Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (6 page)

“Yes, Tostig,” Hafoc said. “I understand.”

“That’s good,” Sceldon added. “But, Hafoc, if you’re a danger to yourself or to the group, Tostig will tie you to a tree and leave you behind. He can collect you on the way back.”

Tostig flashed Hafoc a cruel smile. “Good idea. Sceort, fetch a rope.”

Hafoc studied their faces. If they were just teasing him, it didn’t show.
I’ve got to stand up for myself now
,
or they’ll leave me behind as soon as they can
. But if he argued with Sceldon, he’d just get himself into trouble. There had to be a way to make himself useful, to prove he was good enough to go with the scouting party. His mind raced. The older men were better hunters than him, but they were set in their ways. He was better than them at using his wits. But he had to come up with something quickly.

Hafoc looked around the camp, and once more, Nelda’s restless pacing drew his attention. But this time, it gave him an idea. Yes. It would work. But he’d have to be careful how he explained it to the others. “Tostig,” he said, “do you think it would be a good idea to bring Nelda?”

Tostig looked doubtful. “Why would I need a dog? This isn’t a deer hunt.”

“I know that,” Hafoc said. “But she always seems to know where Brond is—maybe she could help us to find him.”

Tostig shook his head. “A dog is just a dog,” he said. “She might know his voice but she doesn’t understand. She hasn’t the wit of a man.” He looked down at Nelda for a moment, then back at Hafoc. “Bring her anyway. She’ll warn us of danger.” He turned away. “Let’s get ready,” he said. “Gather everything you need but don’t bring too much. We’ll travel fast.”

Hafoc smiled to himself.
At least he listened to me
. It was a start. But now he mustn’t make the others wait. He checked and adjusted his quiver, running his fingers over the shafts of his arrows and making sure the leather held them tight so they wouldn’t rattle against each other as he walked. Good. He had plenty of arrows. And his knife was secure in its sheath. He ran his hand over the soft deerskin pouch he wore at his waist, making sure he could feel the precious spare bowstring curled up within. He lifted his flask on the strap that ran diagonally across his body. It was half-empty, but it would have to do.
I could do with a drink now
, he thought. And then he realised something:
I haven’t eaten since dawn
. He turned to look for the rest of the scouting party. Tostig was talking to his wife and Flyta stood waiting nearby. But at least Sceort was nowhere to be seen yet.
This is my only chance
. Hafoc darted to the fireside and pulled a handful of meat from the carcass. He crammed the lukewarm meat into his mouth and chewed as fast as he could, while helping himself to another couple of handfuls. One was for him to eat as they set off, the other handful could be traded for a little loyalty.

“Nelda,” he called. “Come here.”

The dog padded toward him, eyeing the carcass by the fire warily. Going too close to tribe’s meat was a quick way to get a good beating. But Hafoc was leading her away from the fire and he was holding something out to her.

“Come on, Nelda,” he coaxed. “Come to me.” Again he held the meat out. Nelda sidled up to him, sniffing the air. She licked her lips and nose. She was confused. This man was not her master, but the meat smelled very good. She watched him carefully, studied his face. And then, to her surprise, the boy threw the meat onto the ground in front of her. She snatched it up and swallowed it before any of the other dogs could see it.

“Good girl, Nelda,” Hafoc said. “Come on. You might get some more.” He waved a second handful of meat and walked away. Nelda followed.

As Hafoc walked toward Tostig, he put the second handful of meat into his mouth and chewed.

“Are you ready?” Tostig said.

Hafoc’s mouth was too full of meat to speak properly. He nodded and hoped he didn’t look too foolish.

Tostig glared at him. “Do you want to stay here and eat with the other children?”

Hafoc held Tostig’s hostile gaze. He was ready, wasn’t he? What did he have to do to get Tostig to take him seriously? He chewed furiously, and forced himself to swallow his food so he could explain himself. But he was still searching for something to say when Sceort marched up and stood at Tostig’s side. He looked Hafoc up and down and frowned.

“Where have you been?” Hafoc asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

Sceort gave him a cold look. “To get this, of course,” he said. “For you.” He held out his hand, and showed them a length of coiled rope.

“Very good,” Tostig said. “Now we’re ready. Let’s go.” And he turned and led the way into the forest, with Sceort and Flyta close behind him.

Hafoc took a last look at the camp and then he also turned away, walking quickly to catch up with the others. “Come on, Nelda,” he said. And Nelda pricked up her ears and followed the scouting party into the darkness.

Chapter 6

NO NEED TO PANIC
, I told myself. I’d just lost my sense of direction for a moment, that was all. I needed to calm down and figure out what to do. But first, I needed to rest. My legs ached, my head was buzzing, and whenever I blinked it was a struggle to bring the forest back into focus. I ran my hands over my face and took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. There was a small patch of grass just ahead, and I walked over to it and sat down, resting my back against a tree trunk. The grass was damp and I could already feel the moisture seeping into the seat of my jeans, but that didn’t matter. The gentle coolness of the wet cloth against my skin was almost pleasant. I put my head back against the tree trunk’s rough bark and a wave of pure exhaustion surged over me, washing clean through the mess of my muddled mind. I let out a slow breath.
I mustn’t fall asleep
, I thought.
Whatever happens, I mustn’t fall asleep
. I closed my eyes.

***

When I woke up, my throat burned with an aching thirst. I tried to swallow, but my tongue was thick and coarse.
Oh man
,
how long have I been asleep?
I coughed; a dry, hacking cough as though something was caught in my throat. I turned my head and tried to spit on the ground but nothing would come. My mouth was too dry.

“Oh god,” I moaned. Or tried to. My voice was scratchy and distant. I swallowed again and this time it was a little easier. I staggered to my feet and the blood rushed to my head as I stood. For a moment, the world seemed to shift and blur. My legs were weak and unsteady. I pressed one hand against the tree for support and with the other, I rubbed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
This must be what a hangover feels like
, I thought. I allowed myself a wry smile. I’d tried lager and I hadn’t really liked it, but right now, the thought of a cold glass of golden beer seemed pretty good. Maybe I’d give it another go—if I ever got out of this damned forest. I shook my head. Of course I was going to get out of there. “I’ve just got to figure it out,” I muttered.

I kept my hand on the tree trunk, to steady myself, and peered out into the trees. Keeping one hand on the tree, I walked all the way around its trunk, looking carefully in every direction. But what was I searching for? Yes, I needed to find water. That was obvious. But what should I actually do? I’d already tried heading vaguely downhill, but that hadn’t got me anywhere. I had no idea how to backtrack to the hill, and anyway, I knew for certain there was no water up there. For a moment, I remembered the dew I’d seen on the grass. Now, I’d happily lick every last drop, snails and all.

I sighed and looked up to the dense tree canopy overhead. From the glimpses of sunlight, I could tell the sun had risen higher since I’d entered the forest. But that didn’t help much because I didn’t know what time it was. Surely, if I’d slept until it was past noon, the sun would already be heading toward the west. I rubbed my forehead, the grit and grime on my hand scratching against my sweat-damp skin.
Maybe I should stay here
, I thought.
I could stay in the shade of the trees until it isn’t so hot outside the forest
. I chewed my lip. Wasn’t that the sort of advice they gave on those survival shows—“stay put, conserve your strength”? But my parched throat and my tortured stomach said otherwise. I had to have water, and soon.

I tried to judge the lie of the land. It still seemed like a good idea to head downhill if I could. The problem was, the ferns were so lush and tall, it was hard to decide which way to go. “I’ll just have to take a chance,” I said. I nodded to myself and chose a direction, then I picked up my backpack and set off, walking in as straight a line as I could, the ferns swishing and rustling against my legs as I went.

At least I was doing something. At least I was getting somewhere. And that thought helped. For a while. But as I walked, my headache crept back and tightened like a metal band around my skull. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, hear the blood whistling in my ears. My legs were weak and wobbly, as though I’d run for miles. “Come on,” I croaked. “You’ve only been walking for a few minutes.” I staggered on, breathing hard through my mouth, feeling my throat grow drier with every breath. But I had to keep going. I had to. “One more step,” I whispered. “One more step,” over and over again, until I wasn’t even sure if I was still saying it out loud or just imagining the words.
I probably shouldn’t talk anyway
. I should’ve been breathing through my nose, trying to conserve moisture.
One more step
. Those words were my mantra. They were the only thing that stopped me from giving up, lying down, and closing my eyes. I was so focused on those words, so intent on putting one foot in front of the other, I almost didn’t notice the splash.

“What was that?” I stood still and tried to think straight. Surely, I’d only imagined it. Or I’d just made a mistake, like I had with the wind in the treetops. But then I realised my feet were getting damp. I looked down, gaping stupidly at the ground. I was standing in a shallow patch of muddy water. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I dropped my backpack, squatted down and pushed the ferns to one side. The ground dipped slightly and it had collected a puddle of water. It was murky, swirling with the dark mud of the forest floor, but my stomach churned and gurgled at the sight of it. I cupped my hands and lowered them gently until they just broke the surface. I stared at the water as it flowed between my fingers. Was I really going to drink this? Shouldn’t I do something clever to somehow filter it? Probably. But I didn’t care. My hands trembled as I raised the scant handful of water to my lips. My dry lips burned as I sipped. The water was gritty and acidic, but it was water. I swallowed it down and sighed. Again, I cupped my hands and scooped the water as carefully as I could. It was harder this time. The puddle was already lower. I drank and wondered whether it would be worth digging a hole to see if it would fill with water. I could use the chisel. Or maybe I should just wait and see if the mud would settle. In the end, I did neither. I couldn’t wait. I pressed my hands down into the soft mud and collected as much water as I could. It would be my last handful and it was more mud than water, but I drank it anyway, doing my best to leave the worst of the grit in my hand. It was better than nothing. But what was I going to do now?

I stared at the damp patch of earth where the puddle had been. I felt a little better for having had the drink, although I could still feel the grit between my teeth and an acidic aftertaste clung to my tongue. I was a little bit appalled at what I’d done. Normally, you couldn’t have got me to drink from a puddle if you’d paid me. But that was back in my normal life, where water was on tap and finding the next meal was a short walk to the kitchen.
The kitchen
. Suddenly, the image of a well-stocked fridge burned in my mind. I pictured an enormous pizza, piled high with spicy pepperoni, juicy red peppers and creamy, molten mozzarella. My stomach groaned and I laughed bitterly. “That was then but this is now,” I said. I rubbed my hand across my aching stomach. I’d have to find some food as soon as I could.

I pushed myself up to my feet and checked behind me. I could just make out the trail I’d left as I’d pushed my way through the ferns. Good. I was still facing in the same direction. I set off again, scanning the trees and ground as I walked, looking for anything that might be edible. At home, I had one of those SAS survival handbooks. A Christmas present from Dad, from back in the days when he still lived with Mum and me. I’d been quite keen on those survival TV shows at the time and I’d read and re-read the book many times. But that was a couple of years ago and a lifetime away. Now, all I could remember was that you shouldn’t eat anything that smelled like almonds. But what did almonds actually smell like? I tried, but I couldn’t conjure up the smell or the taste of them. Marzipan—was that made from almonds? I wasn’t sure. “I don’t even like marzipan,” I muttered. And the thought made me smile. I guessed I wouldn’t be so fussy about food right at that moment. If someone had offered me a can of dog food I would’ve ripped the top off the can with my teeth.

I trudged on, and after a while, I spotted a huge brown fungus growing out from a tree trunk. I had a vague idea it was a bracket fungus but I couldn’t remember whether it was safe to eat or not. I chewed my lip and stared at the fungus, hoping for some clever idea to pop into my mind. But all I could think of was the dire warnings hammered into me by parents and teachers: lots of fungi were poisonous and some of them were lethal. I shook my head. It just wasn’t worth the risk. Not at this stage.