BREAKING GROUND
A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time
Mikey Campling
A Darkeningstone Story
Somewhere, Sometime, The Stone is Watching
It is part of the human condition that we feel the need to visualise a past.
–Sir Barry Cunliffe, Britain Begins
Warning
If this book is left in a To Be Read pile for too long, it will trigger an automatic alert, resulting in a helicopter full of highly trained authors descending on your house, shimmying down ropes and bursting in through your bedroom window. And some of them have been sharpening their pencils for years.
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
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Afterword
TRESPASS sample pages
Trespass Chapter 1
Trespass Chapter 2
Trespass Chapter 3
Trespass Chapter 4
Connect with the Author
Also by Mikey Campling
Coming Soon
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PROLOGUE
3540 BC
CLEOFAN CLOSED HIS EYES and walked across the ledge until the edge was only a heartbeat away. Still, he did not hesitate. He stepped forward, feeling the change in the air, sensing the void beyond the brink. There.
He stood still, his toes curling to grip the edge. The soft, weatherworn stone crumbled beneath his feet, sending a shower of grit and gravel rattling and bouncing down the rock face. He tilted his head, listening until the last echoes faded away. The silence was almost perfect.
Cleofan opened his eyes and turned his head, scanning the pit below. His gaze flitted from shadow to shadow, lingering on the twisted trunk of a fallen tree, the cool darkness behind a boulder. Hiding places.
He waited. The breeze caught his long, straggly hair, whipping it in front of his face. He took a deep breath, and sighed. “I’m alone,” he whispered. “Alone.”
For a moment, he remembered his first time in the pit, ten long years ago. He hadn’t wanted to come. “Go and help the men fetch stone,” his wife had said, “you must be good for something.” He’d trailed along behind the other men, trying to ignore their backward glances, their smirks. But he’d noticed how the men had changed as they’d neared the pit. Their jokes and jibes had faded away to low muttering, and they’d stopped gawping at Cleofan. Instead, they’d glanced nervously from side to side, watching the shadows. They’d trudged across the pit in silence, their heads twitching at every sound.
Everyone in the village knew the pit belonged to the Shades. In the daylight, they dared to take the Shades’ stone to build their homes. But they always worked as quickly as they could, loading up their wooden litters and dragging their heavy harvest away before the sun dipped too low. Only a fool would stay in the pit as darkness fell.
Cleofan shuddered at the memory of that day. In grim silence the men had ripped chunks of stone from the rock face with their clumsy tools of wood and sharpened horn, glaring at Cleofan’s ham-fisted efforts to help. At least they hadn’t noticed when he’d slipped away. And when he’d re-joined them later, no one had bothered to ask Cleofan where he’d been.
Now he smiled, remembering the impulse to explore, the thrill of climbing the rock face, his astonishment at finding the ledge—his ledge. The Shades had brought him here. They had shown him so much. And in return, he’d kept their secret. He’d never told anyone about the ledge, never hinted at what it held. No one, not even his wife, knew where he went when he walked out alone. Cleofan frowned and set his jaw. She complained each time he came home empty handed, but he knew the truth. He did not bring home dead meat, but something more valuable than she could ever understand. You foolish woman, he thought. You’re just like the others.
The whole village was no better than a bunch of infants: frightened of the dark, afraid of the unknown, the unseen. They built their little huts with stone plundered from this sacred place and dreamed of nothing more than a full belly and a warm fire.
They could never see the pit as he saw it. To Cleofan it was a place of peace and strength, a place of power. There was nothing to fear here for those who would listen to the Shades—for those who understood. He had treated the Shades with respect, and they had shown him their greatest secret.
Cleofan turned away from the pit and looked toward the Darkeningstone. It called to him, whispered in his thoughts. And suddenly he knew: the time was coming. The time for change.
CHAPTER 1
2007
THE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS IN THE SHOP WINDOW seemed all wrong. I pushed my hands deeper into the pockets of my parka and gazed at the coloured lights, the plastic snowmen. Above the illuminated Santa Claus, the rifles hung like a whispered threat. Among the tinsel, telescopic sights gleamed darkly. A brightly lit glass case turned slowly, presenting its array of glittering knives in turn. A small plastic reindeer stood among the vicious serrated blades of hunting knives. Someone’s idea of a joke. I looked away. This wasn’t what I’d come to see.
The metal detectors stood in a neat row. I smiled. All five were still there—sleek, black and as tempting as always. I craned my neck to read the display cards alongside each model, although I already knew what they said. I always started with the basic machine on the left—the cheapest. As I worked my way along the row, I chewed my lip, weighing up the extra features, balancing them against the cost.
A hand dropped onto my shoulder. “What are you looking at, Jakey?”
“Dad,” I moaned. “You shouldn’t creep up on people.”
He took his hand away. “Oh sorry, I’m sure,” he said. “Just came to tell you, we’re going to find somewhere for lunch.” He half turned, looking over his shoulder. Mum was standing a little way off, surrounded by carrier bags. She smiled and gave us a little wave, then made a point of hugging herself, rubbing her arms to keep out the cold.
“Oh,” I said. “I was just…”
“What? Did you want to go in—have a look?”
I looked up at Dad. “Really? I thought…what about Mum?”
He smiled, gave me a wink and turned back to Mum. He pointed to the shop then held out his gloved hands, extending his fingers. “Ten minutes,” he called. “All right?”
Mum opened her mouth in disbelief and shook her head. She shrugged her shoulders and raised her arms, her palms outwards, exaggerating the gesture. A couple of old ladies skirted around her, giving her a funny look.
Dad chuckled and gave her a friendly wave. He turned back to me with a wicked grin. “Come on,” he said, “before she gets really cross.” He patted me on the arm then marched toward the shop door. It was too late to
stop him now, and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to.
“Are you coming then?” Dad stood in the shop doorway, holding the door open for me.
If we were quick, Mum wouldn’t mind, would she? “Yeah,” I said, “but we’d better not be too long.”
“Sure,” Dad said. “No problem.” He smiled and went inside.
I risked a quick glance back at Mum, but she was already bending down, gathering up her bags of shopping. I turned away and followed Dad as quickly as I could.
***
“But what would you do with it?” Mum said.
I sipped my hot chocolate and moved a menu card to make room for the mug on the cluttered table. “Detect metal,” I said.
Mum rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dad cut in: “I hope they bring the food soon,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Yes, well they’re busy, aren’t they?” she said. “Perhaps if we’d come in when I said, we’d have beaten the rush.”
Dad scowled.
Not now, I thought. Please. Not in front of everyone. “Gold coins,” I said. They both looked at me. I hurried on. “There was this man, right? First time he used his metal detector, he found Roman coins. Forty of them—all solid gold. Worth a hundred thousand pounds.” I looked from Mum’s blank expression to Dad’s puzzled frown. “It’s true,” I said, “it was on the news—BBC.”
Dad smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Must be true then,” he said. He looked at Mum. “We’ll have to see, won’t we, love?”
Mum watched him, her head tilted to one side. “I suppose so,” she said. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
***
On Christmas Day, Mum and Dad sat on the sofa together and watched me rip the wrapping paper from a promisingly large box.
“Wow,” I breathed. “It’s the C250. Thank you.” I slipped the polystyrene packaging from the cardboard sleeve. The metal detector was in several parts, each nestling in its own snug compartment. I ran my hands over the smooth components, smiling. The C250 was the mid-range model, and I was very happy. I’d have settled for the basic machine.
“I’ve put the batteries in,” Dad said. “You’ve just got to assemble it, and it’s ready to go.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “It’s great.” I took out the instruction leaflet.
“You don’t need that,” Dad said, “I’ll help you if you like.”
“Er—I think you’d better let Jake do it himself,” Mum said.
Dad gave her a look of mock indignation. “You’ve never forgiven me for that Ikea TV stand, have you?”
“TV stand?” Mum said. “It was meant to be a wardrobe.”
We all laughed.
Later, I’d remember that moment. I’d remember how good life used to be. And while it would hurt to remind myself of all that I was missing, it would give me hope that, maybe one day, I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
CHAPTER 2
3,500 BC
SLOWLY, BURLIC CREPT FORWARD. He lifted his foot to take another careful step, glancing at the ground for anything that might make a sound beneath his feet. But he raised his eyes and looked from side to side as he placed his foot silently onto the soft forest soil. You didn’t hunt by staring at the ground. And you didn’t stay alive unless you stayed alert. He turned his head and looked deep into the early morning shadows among the trees. And froze. What was that? He’d seen something. A movement, a shape. Something…something that could be a man, a threat. He gripped his spear tightly. His other hand went to the knife at his belt.
A sudden breeze whispered through the forest. Ferns stirred and shushed. Branches swayed and shook their leaves. Burlic felt the breeze on his face and narrowed his eyes. He watched as shadows shifted and dissolved. And then, all was still. Burlic waited. Was that all it was? Just a gust of wind stirring the shadows?
Burlic moved his hand away from his knife and took a deep breath. He savoured the forest’s heady scent of fresh green growth and damp decay; the smell of new life and of deaths long past. All was well. He looked ahead. Through the trees, he spotted a grassy clearing. A perfect place for deer to feed, he thought, and the perfect place to lie in wait. It was almost too good to be true. He stepped forward to the edge of the clearing and leaned against the peeling trunk of a silver birch. He cocked his head to one side, listening, listening. There. The tell-tale rustle in the undergrowth. Prey.
Just beyond the clearing, a tall fern swayed, then shook. And there it was again—the faint whisper of dry leaves, too insistent to be the wind. A glimpse of grey fur, and the rabbit loped onto the grass and bent its head to feed. Burlic smiled. The rabbit was a good size and plump. His wife, Scymrian, would be pleased. I was right, he thought. Right to try a new hunting ground, right to venture out by myself. He’d show them. He’d prove he was as stealthy as the best of them.
Keeping his eyes on his target, he raised his slender spear to shoulder height. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes and drew back his spear. He took a breath and held it. Ready.
The arrow missed his face by a hair’s breadth. The sharp flint smacked into the silver birch’s trunk and shattered with a sharp crack, the point embedded in the tree. Burlic whirled around, his knees bent, his spear at the ready. A second arrow sliced through the air. The fierce heat of a body blow seared through his right thigh, biting deep into his flesh like a savage kick. He looked down, stunned to see the arrow sticking out from his thigh. He dropped his spear and grabbed the arrow’s shaft, roaring as he ripped it from his leg. Hot blood coursed across his skin. For a heartbeat, he stared at the arrow head, watching in disbelief as his blood dripped from the jagged flint.
A rush of sound, of men running through the undergrowth. Burlic looked up, trying to ready himself, but it was too late. Too late even to draw his knife. The men were on him. Two men. One man readied another arrow as he ran toward the clearing. The other man hurtled forward, crashing through the undergrowth, snarling, swinging his axe as he charged at Burlic.
In the blink of an eye, Burlic took in the axeman’s huge frame, his speed. And at the last possible moment, he sidestepped, twisting his body away. Like a cold breath on his cheek, he felt the axe carve through the air in front of his face. Burlic watched the axeman’s eyes, caught a glimpse of his startled confusion. The man had missed his target but could not stop his headlong charge. And then he was past Burlic, carried forward by his deadly momentum. Burlic turned to face him. But as he shifted his weight, his wounded leg buckled beneath him, and he cried out, dropping to one knee. Burlic hung his head, and as he ground his teeth in pain, a third arrow thudded into the ground beside him.
The axeman wheeled around in time to see Burlic collapse, bloodied and beaten. He grunted in satisfaction then paused to take a breath, baring his teeth. He shifted his grip on the axe, holding it with both hands. He smiled and stepped closer to Burlic, raising his axe to shoulder height, making ready to split Burlic’s skull in two. And in that moment, Burlic struck. Powering himself upwards with his good leg, he lashed out, his arm curving up in an arc toward his attacker. And in his hand, gripped tight in his fist, was the arrow he had torn from his leg. The sharp edge sliced across the axeman’s face, tearing open his cheek, slicing through his nose and gouging out his right eye. The man’s screams were barely human.
Across the clearing, the bowman faltered, gawping in horror as his companion dropped his axe and held his hands to his face. The stricken man’s body jerked in spasms of pain as blood seeped between his fingers. Burlic turned to face the bowman, and growled. For a moment, the men looked each other in the eye, then Burlic lowered his head, and he charged, blind rage blanking out the pain in his leg.
The bowman looked down, trying to load an arrow to his bow. But his fingers fumbled, and the bowstring slipped from the shaft. And then Burlic collided with him, pushing him off his feet, forcing him backward. A point of pure pain erupted in his gut, searing through his whole body. Burlic drove his fist into the man’s be
lly, still holding the arrow, twisting its jagged head back and forth, and forcing it relentlessly through skin and flesh. Burlic charged on, not seeing the tree that barred his path until he crashed the bowman’s back against it. The sudden halt drove his hand deeper into the man’s gut, the hot, slippery entrails seething against his fingers. With a shout, Burlic withdrew his hand, leaving the arrow embedded in the bowman’s body. The man gasped for air, his eyes staring into nothingness, and then, as his breath left him in a long, rattling sigh, he slid slowly down the tree trunk to the ground and toppled over onto his side. The bowman’s hands twitched feebly for a moment and then were still.
Burlic dropped his hands to his knees, bending to catch his breath, his mind a whirl of blood and rage. A sound behind him. Spinning on his heel, Burlic saw the axe rushing toward him and turned his head just in time. The sharp stone caught him a glancing blow on the side of his skull. Burlic staggered, his ears ringing, his eyes dazzled by a flash of white light. Warm blood trickled through his hair and ran onto his neck, but he didn’t have time to wipe it away. The axe drove toward his head once more, and he stumbled backward as the deadly axehead whirled past his eyes. Burlic shook his head and gasped as he saw the blood-red demon that faced him.
The axeman bellowed, a roar that gurgled from the mass of blood and dangling flesh that had been his face. His right eye hung below its ruined socket, his left cheek was a ragged gash, open to the glistening, white bone. And still, the blood poured from his wounds. He raised the axe once more, gripping it with both blood-slippery hands. Burlic stepped back. He was still dizzy from the blow to his head, his ears still hissing. He needed time to think. Should he run? But his leg was wounded. And as he watched the axeman striding toward him, he knew he could not outrun him and must not turn his back on him. He’d made that mistake once already. He must stand and fight. It was too late for anything else.
As the axeman closed in for the kill, Burlic dropped into a half crouch, every muscle tense. He focussed on his enemy, judging his speed, weighing up his weaknesses. The man’s two-handed swing was lethal, but it was slow and clumsy. He’ll have to be close, Burlic thought. Very close. The axeman turned his good eye to Burlic and growled. He held the axe at waist height and drew it to one side, preparing a body blow that would send Burlic sprawling to the ground.
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