Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Andrew stepped forward, but she must’ve heard him move. “I’m all right,” she snapped. “Leave me alone.”

  “OK,” Andrew said. But her voice was strained and unsteady, and it was hard not to go to her side.

  “I’ve still got my phone,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s got much charge but…”

  Suddenly, the phone’s flashlight shone in Andrew’s face and he narrowed his eyes against its glare. He could see Cally’s face now, and she looked exhausted, her mouth pinched, her eyes hollow. “Please,” he said, “let me—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Just go. Go back to the gate.”

  “Sure. But listen, you must follow, OK?”

  “All right,” she said. “Just go, for god’s sake.”

  “OK. I’m going.” Slowly, Andrew turned his back on her, then he walked away, dragging his feet, and trailing his hand along the tunnel wall to guide his path.

  Cally stood and watched Andrew walking away until his fading silhouette melted into the darkness beyond her flashlight’s glow. Suddenly, standing there alone in the dark tunnel, her wet jeans clinging coldly to her legs, she felt weak and stupid—vulnerable. And she still had to make her way out through the passages with a man she couldn’t trust. There was no other choice. She certainly couldn’t stay in this awful place, alone except for Crawford, who could wake up at any moment. She shuddered at the thought of it. No. She had to leave. She must stay strong and go through with it. And perhaps, once she made it back to the lit tunnels, she’d feel a little more confident. Then, if she was lucky, it would only be a few minutes before she was safely back on the crowded street.

  Cally pulled herself up to her full height then turned back to cast a glance at the dark pit in the ground. Now that she was leaving, it seemed very sad that she was abandoning the black stone after waiting for so long to see it. She’d pinned her hopes and dreams on the stone’s existence, but now, she was certain that she’d never set foot in the tunnels again.

  Too bad it was under water, she thought. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. It was such a silly thought that she almost laughed at her own stupidity. But Cally had hungered for the secrets of the past for as long as she could remember. This incredible artefact was the find of the century, and it wasn’t easy to walk away from it. For a moment, she pictured herself presenting her discoveries to a rapt audience. After a find like this, the world would be her oyster. Yes. This place could give her everything she’d ever wanted.

  Nonsense. She shook her head. It was all just too fantastical. She wasn’t even sure she believed what had just happened herself. She began to turn away, but as she moved, something caught her eye. There. A flicker of blue light darted through the murky water. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Not again.” But this time, the lights that gathered and danced over the dark water were different. This time, there was no savage, crackling burst of energy, no showers of sparks. As Cally watched, the beams grew gradually brighter, tracing patterns in the water, weaving a tapestry of light in the air. And Cally gasped.

  She stared at the moving images as they resolved in the darkness in front of her. It was a boy, or a young man. He had his head tilted back. He looked frightened. No. He was terrified. He turned his face toward her, and looked deep into her eyes. He can see me! Cally put her hand to her mouth. This couldn’t be happening. It was too much. But she couldn’t deny it. She knew that boy. She’d seen him before, met him somewhere. Then suddenly she knew exactly where she’d seen him. And as she spoke his name, her phone began to ring.

  Chapter 41

  3650 BC

  MORVEN GLANCED at the dark stone. It was already making its unearthly buzzing noise and that was a good start. But it wasn’t enough. For his plan to succeed, he needed the lights to appear, and quickly. Sadly, he knew from bitter experience that the blue lights did not always come. The stone could not be commanded; sometimes it remained dark and the strange sounds simply faded away. On those days, it took all Morven’s power of persuasion to calm the men down. If it happened today, there would be carnage. All he could do was hope and wait, and put on a good show.

  Morven took hold of the young man’s hair and pulled it hard, tilting the prisoner’s head back, exposing his throat. His men expected it. They wanted to see the throat cut, to watch the blood spurt as the flesh was sliced open, to see the wound bubble and foam as the prisoner’s last breath leaked from his ruptured windpipe. But Morven had to make this moment last. He needed time for the black stone to do its work. If everything went as he hoped, there would be no blood.

  He let go of the boy’s hair and stepped back. He paused for a moment then took hold of the black talisman he wore on his chest. He held it out toward the boy’s face and moved the circle of dark stone slowly from side to side. The talisman was the key, but Morven had no idea how to control it. He had no choice but to put his faith in the stone. The talisman must surely summon the blue lights and bring the black stone to life. Everything depended on it. If all went well and the boy disappeared, his men would surely be in awe of his power. But if nothing happened…If I fail, the men must have blood.

  Morven took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. If his plan did not work he’d have a simple choice: kill the prisoner or be ripped apart by his own men. He narrowed his eyes and focused his attention on the boy, willing him to concentrate. He held his breath and moved the talisman closer to the boy’s face, while from the corner of his eye, he watched the stone, searching for any trace of activity.

  There. The first faint traces of blue light were forming, deep within the black rock, and as he watched, they grew brighter, seething and squirming as they swam toward the stone’s surface. Thank you. The stone had not let him down.

  The old man held out the disc of black stone in his hand, moving it back and forth in front of my face. I held my breath and stared at the stone disc, following it with my eyes. Was he trying to hypnotise me? Was this some kind of cruel joke? But when I glanced at the old man’s face, he was deadly serious, his mouth set in a grim line, his brow creased in concentration, and his eyes…his eyes were dark, his pupils dilated, and they glittered with a savage spark of intensity. And that spark, that glimmer of desperate desire, was bright blue.

  I exhaled, took a sharp breath. Could it be true? Had the black stone finally come back to life, its flickering lights reflected in the old man’s eyes? I opened my mouth to speak but the old man suddenly pushed the stone disc closer to my face. I gasped. The disc was no longer just a circle of black stone; it was alive, lit from within by countless tiny points of pulsating light. And as I stared, a crackling spark of blue light crawled across the disc’s surface. It’s starting. The black stone at my back could save me, the old man with his black disc could somehow send me home. Home! I had to picture it, concentrate on it. But now the deep, wavering hum from the stone grew louder. It buzzed and throbbed, blotting out every sound, every thought. The old man was moving his lips but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. I just had to hope he knew what he was doing. Please let it work.

  But no. Something was wrong. He suddenly whipped the stone disc away and put his face close to mine. He stared at me, searching my face. And then he looked me in the eye, and his mouth fell open.

  Morven craned his neck toward the prisoner to look closer. The young man’s face, lit by the glow of blue light from the stone, was suddenly familiar. But Morven pushed the thought aside. His memories were dark, unwanted creatures, best kept away. Memories from his old life were worthless here. It was better to forget, to let the days run together. Better to banish the man he’d once been.

  But now, as the blue lights buzzed and crackled, and the hungry beams reached out to touch the trembling prisoner, Morven pictured another time, another place: a slab of black stone, much lower than this one, hidden on a ledge. And on the stone’s surface, a boy lay helpless, terrified. Morven looked deep into the young man’s eyes, and his mouth hung open.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered. “
It can’t be you.”

  It’s starting. The cold washes over me, taking away my warmth and creeping in to take its place. So cold, it burns, nips my skin, bites bone-deep into my flesh. I want to pull away, to tear myself from the black stone. But I can’t move, can’t even shiver to shake some life into my muscles. I try to gasp for air, but it won’t come. My lungs burn and a wave of panic rushes through me. I need air, need to breathe, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t fight it, can’t give in. I’m trapped.

  The old man says something. The hissing buzz drowns out his words, but there’s something in his expression, something in the way he looks at me. It’s almost as if he knows who I am. My mind whirls. And then the pain begins. Slowly, it takes hold of me, its cold hands creeping along my arms, my legs, plucking at my skin. But then it grows stronger, wrenching my limbs away from my body, straining every joint, tearing me apart. The pain shudders through me, exploding in my mind—a shattering burst of pure, white-hot agony. It’s more than I can stand, and when the darkness comes for me, swallowing me down into its icy depths, I welcome it.

  Then suddenly, I’m alone in the dark. There is no old man, no hilltop, no crowd of hungry savages. Only the black stone is still there, cold and unyielding against my back. The pain releases me, seeps away into the blackness, and I can see again. I can breathe and move. I turn my head. And that’s when I see her. Standing above me in the darkness, the woman is bathed in a faint blue glow. She stares at me, her hand over her mouth. But I know her. She’s changed since I saw her, but I’d know those blue eyes anywhere. Cally.

  “Go!” Morven called. “Think of your home.” But it was no good. It wasn’t working. The stone should have taken the boy by now, but he was still there, pinned against the black stone, the beams of light snaking over his body. Slowly, Morven reached out toward the boy. Perhaps, if he could get his attention, he could urge him on his way. But the bright beams crackled angrily and flashed toward his fingertips, sending jabs of pain up his arm. Morven cursed and took a step away from the stone, but he didn’t take his eyes from the boy. “Please go,” he whispered, “before it’s too late.” But there was nothing he could do. He put his hands up to cover his face and closed his eyes. This was the chance he’d once dreamed of. The chance to make things right, and it had come to nothing. He’d failed. Behind him, the men were already arguing among themselves, their voices raised in anger. They’ll kill us. They’ll kill us both.

  “Kaine, do something,” someone shouted. The others joined in, calling his name: “Kaine, make it stop.”

  Morven sensed a movement at his side, and he turned to find Kaine standing there, his axe in his hand. No doubt Kaine would seize this chance to take control of the men and settle old scores. But Morven no longer cared. Let him have the damned tribe, he thought. I’m done with them.

  “Morven!” Kaine yelled. “This is not right.”

  Morven did not reply. He turned his back on Kaine and stood, watching the boy. He let out a heavy sigh, and lost himself in a sudden swirl of memories: remnants of another life, another time. Long ago, he’d answered to a different name, but when the tribe had taken him in, when he was half dead from cold and hunger, his name had meant nothing to them, and they’d changed it. They’d changed him, made him one of their number. Now, his lips silently formed the word that had once meant so much.

  Without warning, Kaine pushed him aside. Morven stumbled for a moment, then turned on his heel, his knife in his hand. Kaine stood over the prisoner, his eyes alight with malice, his axe held ready. He bared his teeth in a snarl. But as he drew his axe back to shoulder height and prepared to strike, he suddenly roared in pain. He staggered sideways, his eyes rolling wildly, his mouth hanging open.

  As Kaine turned, Morven’s eyes went wide. The arrow in Kaine’s back was buried deep in his shoulder. Kaine wheeled around, his arms flailing, waving his axe in the air. He screamed in agony, and a foam of blood gurgled from his mouth. Another man ran forward and fell to his knees, the shaft of an arrow sticking out from his side. A third man threw himself to the ground, writhing, clutching uselessly at the arrow embedded in his thigh. A fourth man keeled over almost silently. The arrow in his chest had pierced his heart. And then, the men were in uproar, charging backward and forward, snarling their vicious threats into the night. But they could not see who was attacking them, could not understand what they should do, as one by one, they fell; struck down by silent arrows that seemed to come from every direction.

  Morven stood next to the black stone and watched. He glanced at the boy. As long as he was on the stone, he’d stay by him and make sure no harm came to him. He looked down at the black talisman. It still glowed blue. Perhaps, if he kept the talisman close to the boy, there was still a chance he could send him back. He moved closer to the stone, as close as he dared. “Think,” he called. “Concentrate, think only of your home.”

  A sudden flash dazzled Morven’s eyes, then a streak of light snaked through the air toward the talisman. Morven jumped back, but his chest burned where the light had licked his skin. The stone wanted him to keep his distance. He ran a hand over his face. I tried. What else can I do? Morven looked around the hilltop, watching as his men fell screaming to the ground, and he shook his head sadly. All he could do was stand guard. Whatever happened, he’d do his best to keep everyone away from the boy for as long as he could. He owed him that much. And perhaps, with a little time, the stone would do its work.

  Hafoc put another arrow to his bowstring and took aim. His first shot had been easy, though the arrow had been a little too high. He’d have preferred to hit the man squarely in the back rather than through the shoulder. But a kill was a kill.

  It was harder now. The Wandrian were running from side to side across the hilltop, roaring like fiends, but they were still easy to see against the light from their fire. And there was another light; an odd glow, almost like moonlight. It was strange—there was no moon in the sky—but Hafoc thanked the spirits for it. It made the Wandrian easier to shoot.

  A Wandrian warrior suddenly charged down the hillside, blundering blindly into the darkness. Hafoc trained his arrow on him and let it fly. The man fell in mid-stride, the speed of his charge sending his body rolling down the hill. Hafoc smiled and took out another arrow. Later, he’d go and take a look at his kill. But now, his quiver was still half-full, and there were plenty more Wandrian to kill.

  Brond pushed himself up to his feet, grunting with the effort. A savage spike of pain seared through his legs as he stood, but this would be his only chance of escape. Around him, the Wandrian ran like frightened rabbits, their hideous cries splitting the night. Their terrified screams rang in Brond’s ears and the blood rushed to his head. The ground swayed beneath his feet and his stomach lurched, bringing bitter juices to the back of his parched throat. There were bad spirits at work here, but Brond had no time for fear. I must move fast. But which way should he run? He raised his bound hands to rub the crust of dried blood from his eyes, and the rope chafed at his wrists. That didn’t matter. He could deal with the rope later. For now, he just needed to get out of the light and disappear into the darkness. Later, he’d find the forest and then he’d be safe. He’d soon find a trail and then he’d make his way back to the tribe, no matter how long it took. But as he turned, the rope suddenly went tight and he hissed under his breath. They’d tied him to something.

  He took hold of the rope and followed it back until it met the ground. There. A wooden stake. He ran his hands over it, testing its strength. It was too thick to snap and although the knots were clumsy, they held tight. There was only one thing he could do. He bent his legs and took hold of the stake, gripping it firmly with both hands. He heaved upward with all his might, grimacing as the wood bit into his hands. Every muscle burned, every sinew strained, but the stake did not move. The ground was too hard, the stake driven too deep. Brond cried out in frustration and tried again. This should be easy for him, but those savages had struck him down with their stone
axes, clubbed him to the ground, and then they’d carried on, long after he’d given up the fight, long after he’d stopped begging for mercy. They’d weakened him, made him no better than a child. He breathed hard and screwed his eyes shut tight. Don’t give up. They’d beaten him once, but they hadn’t won. Not yet. He tensed his body and pulled against the stake once more, pouring his pain into a roar of pure fury.

  Slowly, the stake began to shift. Brond rested for a moment and took a breath. And from behind him, there came a muttered curse. Brond turned, jumping to his feet. But when he saw the dark figure that faced him, a cold stab of fear plunged into his stomach. This was the man who had captured him, the man who had beaten him to the edge of death itself. He had shown very little mercy before; now, there would be none.

  The man growled once more, baring his teeth, his wild eyes alight in the darkness, glittering with a furious lust for blood. He muttered a curse in his own savage tongue, and stalked toward Brond. In one hand he carried an axe, in the other a long flint knife, its blade glinting in the firelight. As he drew closer, Brond saw fresh blood coursing across the man’s chest, and sticking up from the top of the Wandrian’s shoulder, was the shaft of an arrow.

  Brond swallowed hard. He’d seen men driven to a frenzy by their wounds; they could be the most dangerous enemies of all. He backed away as far as the rope allowed. With his hands tied he didn’t stand a chance. It was useless to plead for his life, and as long as the stake was still in the ground, he could not run. He kept his eyes on the man’s weapons and tugged hard at the rope. Did it move a little? He tried again. Nothing. He was as good as dead.

  Kaine grunted. The prisoner was still tied. Good. He stood for a moment and gasped for air, flecks of spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. This was all Morven’s doing. He’d angered the spirits and now the tribe was finished; its warriors struck down by invisible enemies. But it wasn’t too late. He could still undo the harm that Morven’s had done. The spirits had wanted blood and now they’d have it.