Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (44 page)

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.

Hafoc 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. There 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.