Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  She opened a browser and started to search. I’ll find something, she told herself. I always do.

  Chapter 45

  3650 BC

  HAFOC AND THE OTHERS waited for the sunrise before they made ready to leave the hill. They’d spent the night huddled around the remains of the Wandrian’s fire, though they hadn’t dared to build the fire up, for fear of being seen. Brond was the only one who’d slept. The rest of them had sat quietly, taking it in turns to scout around the hilltop. Nelda had lain at Brond’s side, her head resting on her front paws, her ears pricked forward.

  At dawn, Hafoc stood with the other men, but while everyone else stretched their backs and rubbed some life into their limbs, Hafoc simply stared into the distance. As he watched the first rays of pale sunlight creep across the countryside, the fierce spirit that had coursed through his veins and brought him this far, finally dwindled and died.

  Hafoc hadn’t asked the other men if Brond would live. The answer was obvious from their faces. As the men prepared themselves for the journey, they shared a little dried meat and drank some water from their flasks. Hafoc chewed his food in silence and vowed to himself that Brond would see the tribe again before he died. It would not be easy, but somehow, he’d take his brother home.

  Hafoc looked down at Brond just as his brother began to stir. Brond grunted and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Brond’s face was pale and pinched in pain. Still, he tried to give them a smile, and Hafoc felt a little hope. His brother was strong, and he’d been wounded before and lived to tell the tale. But when Tostig and Flyta hoisted Brond up onto his feet, Brond let out a deep, guttural moan and bared his teeth. His eyes rolled upward to show the whites.

  “Brond!” Hafoc cried, but his call came too late. Brond’s head lolled forward and his body slumped.

  Tostig and Flyta renewed their grip and took Brond’s weight. Hafoc stepped forward to help, but Sceort took his arm and held him back. “It’s all right, Hafoc,” he said. “They can carry him. And while your brother sleeps, he doesn’t feel his wounds.”

  Hafoc shook his head. “He’s my brother. I want to help him.”

  “We are all brothers now,” Sceort said. “And we’ll all take our turn to carry him home.”

  ***

  When they reached the clearing where they’d met the stranger, Hafoc and Tostig were taking their turn to carry Brond. Tostig glanced at Hafoc. The younger man’s head was bowed, his eyes dull. He hadn’t spoken for some time. Tostig scanned the clearing and sniffed. There was still a faint tang of wood smoke on the damp air, but everything looked just as they’d left it. “We rest here,” he said.

  “No,” Hafoc said. “I don’t need to stop.”

  Tostig grunted. “Well I do. We’ll move faster once we’ve rested.”

  Hafoc ground his teeth together. He thinks I’m not strong enough to go on. For Brond’s sake, it would be better if they kept moving, but what could he do? He couldn’t carry his brother on his own. He had no choice. “All right,” he said. “But just a short rest, and then we go on.”

  “Over here,” Tostig said, then together they laid Brond down on the ground as carefully as they could.

  Hafoc sat down on the grass, hugged his knees to his chest, and took a deep breath. The forest air was cool and the scent of damp earth raised his spirits. We’ve done it. We’ve brought him back into the forest. But it wasn’t over yet. They still had a long way to go. Hafoc stretched out his aching legs and rubbed his thighs. Tostig was right. A little rest and he’d be able to carry on. He looked at Brond. His brother’s chest rose and fell, but each laboured breath rattled somewhere deep in Brond’s chest. Hafoc winced at the sound of it.

  Still, at least Flyta’s binding had kept the chest wound closed; there was no fresh blood on Brond’s skin. But in the daylight, Brond’s other injuries were plain to see. His arms and legs were covered with livid welts and dark bruises. His brother must have fought hard against the Wandrian. They are worthless animals. Vermin. Hafoc’s lips twisted into a cruel sneer. Like vermin, the Wandrian had been slaughtered. Tostig and the others had said no words over the bodies of the dead Wandrian. They had taken no talismans to the crossing places by the water. The dead men’s spirits had been stained by evil and deserved no special attention. Let them rot.

  “Hafoc.”

  Hafoc blinked and looked across the clearing. Sceort was looking at him.

  “Are you all right, Hafoc?” Sceort asked. “Do you have food and water?”

  “Yes,” Hafoc said. “I think so.” He rummaged in his pouch. Tostig had given him a small strip of dried meat the night before, and he’d known better than to eat it all at once. The meat was good, and he chewed it slowly, savouring the smoky juices as they trickled across his tongue. He sighed and washed the meat down with a sip of water. His flask was almost empty, but between the four of them, they wouldn’t go thirsty.

  Hafoc pushed the stopper back into his flask and looked at Brond. Surely his brother would need a drink by now, but should he wake him? Hafoc thought of the pain he’d seen in his brother’s eyes when he was awake. No, it was best to spare him that.

  He turned his attention to Nelda. She’d followed them down the hill and into the forest, never straying far from Brond’s side. “And what about you? Don’t you want to go and find food and water?”

  Nelda raised her head and looked Hafoc in the eye. She knew some of those words and they made her mouth water. She whined and licked her lips, but she wouldn’t leave her master—not yet. She lowered her head and grumbled a little.

  “I suppose you’ll eat when you’re hungry,” Hafoc said. He stood up and extended his arms, flexing the muscles in his shoulders. The rest had done him good, but the damp ground had made his legs stiff, and he needed to get them moving again. He took a few steps, but then he saw something that made him stop. What’s that? A dark shape nestled in the grass at the edge of the clearing. Slowly, Hafoc walked toward it, glancing nervously at the surrounding trees. They were still in Wandrian territory and this could be something to do with them.

  Tostig jumped to his feet. “What is it, Hafoc? What have you seen?”

  “I don’t know,” Hafoc said. “There’s something here, in the grass.”

  Sceort and Flyta were on their feet now, their bows in their hands. Tostig strode to Hafoc’s side. “Show me.”

  Hafoc pointed. “There. It looks odd. Could it belong to the Wandrian?”

  Tostig strode forward and bent over to study this strange new find. He grunted. “No. Not the Wandrian.” Carefully, he picked the thing up and held it out to show them. “It belonged to the stranger.” He turned it over in his hands. It was heavy. “There’s something inside it.” He shook it, and something within it rattled. The noise was harsh and unsettling.

  “What is it?” Hafoc asked. “Is it a sort of pouch?”

  Tostig nodded slowly. “Yes. A pouch. That’s it.”

  He carried it over to Hafoc and offered it to him. “You found it—it’s yours.”

  Hafoc reached out to take the pouch, but when his fingers touched the material, he hesitated. It was made of something very smooth, something unnatural.

  “Don’t touch it,” Sceort said. “I don’t like the look of it.”

  Tostig snorted. “It’s safe, Hafoc. It’s just a pouch. Although I don’t know how to open it.”

  Hafoc closed his fingers on the pouch, and when Tostig let go of it he felt its weight. “It’s so heavy. What could be inside it?”

  “Something evil,” Sceort muttered.

  “Sceort, the stranger was not one of the Wandrian,” Hafoc said. “They must’ve killed him.”

  Sceort narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t see his body among the dead—did you?”

  For a moment, no one spoke, then Tostig broke the silence. “He will have taken his chance when we attacked. I’m sure he must’ve slipped away in the darkness.”

  Sceort shook his head. “I don’t care what you say. He wasn’
t one of us. This pouch could hold something dangerous.”

  “True,” Flyta said. “But if he went to the trouble of carrying something heavy, it might be precious—like axe heads.”

  Sceort raised his eyebrows. “Axe heads? That’s different.”

  “Just open it, Hafoc,” Tostig said. “Use your knife.”

  Hafoc nodded and took out his knife. He held the pouch in one hand, while with the other, he pressed the flint blade against the side of the pouch and sliced into it. The pouch was made of something strong, but Hafoc worked away with the blade until the pouch gaped open.

  The men stared at Hafoc, their eyes round with wonder. What would he find? What treasures would they see?

  Hafoc peered into the pouch. Dare he put his hand inside? There could be anything in there—anything at all. But he couldn’t just stand there with everybody watching. He had to find out what the stranger had left behind. Hafoc made a decision and turned the pouch upside down. Its contents fell heavily onto the ground with a dull thud, and when he saw what he’d discovered, Hafoc gasped.

  The weapons lay on the grass, glinting in the sunlight. Hafoc had never seen anything like them in his life. He squatted down and stared. The others bent over and peered over Hafoc’s shoulder.

  “That’s no axe head,” Sceort grumbled.

  “No,” Tostig said. “But they are weapons.”

  He’s right, Hafoc thought. That one has a wooden handle. He reached out and curled his fingers around the smooth wood. It fitted beautifully into his hand. He lifted the weapon and turned it in his hand. It was so heavy and so strong, and its heavy head caught the light and glinted brighter than polished jade ever could. He looked up at Tostig. “Who could make this?”

  Tostig shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s yours now. They’re both yours.”

  Hafoc picked up the other weapon. It was cold against his skin, colder than stone. The flat blade was not sharp, but it looked stronger than any flint. “Yes,” he said. “They are mine.”

  Chapter 46

  2014

  ALAN KNELT ON THE GROUND beside the stone slab and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He didn’t want to cry anymore, but he’d buried his sadness for far too long, and now the tears would not stop. I miss his smile. I miss the way his eyes lit up when he laughed. There were so many memories, and they raced through Alan’s mind: Jake’s first faltering steps, his first proper bike, his snowball fights, school plays and Christmas concerts. But worse, he glimpsed the memories he’d never have: the driving lessons he’d give his son, and the celebration they’d have when Jake passed his driving test; the bittersweet moment when his boy would leave home for college, and the warm pride he’d feel as he watched his son’s graduation ceremony; the strange mixture of emotions he’d feel when he realised his boy was now a man, and perhaps the lump he’d have in his throat as he raised a glass at his son’s wedding.

  All these things had been taken from him. And so much more. The dull ache of grief filled his body, squeezing out all that was warm and good, crushing the life from him. It blinded him to all but his blighted memories, deafened him to all but the heart wrenching moans of his sobs. The world was dead to him. Dead and cold and silent.

  Almost.

  The hissing buzz began quietly, but gradually grew louder, more insistent. It crept into Alan’s consciousness slowly, so that when he finally noticed it, he didn’t know when it had begun. He took his hands from his eyes and glared at the stone slab. It had made that noise when Tom had disappeared. What now? Was it going to do the same thing to him? Would he be obliterated, vaporised? I don’t care. I can’t go on. But some instinct made him stand up and step back from the stone slab. The buzzing droned on, throbbing, urgent. It echoed through the empty quarry. No. I don’t want to see it. I can’t watch.

  He had no energy left to deal with this. All he could think about was his boy, his poor lost boy. His desperate need consumed him. All he wanted was to see his son again, to hold him in his arms. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else would ever matter.

  But as Alan stared helplessly at the stone slab, a fleck of blue light arced across its surface, and he couldn’t help but gasp. What now? Is Tom about to reappear? Alan blinked away a tear, and as he watched, another blue light danced across the dark stone. And another. And then they came thick and fast, darting back and forth, blurring into one: a delicate web of pulsating light.

  Alan took another step back, but what was the use? He had no control over this. The stone slab had killed his son, it had killed Tom, and now it was going to kill him, too—whatever he did. It was almost as if the threat was whispered into his ear. The stone was cold as death, it told him, and heartless. It was too complex to be understood by mere men, too powerful to tolerate their interference.

  Alan shook his head. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore. He was ready to die. It was no more than he deserved.

  He stepped forward. And his heart froze in his chest. There, lying on the stone, robed in a mesh of blue light, was his son.

  “Jake!” he cried out. “Jake! For god’s sake. Jake!”

  Daylight. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Then suddenly I can see again. Or I think I can. But I can’t believe what I’m seeing. He’s here. Dad. It must be a dream, a hallucination. But I want it to be real. I want him to lift me up and hug me and tell me it’s all right. I want him to take me home. But I don’t know what to do. He says something, but I can’t hear. A harsh, crackling buzz roars in my ears and I can’t think straight. Can any of this be real? Has the old man really sent me back home? I burn with the need for this to be true. But if it is, if I really am home, then what should I do?

  Dad steps toward me, holding out his arms. I need to warn him, tell him to stay back. It’s too dangerous. I open my mouth but I can’t speak, can’t breathe. The stone will hurt him. I know it will. He has to wait until its safe. Even if it means I never see him again, he has to wait.

  Alan clenched his fists. His blood pounded in his ears. He’d stood by and let Tom be taken away, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake again—not for his only boy. His son needed his help. He strode to the stone and reached out his arms toward Jake. Jagged beams of blue light crackled and flashed out at Alan’s hands. They burned his fingers and surged along his arms, scalding his skin. He cried out in pain and staggered back but he would not be deterred. He set his jaw and willed his body forward. He would not let his son down. Never again.

  A shower of blue sparks flew at Alan’s face. He raised his arms to protect himself and the lights curled around him, wrapping themselves around his chest, sending cold needles of pain into his body. Alan grimaced and took another faltering step. The light was bright now, and his eyes watered as he fought the pain, fought against the unstoppable wave of energy that was trying to pushing him away. He narrowed his eyes. One more step. That was all he needed. One more step. Alan roared in pain and drove himself forward, forcing his feet across the ground, dragging his body through the turgid air. And somehow, he succeeded. I’ve done it! He reached down and grabbed his son by the shoulders, trying to lift him up, to drag him away from the stone.

  But it didn’t work. Something was holding Jake down, pinning him to the rock. Alan bent lower and renewed his grip, taking firm hold of Jake’s upper arms. He grunted and heaved Jake upward with all his might. Then suddenly, the lights winked out, and Jake was free. Alan fell backward, pulling Jake from the stone. Jake slid from the slab and landed heavily on the ground next to his father. They both cried out, their shouts echoing in the emptiness of the quarry’s silent pit.

  I lay on the ground and let the pain fade away. I was cold, and for a moment, I thought I was still on the stone. I thought I couldn’t move. But then, suddenly, my dad sat up and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me to his chest. “My boy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  I moaned and shook my head. “Dad?”

  My dad stifled a sob. “Oh, Jake. What h
appened to you? Where have you been?”

  I looked up at him. “I don’t know, Dad. I really don’t know.”

  He cradled me in his arms and looked down at me, studying my face. “But you look just the same—the same as when I last saw you.”

  I sniffed. “You don’t. You look really weird. Is it really you, Dad? Am I really home?”

  “Yes, Jake. I’ve got you. You’re home now. Everything will be all right. Everything will be fine.”

  I closed my eyes. He was right. The nightmare that had started when I climbed into the quarry was finally over. It was all over.

  I was home.

  Thank You for Reading Outcast

  I KNOW THAT SOME OF YOU have been waiting for this book for some time. I thank you for your patience and I sincerely hope you feel it was worth the wait.

  Right from its inception, I knew that the tales of the Darkeningstone would cover more than one book. To tell so many stories, to span over 5,000 years of history, and to have the plot lines not just interweave but interact with each other, was always a tall order for a single book to deliver. That said, The Darkeningstone books are not a generic series. The purpose of the first book, Trespass, was not to set the reader up for a sequel; its sole purpose was simply to tell the stories it contained. Yes, I wrote Trespass in such a way that there was an element of suspense in its conclusion, but I’ve never considered it to be a cliffhanger. The things that happen to Jake at the end of Trespass happen because of his actions; they are the result, the resolution of his path. A part of me wanted to leave Jake where he was. After all, real life is often made up from stops and starts and sudden departures. But that would just be mean, and my mum felt sorry for him, so I took pity on the poor kid and gave him another chance.

  Will there be another Darkeningstone book? Yes. The third full-length novel is already written, but like a rough stone block, it must be polished over and over again before it goes on display. After that, who knows? They Darkeningstone books are complex and difficult to write. It’s very important to me that the shifts in time are seamless and that the different plot lines are interwoven in a meaningful way while remaining distinctive. Above all, it has to make sense. My simple rule is to put the reader first, and I hope that principle pays off in terms of your enjoyment. I will never churn out a quick book and risk cheating my readers.