Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (45 page)

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.