Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Peterson tilted his head, listening. Yes. That sound was the distant thud of boots echoing along the tunnel. He used his flashlight to check his watch. Good. The clean-up crew were on time. Soon they’d carry Crawford out of the tunnels and remove any traces of incriminating evidence. The metal gate would be replaced and welded shut. I’ll stay and keep my eye on them, Peterson decided. This job had to be done right. Only then could he finally return to London.

  And after that—what then? Paperwork, he thought bitterly. Reams and reams of bloody paperwork. He allowed himself a small sigh. It was the lad he felt sorry for—Andrew. There was no way he’d escape without some sort of punishment, even though it looked like he was innocent. He’d been dragged into some sort of bizarre mission that Crawford had dreamed up out of nowhere. Peterson glanced down at Crawford’s face. “Stupid man,” he muttered. No one could go around setting up operations just because they felt like it. There were procedures, a chain of command, rules to follow, orders to obey.

  There’s never any shortage of orders. He set his mouth in a grim line. It was time to act on his latest instructions. He took the black canvas hood and plastic zip ties from his pocket. In a few minutes, Crawford would be out of the tunnels, but it would be a long time before the man saw daylight again. A very long time indeed.

  Chapter 43

  3650 BC

  SOMEONE CALLS MY NAME. And something tugs at me; sends me tumbling through the dark. This is the end. I’ll fall forever, the bitter cold eating into my bones, until my body crumbles away to dust and scatters into the emptiness.

  Morven stood still, hidden from view by the black stone, and watched the four men stalk onto the hilltop, their bows held ready. Only four! Yet they’d murdered his warriors—all the young men from his tribe were gone. He was alone, and it would be hard to fight all four of these men at once. Morven took a step back from the stone in case he could be seen by its blue glow. His only chance would be to take the men by surprise, one at a time. He looked back at the black stone. Was he imagining it, or had the blue lights dimmed? Yes. They were slowly fading away, but he could still see the outline of the boy. It hasn’t worked. Why? Morven shook his head. He had no idea what had gone wrong, and now it was almost certainly too late, but he had to do something, he had to try. Slowly, he edged as near to the black stone as he dare. If the men saw him now, he’d be dead in a heartbeat, and then he could not protect the boy. He took hold of his black talisman and held it out toward the stone, closing his eyes, willing the stone to take the boy back. He focused all his thoughts, picturing the moment when the boy would leave this place, this time, forever.

  And at that moment, without warning, the buzzing stopped. The sudden silence rang in Morven’s ears, and even with his eyes closed he could tell that the blue lights had gone out. He groaned under his breath and opened his eyes, dreading what he might see, fearing for both their lives if the boy was still standing against the stone. But no. The boy had gone. Vanished. Morven crept forward and peered around the edge of the stone, just to be sure.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of the boy. Morven looked back across the hilltop. The men were close now. He ducked back behind the black stone and made his decision, then he turned away and ran down the hillside, slipping silently into the night.

  Hafoc ran toward the hilltop, calling Brond’s name. Now that the confusion of the battle was over, he’d expected to find his brother quickly, and his disappointment was hard to bear. But there was still hope. The top of the hill was not flat; there were dips and mounds that could easily hide a man if he lay down. And then, farther away across the hilltop, there was the huge slab of rock that towered above them; it was big enough to hide a handful of men. Hafoc eyed the rock warily. It gave off a strange light, like moonlight on water, and he’d swear it was making the hissing buzz that had allowed them to creep up the hill unheard. He frowned. A rock could not make a sound, but then, who knew what demons the Wandrian could summon from the darkness?

  “Hafoc, wait!”

  He turned and watched as Tostig hurried to join him. “I’ve got to find Brond,” Hafoc said.

  “Yes,” Tostig said. “But we go carefully and together. There may be Wandrian lying in wait.”

  “You’re right. But we must find Brond soon or all this will have been for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing. We have sent many Wandrian to their deaths. It will be a long time before they dare to set foot in our forest again.”

  Hafoc nodded. He looked across the hilltop. Sceort and Flyta were stalking toward them, their bows still held ready. As Hafoc watched, a wounded man grunted and lurched to his feet, rearing up behind Flyta, an axe in his hand. But before Hafoc could call out a warning, Flyta wheeled around and loosed an arrow. It thudded into the man’s chest with enough force to send him sprawling onto his back. Flyta drew another arrow and moved on.

  Tostig glanced at Hafoc. “Sometimes, a wounded man can have the strength of ten.”

  Hafoc snorted at his own foolishness. Stupid! Sceort and Flyta had been saved by their caution, but he’d dashed onto open ground, risking his own life and leaving Tostig vulnerable. But he couldn’t stand here and be scolded. He had to find Brond. He could not wait.

  Tostig took a long, slow breath then gave Hafoc a nod. “Come on then, but be ready.”

  The older man led the way and Hafoc followed, but this time he scanned the hilltop as they moved, and he held an arrow against his bowstring. The eerie, flickering blue light cast fleeting shadows, turning every clump of grass into a prowling creature. Then suddenly, the light was gone, plunging them into a deeper darkness. The men stopped dead in their tracks. Hafoc turned and looked at the tall slab of rock. The stone was dark now—hardly visible against the night sky. The fierce buzzing had stopped, too. The only light came from the remains of the Wandrian’s fire. The cool night air was silent and still. Whatever evil spirit the Wandrian had summoned, it had died with them.

  Tostig waved them onward, but as Hafoc moved slowly forward, he heard a sound that sent a shudder down his spine. The men glanced at each other. They’d all heard it: a low, snarling growl echoing across the hilltop. Hafoc pulled his bowstring taut and heard Tostig do the same. He strained his eyes against the dark, hunting for a glimpse of movement. Where had the sound come from? He tilted his head to listen. There. The low, unearthly growl stirred the hairs on the back of Hafoc’s neck. He blinked. The arrow was ready to slip from his sweating fingers. What was that? Something rustled through the damp grass up ahead. The sound grew louder, closer. Hafoc was sure now—something was creeping toward him through the darkness.

  He swallowed and adjusted his aim.

  “Put your bows down.” The voice was loud in the still night air, though it was hoarse and strained.

  Hafoc could hardly believe his ears, but he’d know that voice anywhere. “Brond?”

  Brond sat on the ground and peered at the men stalking toward him, their outlines picked out by the dim glow from the Wandrian’s dwindling fire. Could that really be his little brother? He put his hands on the ground and tried to push himself up to his feet, but his arms shook and the pain took his breath away. “Put your bows down,” he called again. “Quick—before Nelda tears your throats out.”

  Hafoc lowered his bow. Yes. He’d finally found his brother. But his voice…it was weak, shaky. What have they done to you? Hafoc crept forward, and now he saw Nelda, her ears pricked forward, her muzzle twitching in a heartfelt threat. Hafoc hesitated then held out his fist. “It’s all right, Nelda. It’s me, Hafoc. It’s all right.”

  Nelda sniffed the air and growled. Yes, these were men she knew. But men had done this to her master, and the smell of men’s blood was in the air. The taste of it still lingered on her tongue.

  Brond took a breath. “Nelda, no,” he commanded. “Be still.”

  At last, Nelda stopped growling and backed away. She didn’t trust these men, but she’d leave them alone. For now.

  Haf
oc rushed to Brond’s side, and Tostig strode forward to join him. Brond could find no words to greet them. His voice deserted him. He could not even say their names. He just held up his hands to show them the rope at his wrist. Hafoc slung his bow over his shoulder, drew his knife, and began sawing at the rope.

  Tostig squatted down beside Brond and looked him in the eye. “We’re going home now,” he said. “We’re going home.” He kept his voice strong, reassuring, but he’d seen the wound on Brond’s chest. It looked like Brond might not see another sunrise.

  Sceort and Flyta joined them, lowering their weapons as Tostig rose to speak with them. The men exchanged grim looks then Tostig laid his hand on Flyta’s arm. “Bind his wounds,” he said. Brond deserved to have some dignity in death, and Flyta was skilled at tending to the wounded. On many a hunting trip, Flyta had made injured men well enough to make the journey home. Brond was strong. Perhaps, with luck, he’d live to see the forest again. It would be better to die among the spirits of the trees than to pass away on this bleak and tainted hilltop.

  Flyta pushed Hafoc gently aside and bent to his task. He worked in silence, taking dried moss and a soft leather strap from the pouch that he wore at his waist.

  Brond flinched as Flyta pressed the moss against his wound and wrapped the strap around his chest, but he didn’t say a word. He looked up at his brother, his fellow hunters. They came for me. They risked their lives to bring me home. He closed his eyes, and dreamed of sharing a hot meal around the campfire. Now, whenever the evening meal was finished, they’d have a new tale to tell. And Brond knew that he’d watch and listen, with great pride, as Hafoc told it. His little brother had earned that right.

  ***

  Later, when Morven came upon a river, he paused to take a drink. The water was cool and sweet, and when he’d drunk his fill, he splashed his face and pulled his wet fingers through his hair, cooling his scalp.

  He sat for a short while, gathering his strength, and thinking. The men who’d attacked his group would probably not pursue him, but if they did, crossing the river might throw them off his trail. He stood and set off along the river bank, looking for a safe place to cross. It was hard to judge the river’s depth in the darkness, but he could be patient. The sound of the water calmed him and he took deep breaths of cool air, enjoying the fresh scents of the riverside. But as he walked, the river widened and the current grew stronger. He paused and watched the water slide by. He should’ve walked upstream, but that path would’ve taken him toward Wandrian territory, and he wasn’t ready to rejoin his tribe. Not yet.

  He crouched at the riverbank and took another drink, although the water here was bitter and gritty with fine silt. He should’ve filled his flask at the last place he’d stopped. He laughed at his own stupidity. “You idiot,” he muttered, and with a start, he realised he’d spoken in English. He sighed. His life here was unravelling, coming apart at the seams. “What the hell am I doing here?” he whispered. But he knew the answer. He was doing the only thing he could: surviving from moment to moment, making the best of it. Here, it didn’t matter who he’d been in the past, or what he’d done. It only mattered that he had food in his belly, a fire to warm his bones, and a place to rest his head. Everything else, he could do without.

  He took a handful of water and splashed it onto his face, rubbing the gritty water into his skin with his fingers. The black lines on his face were stained deep into his skin. It would be many months before they faded, but it wouldn’t hurt to help them on their way. He’d been proud of his markings once, but not now. He wasn’t one of the Wandrian, not anymore. He stood and took hold of the braided leather strap that ran around his neck, and lifted it over his head. The talismans were heavy and his neck and shoulders felt strange without their weight. He hesitated. Should he keep the black talisman? Was there any chance, any hope that one day he’d use it to go back to his home? No. This is my life now. He stretched back his arm and hurled the necklace, talismans and all, out across the water to the middle of the river, where the dark water would be at its deepest. It sailed through the air, spinning gently as it tumbled, and then, with a gentle splash, it was gone.

  He stood a while, listening to the soft sounds of the river and thinking. Everything had changed, and at last, he could allow himself to remember his old life. “Tom,” he said. “My name is Tom.” Then he turned and looked along the riverbank. If he followed the river downstream for long enough, he’d end up at the coast. “I’ll see the sea,” he murmured. He’d always liked the idea of living by the sea. He took a deep breath of fresh, cool air and started walking.

  Chapter 44

  2018

  ANDREW STOOD BACK while Cally unlocked the door to her house. He looked down at his hands. “Well, I’d better be going then.”

  Cally opened her door and turned to him. She kept hold of the door’s handle. Andrew had been kind, but enough was enough. She was home now and all she wanted was to put this day behind her—if she could. “Yes. Thank you for the lift.”

  Andrew shook his head. “It was the least I could do.” He looked up into her blue eyes. “I’m sorry—for everything. It wasn’t meant to be like this.”

  Cally hesitated. He was saying sorry? Did he really think that would cover it? She should slam the door in his face. “Oh? How was it supposed to go? What were you meant to do with me?”

  Andrew held up his palms. “I was just supposed to follow you, that’s all. Someone else was going to…”

  Cally narrowed her eyes. “Do what?” she demanded. “Take me prisoner? Bundle me into the back of a car?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  Cally stepped inside, shutting the door behind her, but Andrew pushed his palm against the door and stopped it from closing. When Cally wrenched the door open again, he almost overbalanced.

  “Get your hands off my door,” she snapped. “Or I’ll call the police.”

  Andrew stepped back. “OK. But listen, I wasn’t going to let them do it. That’s why I wanted to get you away from the street. I was trying to keep you away from them. I was trying to keep you safe.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Cally said. “I can’t believe a word you say. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you people? I haven’t even done anything. I’m not a terrorist, or a criminal. I’m a student, for god’s sake.”

  “I know, I know. It must’ve been some weird conspiracy theory Crawford dreamed up. This was all his doing.”

  “So, you were what? Just following orders?”

  Andrew looked her in the eye. “If I’d followed my orders, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  The blood drained from Cally’s face. She daren’t think what might have happened to her in the hands of men like Crawford. Had Andrew really meant to save her from that fate? Or was this all just an act—part of some twisted game played out by anonymous men in grey suits? She stared at Andrew and finally saw him for what he was; a man who’d lied to her, taken advantage of her, even manipulated her. But she didn’t say a word. She just slammed the door as fast as she could and made sure it was locked. Then she ran upstairs to her room and closed that door behind her too. Only then did she feel safe.

  Outside, Andrew stepped away from her door and sighed. Of course, this situation could only have played out like this. He’d been a bloody fool to think there could ever have been any feeling between them. He certainly couldn’t blame her for being angry. He walked to his car, opened the door, and slid onto the luxurious driving seat. He closed the door, shutting himself away from the outside world, then he started the engine and drove away. It was a long drive back to London, and it would give him plenty of time to think. Which was just as well because, on Monday, he’d have a report to write, and he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

  In her room, Cally stood for a minute, staring at the wall. It’s over, she thought. I’ve got to put it behind me. But no matter what she told herself, she could not untangle the mess of disjointed thoughts milling around in her mind. Th
ere was no logical way to reorder the events so they made sense. “What a mess,” she murmured. “What a hopeless bloody mess.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She felt like packing a bag and heading for the train station. She hadn’t visited her parents for ages. They’d be pleased to see her, and a few days of home comforts would be wonderful—until the questions started. Her mother would know straightaway that something was wrong, and she wouldn’t rest until she’d heard the whole story. And then what? Her dad would be furious. They’d go to the police, they’d make a complaint about her tutor, and that would just be the start of it. No. Better to deal with this herself.

  Cally crossed the room and sat down at her desk. She opened her laptop and a few seconds later she had her dissertation open in front of her. As she scanned her carefully composed outline, she was tempted to select the whole document and hit delete. But that would be admitting defeat. That would be letting people like Seaton and Crawford ruin her life and that wasn’t going to happen. Not today, not ever. She raised her hands and massaged her eyes with her fingertips, thinking.

  From what Andrew had said, she didn’t think she’d be seeing Crawford again. But that left Doctor Seaton to deal with. There was no doubt he’d been in league with Crawford, so first thing on Monday, she’d request a new tutor. She’d do whatever it took to keep the old fool away from her. After that, all she had to do was find a new direction for her thesis. She didn’t know whether The Black Stone of Scaderstone had really been discredited, but it didn’t matter. Seaton would make sure that line of enquiry was worthless. And she had no desire to even think about the stone in Exeter. But there were a great many ancient sites around the world and a lot of them had inspired myths and legends of their own.