Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3)

by Mikey Campling

  But there wasn’t a tree in sight, nor was there any other shelter: nothing but an endless stretch of grassland reaching out to the horizon. And the sight chilled her to the bone. Here, there were no deep shadows to cloak her, no gentle rustle of the leaves to mask the sound of her footsteps, no sturdy tree trunks to hide behind. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. There was no one in sight, but it gave her no comfort. The men who’d taken her, the Wandrian, could move like the spirits, flitting from one shadow to the next, stalking the night in silence, closing in on their prey.

  And this was their hunting ground.

  She bit down hard on her bottom lip and forced herself to run faster. The pouch at her waist was heavy, and it knocked painfully against her hip with every step. But she couldn’t empty it; it held the sacred weapons that had belonged to her husband, and she could not leave them for the Wandrian to find. Her husband had died with the blade and the striker in his hands, and he had killed many men before he fell. When the Wandrian found out she’d stolen the weapons back, they’d scream for her blood. And they’d stop at nothing to track her down.

  The long grass hissed and sighed and grasped at her legs as she ran, but all she heard was the frantic rhythm of her own rasping breath, each gasp more painful than the last. A savage pain bit deep into her stomach and she almost cried out in pain. “Keep going,” she whispered, “run.”

  But it was no use. The pain in her stomach grew stronger, needling into her flesh, and she staggered, stumbled, slipped. The world turned slowly sideways and she fell, dropping her knife and wrapping both arms around her bundle of furs. As the ground rushed up to meet her, she twisted her body and landed on her back. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and for a moment, she lay still, staring up at the dark clouds, waiting for her breath to return.

  A pathetic whimper came from her bundle and she sat up and parted the furs to peek inside.

  The baby’s eyes were closed and the woman’s heart lurched in her chest. Was she too late? Was her son already slipping away? “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no.” She’d wanted to save him—that was all. If she’d stayed, the men would’ve taken her poor boy and turned him against her, breaking his precious spirit, ripping all the warmth and love from his heart. She’d seen other sweet boys turned into soulless savages: cruel and vicious, knowing nothing but hate and greed. She could not have stayed and let her boy become like them. She could not have allowed him to become a Wandrian.

  But perhaps she’d only made things worse. The bitter cold, the icy wind, the desperate hunger: it had all been too much for her little one. She shook her head slowly. “This wasn’t meant to happen,” she whispered. “I was trying to keep you safe.” But she’d done everything wrong. She hadn’t fed him enough. She’d let him get too cold. It was all her fault. She should’ve stayed by the fire, stayed in the shelter of the mens’ village. They’d treated her worse than an animal, but at least they’d given her water. At least they’d shared their food. If she’d stayed, her baby would still be safe and well.

  A tear stung the corner of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.” She held the baby close to her face, pressing his cheek against hers, breathing in the scent of his skin.

  The baby was warm. And as the woman wept silently, the child’s tiny fingers plucked at her skin, reaching out for warmth, for sustenance, for comfort.

  The woman sniffed and lowered her baby, gazing down at his beautiful face, his gentle expression. “Don’t worry, my boy,” she murmured. “You’ll walk with the spirits soon, and you’ll—” Her throat tightened and she swallowed down a sob. “You’ll never be cold or hungry again.”

  And as she watched, her baby opened and closed his mouth, over and over. He wanted feeding. But she couldn’t help him. Not here. Not now. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “They’re coming for us. We have to get away.”

  The baby lay still as if he understood, and the woman opened her mouth wide in a soundless scream: a silent wail wrenched from the pit of her stomach. Surely, this was more pain than she could bear. She may as well bawl and bring the men running to her. She may as well let them beat her, let them use her, let them cut her throat.

  But then, as her tears splashed down onto her baby’s perfect face, he opened his eyes. He opened his eyes and he looked at her, staring deep into her soul.

  “No,” she whispered. “No. I’ll never let you go. Never.” And she pushed herself up to her feet. She strained every muscle to stand tall. And she ran.

  Chapter 3

  2021

  MY JOURNEY TO FRANCE WAS TEDIOUS but uneventful, and by the time I walked out of the station at Saint Victor, the sky was beginning to darken. I stood on the side of the street and let the other travellers hurry past me as they bustled on their way to waiting cars and taxis. I needed a moment to get my bearings, so I held back and looked up and down the street, hoping to see a brightly lit cafe or even a welcoming restaurant. Dad had already booked me a room in a hotel in town, The Tours Nord, and he’d sent the address and directions to my phone. But before I tracked the hotel down, I needed a hot meal and a cold beer. I ran my hand across my mouth. Better make that two cold beers, I thought.

  But the station was clearly in a dingy and desolate part of town. There was nothing here except for office buildings and small shops that had shut up for the night.

  I checked the map on my phone. It was only a 15 minute walk to the hotel and perhaps it would have a restaurant, or maybe I’d see something open as I made my way into town. I shouldered my rucksack and started walking, ignoring the looks I got from the waiting taxi drivers.

  But I hadn’t gone far before a dark saloon car cruised to a halt beside me. I glanced toward the car as its electric windows rolled down, but I kept walking.

  “Excuse me, sir,” someone called out: a man’s voice, a French accent. “Sorry, but I am a little late.”

  I slowed down and looked over my shoulder. The car’s driver was standing on the pavement and motioning toward his car. “I was a little delayed in the traffic.”

  I looked around, expecting to see a businessman hurrying toward his driver. But there was no one. The man was clearly talking to me, so I stopped and said, “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not expecting a car.”

  “Bien sûr. Of course, of course. You are staying at the Tours Nord Hotel, yes?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t need a car, I didn’t order one, and I’m certainly not paying.” I turned away and started walking.

  “But, sir,” he called out, “the car is from the hotel, it has been paid for, by your father, I think.”

  I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly.

  The man nodded, smiling. “Yes. Your father arranged for the car. Your name is Jacques, yes?”

  “Oh. Right.” Typical Dad, I thought, always planning ahead. I started walking back toward the car, but something wasn’t quite right. If Dad had gone to the time and expense of arranging a car, surely he’d have called or texted to let me know. True, he had a tendency to turn everyday events into big surprises, but this was just silly. If the car had been a couple of minutes later, they’d have missed me entirely. “I should just call him,” I said, and I stopped walking and looked down at my phone.

  “Everything is fine,” the man said. “But we must hurry, yes?”

  I nodded but I didn’t look up. I concentrated on my phone, checking in case I’d missed a message from Dad. But then I heard another man’s voice: someone grumbling in French. And the sound came from inside the waiting car. I stared at the driver and saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Who’s that?” I demanded. “Who’s in the car?”

  “Another passenger,” the driver said. “I picked him up earlier.”

  I looked at the car. Its windows were heavily tinted so I took a step back and peered in through the windscreen. The car’s interior was dark, which was odd because the driver was still holding the door open. Normally
there’d be a light, so the driver must have intentionally turned it off some reason. As I stared, a dark shape moved in the back seat of the car, but the passenger remained silent.

  The driver took a step toward me and held out his hand. “Please, let me take your bag. My friend here is in a hurry to get to the hotel.” The driver gave me a thin smile. “He is eager to get a good table at the restaurant.”

  I stayed exactly where I was. “But if you picked him up earlier, why didn’t you take him straight there?”

  The driver shrugged. “We were on our way, but took a detour to collect you. And then the traffic…” He shrugged again then started walking toward me.

  “Wait,” I said. I edged away from the road, putting more distance between me and the driver. But my back came up against the steel shutters of a closed shop. The man’s smile faded, and he reached for something inside his jacket.

  This can’t be happening, I told myself. But my instincts kicked in, telling me to get the hell out of there. I looked back toward the empty street. I had no idea where it led. If I ran that way, I’d be lost, and the car would catch up with me in seconds. But if I could just get past the driver and make it back to the station, I’d be safer. “All right,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

  The man gave me an appraising look. He kept his hand inside his jacket.

  “I’d really like to get to the restaurant myself,” I said. I made a show of putting my phone back in my pocket. “Do they have steak, do you think?”

  The driver relaxed a little, taking his hand from his jacket. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Sure.” I walked toward him, slipping my rucksack from my shoulder and wrapping the straps around my fist. I kept my eyes on his, waiting for my moment. Then, just as I came within arm’s length of him, the driver dropped his guard. He smirked and stepped back from the car, expecting me to climb into the backseat, but I turned quickly, swinging my rucksack toward his face with all my strength.

  The man’s reactions were fast. He shifted his weight, dodging my clumsy attack easily. He stepped back, bending his knees, his fists held ready. But I’d never intended to fight him, and his change of position gave me the split second I needed. I ran toward the station, my head low, my arms pumping, my shoes thudding against the tarmac.

  Behind me, there were raised voices. Footsteps. A car door slammed. But I didn’t look back.

  I ran in through the station’s entrance, my shoes skidding on the smooth floor tiles. Directly ahead, there was the entrance to the platform, but to my right there was a row of three ticket booths. Two of the booths looked closed, but at the other, a uniformed woman was staring at me from behind the counter. Without slowing, I ran toward her. “Please,” I said, “s’il vous plaît, aidez moi.”

  Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing until I reached the counter. “There is a problem?” she asked in perfect English.

  I stood, panting, and looked back toward the entrance. The driver and a man I hadn’t seen before, were standing there, watching me. The driver frowned and shook his head, but the other man stood perfectly still, his face impassive, his arms folded across his chest.

  I turned back to the ticket seller. “Please, call the police. The gendarmes. Those men—they tried to…to force me into their car.”

  The woman’s expression hardened. She glowered at the men and barked something at them in French. She talked too quickly for me to understand.

  “There’s no time,” I said. “Just call the police.”

  The woman glanced at me then reached for the phone at her side. But the driver called out to her, spouting a stream of rapid French that I couldn’t follow at all. I stared at the man in disbelief. He was clearly trying to talk his way out the whole thing, and he was putting on a good show. He seemed affronted, and from the tone of his voice, I guessed he was saying something about stupid English tourists not knowing how to behave. As I watched, he gestured toward me as if dismissing me then he turned and walked out of the station. The other man rolled his eyes as if he’d been greatly inconvenienced then followed.

  When I looked back at the uniformed woman, she was sitting back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest. “I think you have had a misunderstanding.”

  “But—” I started.

  “They say they were sent from the hotel to collect you. It is a courtesy, yes?”

  I shook my head. “They were lying. I’m sure of it.”

  The woman looked me up and down then pursed her lips. “I can call the gendarmes if you wish, but I do not think they will be pleased to come for this…” she frowned as though searching for the right word then shook her head. “Those men, they have gone now. There is no problem. Perhaps you would like to take a taxi to your hotel.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. Perhaps she was right. I was sure I’d done the right thing in running from the men, but now that they’d gone, I couldn’t prove a thing. If the police were called, I’d have to wait for them, and then I’d have to give some sort of statement. It could take hours, and I really had no idea what I’d say to them. “OK,” I said. “I’ll just wait a minute, and then I’ll take a taxi.”

  The woman nodded and pointed across the ticket hall. “There is a machine for coffee over there. Perhaps you need something.”

  “Thanks.” I walked over to the coffee machine, certain that the woman was watching me all the way. But when I looked back, she was talking on the telephone and hunched over her desk as though she were writing something down.

  I pulled out a handful of change and searched through the unfamiliar coins until I found the right number of euros. My schoolboy French was just good enough to understand the instructions on the machine, and I selected a black coffee. The machine whirred into life and as I watched the dark brown liquid steam and sputter into the paper cup, I replayed the last 10 minutes in my mind. What the hell just happened? Could it really have been a misunderstanding? The ticket seller had been convinced. And on the face of it, the men’s explanation was plausible enough. But if my dad had booked the car he would surely have told me. There was a chance that the hotel had sent the car without telling my dad. They’d have known when I was due to book in and they could easily have checked the train timetable. And since the man had known my name, it seemed like he must’ve come from the hotel.

  But something wasn’t right. The driver hadn’t looked like a man who worked in a small town hotel. There was something about the way he was dressed, the way he held himself: like a military man. And when I’d swung my bag at him, he’d dropped into a fighting stance in the blink of an eye. And the so-called passenger had been physically imposing: a brute of a man. It made me shiver just to think what might’ve happened if I’d climbed into their car.

  I took my coffee and sipped it. It was bitter, harsh, and still too hot, but I swallowed it anyway, feeling it burn its way down my throat. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “I just don’t know.” I drank some more coffee, and this time it didn’t taste so bad.

  I kept my eye on the station’s entrance. There was no sign of the men, but even so, I didn’t feel safe. True, I may have over-reacted and made a mistake. After all, I was tired, hungry, and disoriented. But no matter which way I thought about it, the driver’s story still didn’t add up. If his passenger was simply another customer, why had both men chased after me and followed me into the station? And why had they seemed so serious, so intense? I’d been certain that they meant me harm.

  I finished my coffee and crumpled the paper cup before tossing it into a waste bin. Then I did what I should have done straight away. I took out my phone and called my dad.

  I’d had plenty of time on the train to set my phone to roam, and signal strength was good. He answered quickly as if he’d been expecting my call.

  “Hey, Jake. How’s it all going? Did you get to the hotel yet?”

  “It’s all right, Dad. But I’m still at the station.” I hesitated. “Dad, did you…did you tell them to send a car to
pick me up?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice bright and cheerful. “Yes I did. Did they come?”

  My heart sank, but then a wave of relief washed over me. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything, Dad cut in. “Only, when I asked them to pick you up, they said they couldn’t. They told me no one was available. But they assured me it was only a short walk so I didn’t really worry about it.” He paused. “Why? Is the car there now? What’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure, Dad,” I said.

  “Jake? Talk to me, Jake. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I thought about telling him the whole story, but there was an edge of panic in his voice, and I couldn’t bring myself to say anything that might make him more anxious. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “I’m all right. I’m going to the hotel now. I’m a bit tired, so I’m going to take a taxi.”

  “All right. But listen, call me as soon as you’ve checked in. OK?”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll call you soon.” I ended the call and put my phone back in my pocket then I shouldered my rucksack and made my way slowly across the ticket hall. I hesitated at the entrance and peered out into the street. It was almost dark, but the street looked empty apart from the few taxis waiting outside. I glanced back across the ticket hall. The woman behind the counter was watching me, her head tilted to one side.

  I took a deep breath then I marched toward the first taxi and peered inside. The driver raised his chin. “Oui?”

  “Tours Nord Hotel, s’il vous plaît,” I said.

  The driver nodded toward the back seat, and I opened the door and climbed in. As soon as I closed the door behind me, the driver set off, and I exhaled loudly. I still didn’t understand what had happened, but surely I’d be all right now. Surely I’d be safe.

  Chapter 4

  1919

  MR. GRIGSON LOOKED ALONG THE MUDDY TRACK and wrinkled his nose. The mud looked as though it was frozen solid, but even so, his shoes were handmade and had cost him dearly. True, he’d had them resoled twice, but the black leather uppers were still as good as new. It would be an awful shame to ruin them. But there was no way of avoiding the mud, and the rough track didn’t seem to bother his new client, Mr. Matthews, who was striding forward as though it was a fine summer’s day.