertainly, across the clearing. Hafoc glanced back to the others. They were watching. Flyta had his bow in his hands, an arrow readied on the bowstring. Tostig gave a barely perceptible nod and Hafoc turned back to the stranger. Treading carefully, he followed in his footsteps.

  Now, the man was scanning the forest floor as though looking for something. Hafoc studied the ground. Perhaps there would be some sign, something that would show them where Brond had passed. But then the man stopped and raised a hand to his mouth as if surprised. Hafoc peered at the ground, but he could see nothing. What was the man doing? Hafoc tilted his head to one side and watched as the stranger bent down and seemed to pick something up from among the grass. Suddenly, the man stood up straight and turned his hand in front of his face, admiring what he’d found. Hafoc stepped forward, eager to see what it was. But he stopped cold and his mouth hung open when he saw the man’s hand was empty. It made no sense. Surely, some dark spirit had taken this man’s wits away. Hafoc stepped back. He squared his shoulders and held Brond’s knife in front of him. “Stay back,” he warned. “Keep away from me.”

  But the man smiled. He gestured toward his own empty hand, and then to the knife Hafoc held, and then to the ground.

  Suddenly, Hafoc understood. “You found it? You found Brond’s knife on the ground?”

  Again, the man indicated the knife and the forest floor, and Hafoc relaxed a little. He lowered Brond’s knife and, with his other hand, he gestured to the stranger to sit down. Hafoc backed awa
y, and the man sat down with a sigh and closed his eyes. He looked relieved. Perhaps he realised Hafoc had understood.

  Hafoc rejoined the others. He knew better than to brag, but he couldn’t help but grin. He’d discovered the truth while the older men had stood and argued. “He just found it on the ground. He doesn’t know anything about Brond. We should leave him here. We need to pick up Brond’s trail.”

  Sceort bristled. He held up his fist. “You don’t tell us what to do,” he snarled. “We cannot let him live.”

  Flyta stepped forward, but Tostig held up his hand for silence. “Sceort is right,” Tostig said. “If we leave him here alive, he’ll fetch his tribe. They may not be far away.”

  “What does it matter?” Hafoc said. “He may have lost his wits, but he’s not Wandrian. He’s not a threat.”

  Tostig shook his head. “He is cleverer than you realise. The smoke was a signal to his tribe.” He paused and looked around the group. “They must be on their way here.”

  Sceort, Flyta and Hafoc turned their heads, scanning the forest.

  “Then we should go now,” Hafoc said. He stepped back from the group, but the other men didn’t move. “What are you waiting for?”

  The older men eyed each other for a moment, and then Flyta spoke up. “If we leave him alive, he’ll tell his tribe about us. He’ll show them our path.”

  “This is their territory,” Sceort said. “They’ll waste no time in catching us. And then we’ll be outnumbered.”

  Hafoc stared at them in disbelief. “You don’t know that. He might be on his own, an outcast.”