Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  The man rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this.” He stepped forward, put his face close to Tom’s. “My son is dead. If he fell, it’s because you made him fall. You killed him.”

  “No,” Tom said. He took a step back. “No. You’re wrong.” He ran his hands through his hair. “You know what? You have no bloody idea what you’re talking about. You’re…you’re a bloody maniac, that’s what you are.”

  “How dare you? How dare you stand there and talk to me like that?”

  “How dare you?” Tom demanded. “You talk to me like I’m scum, but you! You stalked me, you broke into my house, you made me lose my job. For god’s sake, you crashed into my car—on purpose. You almost killed me. You’re more of a criminal than I ever was.”

  “That’s enough,” the man roared. He raised the baseball bat, pointed it at Tom’s face.

  “Or what?” Tom sneered. “Are you going to beat me with that thing?” He stepped closer to the man. “Is that what you’re going to do? Is it? Because then you really would be down on my level, wouldn’t you?”

  A rush of cold anger leeched the blood from the man’s face. He raised the bat to his shoulder, ready to lash out. “Shut up,” he snarled. “Do not say another word unless it’s to tell me what you did to my son.”

  “I am trying to tell you but you won’t bloody well listen, and I have just about had enough!” Suddenly, Tom stepped forward and grabbed hold of the baseball bat. In one motion, he wrenched it down, yanking it from the man’s fingers. The man lunged forward, but Tom was ready for him. With his right hand, he tossed the bat away across the ledge, and at the same time, he slammed the palm of his other hand against the man’s chest. It wasn’t hard enough to take the man off his feet, but it knocked the air from his lungs. Then, before the older man had a chance to recover, Tom grabbed the lapels of his coat with both hands and pulled him close.

  The man’s chest heaved as he gasped for breath. He glanced across the ledge, looking for the baseball bat, but it had rolled too far away. He stared into Tom’s eyes. Still gasping for air, he growled, “Get…your…hands…off me.”

  “Fine,” Tom said. He pushed the man away and stepped back. “But now, I’m going to tell you something. I’m going to tell you exactly what happened to your boy. Exactly. And you are going to shut up and listen. Do you understand?”

  The man’s only reply was to curl his lips in a sneer of disbelief.

  “Do you understand or not?”

  The man shook his head. “Just get on with it.”

  “All right.” Tom took a breath. “Like I said, he was standing right there, by the stone. I came toward him. When he backed away, the stone caught him in the back of the knees and he fell, backward.” Tom paused.

  I’ve never told this to anyone, and now, to do it here, where it happened—it’s too much. For four long years he’d tried so hard to hide from the memories, but now they found him, rushed in on him. He shook his head, but the images wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t let him be. It was as if he was back in that time, watching the boy stumble backward. “He couldn’t stop himself,” he went on. “He ended up laid on his back on the stone. He…he cried out when he fell.”

  “Oh my god,” the man whispered.

  Tom looked the man in the eye. “And then something…something happened.”

  “What? Did he bang his head? What?”

  Tom shook his head. He looked over at the stone, his eyes round with horror. “It was the block of stone. It did something. It sort of lit up. It was blue, like lightning.”

  The man frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The stone—it was glowing. It was unreal.”

  The man gave Tom a knowing look. “OK. What were you on?”

  Tom looked at him. He blinked. “Eh?”

  “What were you taking? Ecstasy? LSD? Something harder?”

  Tom sighed, exasperated. “Nothing. It wasn’t like that. I’m telling you, the stone just lit up.” The man opened his mouth to speak, but Tom didn’t give him the chance. “Do you want me to tell you what happened or not?”

  “Of course I do. But you can cut out all this flashing lights crap. I’m not stupid.”

  Tom looked back to the stone. “There was a sort of noise, like buzzing, like electric. But your boy, he didn’t scream or shout. He just lay there, like he was frozen.”

  “You mean he was stunned? Out cold?”

  If only, Tom thought. That would have been kinder, easier to understand. But the boy’s eyes had been wide open, filled with fear. “No. He was awake—he looked at me.” He took a breath. This is it—I’m finally going to tell someone. “And then, then…” He paused and tilted his head. What was that? He’d heard something. Something like a faint whisper carried on the wind. He raised his eyes and scanned the trees, then glanced out toward the empty pit, and as he turned his head, he heard it again. He tried to make out the words, but they whirled and echoed in his mind, blurred and fading, an insistent hiss. But somehow, he understood, and a single thought filled him with a cast iron certainty, as cold as death: Don’t breathe a word. He turned back to the man, but he couldn’t look him in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, and for a split second, he thought he’d do it anyway, and somehow force the reluctant words from his mouth. But it was no good. The whispers in the back of his mind grew louder, stronger. He stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped. He sniffed. “I can’t say it,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I don’t even believe it myself.”

  “It’s too late for that. I haven’t believed a single word you’ve said.”

  Tom raised his head and looked at the man. “That’s up to you. I’ve done my best. I’ve told you where I last saw him. I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “No. You’ve lied and tried to fob me off with a load of nonsense.”

  Tom shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I just can’t tell you what you want to know.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Tom looked the man in the eye. “I don’t know where your son is. I don’t know what happened.”

  “This is pointless. An insult to my intelligence.” The man bared his teeth, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m telling you for the last time—you’ve got to give me the truth. No more of these pathetic lies.”

  “I’m not lying. If I wanted to lie, I’d make up something better than that. I’d say he ran away or something. Why would I stand here and tell you I just don’t know?”

  “Because you’re a coward,” the man spat. “Because you don’t want to face up to what you’ve done.”

  “Now you listen to me,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice level. “I know what I did was wrong, believe you me. But I didn’t…I didn’t do what you think I did.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “And what’s that exactly? What do I think you did?”

  But Tom wasn’t going to play that game. “I’ve got nothing more to say.” He folded his arms. “I warned you. I told you this wouldn’t help.”

  “I should’ve known this would happen,” the man sneered. “If the police couldn’t get it out of you, why would you tell me?” He shook his head slowly. “I’m only his father for god’s sake, but that means nothing to you. Nothing.” He gave Tom a pitying look. “What do you care? When did you ever care about anybody? You’ve never done a single decent thing in your life.”

  Tom watched the fire fade from the man’s eyes and saw his shoulders slump. For the first time in this bloody mess, there was a spark of hope. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But I’ve done my part. You said you’d let me go.” He held his hand out. “Give me my phone.”

  The man stared at Tom’s outstretched hand. He sighed, and his hand went to the pocket in his jeans. But he hesitated with his hand in his pocket. His brow furrowed as if he was deep in thought, and then he muttered a single word: “No.”

  “Come on,” Tom said. “You’ve got to.”

  The man looked T
om in the eye. “I haven’t got to do anything,” he said. “I’m not like the police and social services—they have rules. But not me.” He gave Tom a grim smile. “I left that cosy world behind a long time ago, and somehow, I don’t think I can ever go back.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying, I can do anything I damned well like. I’m saying, this isn’t over. Not yet.”

  “No,” Tom said. “Give me my phone. You…you said you’d give me my phone.”

  “I can’t let you just walk away. I can’t let you win.”

  Tom put his hand up to his forehead and pressed his fingers hard against his temple. “But my head…I need help.”

  “I know. And I’ll be honest, you look like you’re in bad shape. I’d guess you’re in a lot of pain. And I don’t think you’re strong enough to make it out of here on your own.” He paused. “But even if you do somehow drag yourself back to the road, you probably won’t make it in time. And a head injury like that—it could be fatal.”

  Tom closed his eyes, and a rush of dizziness swept through him. “No,” he whispered. “Please. I need—”

  But the man didn’t let him finish. “You’ll get out of here when you tell me the truth,” he said. “And you will tell me truth. Every detail.” He paused. “You’ll tell me everything—even if it’s the last thing you ever do.”

  Chapter 28

  3650 BC

  HAFOC SQUATTED ON HIS HAUNCHES and watched the rest of the group as they made themselves comfortable and settled themselves in for the frustrating wait until dusk. The other men looked relaxed, ready to rest, but Hafoc had something on his mind—a question. He’d tried to forget about it, to push it from his thoughts, but it wouldn’t go away. Eventually, he just couldn’t keep it to himself. “What about the stranger?” He looked at Tostig, waiting for an answer.

  “What about him?” Sceort said.

  “You saw the way they dragged him away,” Hafoc said. “He’s not one of their tribe. When you…” He stopped to correct himself. “When we thought he was a Wandrian, we were wrong.”

  “That’s true,” Flyta said, slowly.

  “So what will they do with him?” Hafoc asked.

  “They’ll kill him,” Sceort said. “They’re savages. They’ll offer him to the evil spirits. Feed on his flesh. Who knows?”

  Hafoc hesitated. “Perhaps we should free him as well as Brond.”

  “Why should we?” Sceort spluttered.

  Flyta nodded. “The stranger does not belong to our tribe. He doesn’t look like he belongs to any tribe we know of.”

  “But we brought him here,” Hafoc said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Sceort sneered. “The Wandrian would’ve caught him sooner or later.”

  Hafoc felt the blood rush to his face. They’re just not listening to me. Why doesn’t Tostig say something? He studied their leader’s expression. Tostig was watching their argument, and listening with interest. Had he made his mind up already? “What do you think, Tostig?”

  Tostig considered for a moment. “We will fight to bring Brond home,” he said. He paused and looked at Hafoc. “If we can free the stranger as well, then we will.” Sceort opened his mouth to complain, but Tostig held up his hand to silence him. “The stranger is not one of us. We will not risk our lives for him.”

  “And if he gets in our way?” Sceort demanded. “What then?”

  “Then he will be our enemy, too,” Tostig said.

  Sceort grunted and seemed satisfied. “Perhaps he’ll be useful. If he starts running around, it will give the Wandrian someone else to chase.”

  I don’t know how many times I tried to hold back as they dragged me up the hill, but every time I attempted to slow them down, the men just snarled and pushed me forward. There was nothing I could do to resist. My whole body was drained, my mind numb. All I knew was that I didn’t want to get to the top, didn’t want to see the black stone again.

  I fixed my eyes on the brow of the hill. Any moment now. But each time I thought we were getting near, the horizon retreated and the cold knot of dread in the pit of my stomach drew tighter.

  We marched on. I strained my neck and tried to look back over my shoulder. The wounded man was still there and still out cold, his body hanging limp between his captors. Maybe he’d stay unconscious—it would be best for him if he did. I almost envied him. I had no idea what was going to happen to us, but it was going to be bad.

  I shuddered and turned my attention back to the hilltop. And there it was. The top edge of the black stone glittered in the low evening sunlight, and as we marched up the slope, the rest of the tall, dark column seemed to emerge from the hill. I kept my eyes on it. This was where my nightmare had begun. The black stone was somehow responsible for all the terrible things that had happened to me, and now it looked as though it would play some part in my death. I wasn’t sure which I feared the most; the stone that had brought me here, or the savage men who’d dragged me back.

  And then I knew the answer to that question. A shout went up and then another. Suddenly, there were more men, at least ten of them, running down the hill to meet us. They had the same dark, swirling lines across their faces, the same wild, matted hair. They whooped and shouted and waved their arms in the air as they ran toward us. The men at my side answered their guttural cries with barks of harsh laughter.

  Soon, we were surrounded by an excited mass of men, jabbering and cackling as we made our way to the very top of the hill. We stopped a little way from the stone and they threw me down to the ground. With my hands tied, I landed heavily and it knocked the breath from me. I groaned and rolled over. They threw the wounded man down next to me, and he gasped in pain. His eyes flew open and he thrashed his head from side to side, his eyes rolling in terror. He looked at me and said something, but I couldn’t understand him. I shook my head, looked at the ground. There was nothing I could say to him. Nothing I could do to reassure him. I couldn’t even offer him a smile. It was too late for that.

  The men crowded around us, gabbling and jeering. Bony fingers plucked at my clothes, poked at me. They tugged my hair, groped at my face. I closed my eyes tight, squeezed out a hot tear. And then someone grabbed me by my arms and pulled me up into a sitting position. I opened my eyes and there he was, his face close to mine, his eyes staring directly into mine. He’s the one who caught me, I thought, but I couldn’t be sure. Their faces were so heavily marked with black lines it was hard to tell them apart, but this man had something about him; a manic light danced in his glittering eyes. His lips were pulled back in a snarling, savage smile.

  He shouted something. Flecks of spit landed on my cheeks. I grimaced and tried to pull away from him, but it was useless. His fingers clamped tightly onto my arms. I opened my mouth to say something, but suddenly he let me go and I just managed to save myself from falling back. I sat still and fought for breath, but my chest was too tight, my throat too dry. I stared at my tormentor, but he’d already moved on to the wounded man, rolling him over and dragging him up so that he sat next to me. The wounded man cried out and his eyes rolled upward, showing the whites of his eyes. The poor man had suffered more than he could stand and now he was passing out. But the savage wasn’t satisfied. He snarled and pulled a knife from his belt. The jagged edges of the crude flint knife caught the light as he twisted it in the air, inches from his victim’s face; its blade would slice through flesh easily enough.

  The savage grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and yanked it cruelly back. The wounded man gagged and gasped for air, but the savage smirked and put his knife against the man’s throat, sliding the smooth flat of the blade across the man’s skin, enjoying himself.

  I shuddered. I couldn’t just sit there and let this man be murdered in front of my eyes, but what could I do? I opened my mouth to shout out, but my throat tightened and my tongue was heavy in my mouth. A pressure built up in the pit of my stomach; a scream writhed in my chest. But I couldn’t let it out. I was too
scared of what might happen to me if I so much as moved a muscle, too terrified to make a sound. I could only watch. In silence.

  Morven stood apart, his arms folded, and watched as his men surrounded the raiding party and their prisoners. Slowly, he drew his axe from the leather strap around his waist, and strode forward. He’d seen enough. The returning men had not presented their prisoners to him. They had not shown him the correct respect. Now, he’d have to teach them a lesson.

  Morven shouldered his way through the crowd, pushing his men aside. He was only just in time. Already, Kaine had his knife at a prisoner’s throat. Morven sighed and let his axe slide to the ground. Then, with his left hand, he grabbed hold of Kaine’s arm and yanked it back, taking the knife away from the prisoner’s throat. He followed up with a punch, slamming his right fist into Kaine’s ear.

  Kaine spun on his heels and thrust his knife toward his attacker, not seeing, not caring who it was. But Morven was too fast for him. He sidestepped Kaine’s clumsy attack and lunged forward, taking hold of Kaine’s knife arm in an unbreakable grip. With his free hand, he drove his fist hard into Kaine’s face, once, twice. Kaine shook his head, dazed, and Morven suddenly released the younger man’s arm and pushed him hard in the chest with both hands. Kaine staggered backward but saved himself from stumbling to the ground.

  The rest of the men stood back, forming a rough circle around the two men and the prisoners. They looked on, their faces impassive, though their hands were now resting on the axes they wore at their waists.

  Morven stood tall, his hands at his side. “Kaine, have you forgotten what to do when you bring prisoners?”

  Kaine spat blood onto the ground, then pulled himself up to his full height. “I know what to do with prisoners,” he snarled. “I know exactly what to do with them.” He held up his knife and sliced the air with it.

  Morven shook his head. “Where is your respect?”

  “I give my respect to those who deserve it,” Kaine snapped.

  There were mutters among the men watching. Kaine was going too far. But Morven showed no emotion. “No, Kaine, you have not shown respect. I am the leader of this tribe. You bring all prisoners to me.”