Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (20 page)

Hafoc nodded and watched.

The stranger beckoned Hafoc and then he walked, uncertainly, across the clearing. Hafoc glanced back to the others. They were watching. Flyta had his bow in his hands, an arrow readied on the bowstring. Tostig gave a barely perceptible nod and Hafoc turned back to the stranger. Treading carefully, he followed in his footsteps.

Now, the man was scanning the forest floor as though looking for something. Hafoc studied the ground. Perhaps there would be some sign, something that would show them where Brond had passed. But then the man stopped and raised a hand to his mouth as if surprised. Hafoc peered at the ground, but he could see nothing. What was the man doing? Hafoc tilted his head to one side and watched as the stranger bent down and seemed to pick something up from among the grass. Suddenly, the man stood up straight and turned his hand in front of his face, admiring what he’d found. Hafoc stepped forward, eager to see what it was. But he stopped cold and his mouth hung open when he saw the man’s hand was empty. It made no sense. Surely, some dark spirit had taken this man’s wits away. Hafoc stepped back. He squared his shoulders and held Brond’s knife in front of him. “Stay back,” he warned. “Keep away from me.”

But the man smiled. He gestured toward his own empty hand, and then to the knife Hafoc held, and then to the ground.

Suddenly, Hafoc understood. “You found it? You found Brond’s knife on the ground?”

Again, the man indicated the knife and the forest floor, and Hafoc relaxed a little. He lowered Brond’s knife and, with his other hand, he gestured to the stranger to sit down. Hafoc backed away, and the man sat down with a sigh and closed his eyes. He looked relieved. Perhaps he realised Hafoc had understood.

Hafoc rejoined the others. He knew better than to brag, but he couldn’t help but grin. He’d discovered the truth while the older men had stood and argued. “He just found it on the ground. He doesn’t know anything about Brond. We should leave him here. We need to pick up Brond’s trail.”

Sceort bristled. He held up his fist. “You don’t tell us what to do,” he snarled. “We cannot let him live.”

Flyta stepped forward, but Tostig held up his hand for silence. “Sceort is right,” Tostig said. “If we leave him here alive, he’ll fetch his tribe. They may not be far away.”

“What does it matter?” Hafoc said. “He may have lost his wits, but he’s not Wandrian. He’s not a threat.”

Tostig shook his head. “He is cleverer than you realise. The smoke was a signal to his tribe.” He paused and looked around the group. “They must be on their way here.”

Sceort, Flyta and Hafoc turned their heads, scanning the forest.

“Then we should go now,” Hafoc said. He stepped back from the group, but the other men didn’t move. “What are you waiting for?”

The older men eyed each other for a moment, and then Flyta spoke up. “If we leave him alive, he’ll tell his tribe about us. He’ll show them our path.”

“This is their territory,” Sceort said. “They’ll waste no time in catching us. And then we’ll be outnumbered.”

Hafoc stared at them in disbelief. “You don’t know that. He might be on his own, an outcast.”

Tostig sniffed. “We can’t take that chance.” He looked at Sceort. “Are you prepared?”

Sceort drew his knife and smiled. “I’ll cut his throat. That’s the quickest way.”

“Good,” Tostig said. “But be careful, Sceort.”

Sceort’s smile faded. “Why? Look at him. He won’t give me any trouble.”

“Remember,” Tostig said, “this stranger has no talisman.”

Sceort grimaced. His hand went up to touch his own talisman. “It’s not right. But what of it?”

“Sceort, don’t you see?” Flyta asked.

“See what?” Sceort demanded.

Tostig put his hand on Sceort’s shoulder. “When you kill him, his spirit will have nothing to cling to. It will look for a new place to settle. It will look for
you
.”

Sceort’s hand flew to the talisman he wore at his throat. “No,” he whispered.

“Tostig is right,” Flyta said. “There’s no way to stop it.”

Sceort paled. “I won’t do it. You must do it, Tostig. You’re our leader.”

Tostig thought for a moment. “Sceort, give your rope to Hafoc.”

“Rope?” Sceort said. “That won’t bind his spirit.”

“No,” Tostig said. “But if we tie his hands, it will stop him running away.” He looked around the group. “We’re taking him with us.”

Chapter 18

2018

“THANKS, MATE,” Gemma called to the bus driver as they stepped down to the pavement. She nudged Cally. “Go on, give him smile.”

Cally slapped Gemma’s arm. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder. She deliberately did not turn around. “Come on. Are we going on this march or what?”

“All right,” Gemma said in mock indignation. “Though I think you’ve missed a catch there. He’s got a steady job and that’s more than you can say for any of that lot.” She nodded toward the swarm of people heading for the entrance to Northernhay gardens. Cally gazed at the crowd, her eyes wide. “Wow,” she murmured. “There must be hundreds of them.”

“Yep. And we’re going to our bit. Let’s get in there. I’ll introduce you to a few people. If we can find them, that is.” Gemma strode along the street, scanning the crowd as she went. Cally walked faster to keep up. As they neared the gardens, a fluorescent yellow coat caught Cally’s eye. And there was another, and another—a whole line of them. She tapped Gemma on the arm. “There’s quite a lot of police here. Is that normal?”

Gemma shrugged. “Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? We’re protesting about education cuts and the cops are getting paid extra for working on a Saturday.”

“I guess so.” Cally looked back along the road. There were more police vans parked down the street, all with steel mesh fastened across the windows. A gaggle of police officers stood around one van, their riot shields arranged in a neat row against a wall.
Oh my god
.
What have I got myself into here?
She gave Gemma a look. “You did say this is going to be peaceful protest, didn’t you?”

Gemma didn’t slow down. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. No worries. Don’t worry about the cops—they won’t do anything unless something drastic happens.”

“Drastic? Like what?”

Gemma stopped walking and turned to Cally. “Listen—there’s a risk, all right? This is meant to be peaceful but it isn’t a Sunday school picnic. Stick with me and you’ll be fine. If anything happens, just keep out of it. If a cop bothers you, make sure you get his number.” She paused, looked Cally in the eye. “You know, you don’t have to come.”

Cally swallowed. “No. It’s all right. I’ll come along. I’m just not used to all this, that’s all.”

“Sure. I guess it’s a bit overwhelming on your first time.” She patted Cally on the arm. “You’ll be all right. Come on, let’s go.”

Cally nodded and Gemma turned away. Soon, they were mingling with the crowd, standing shoulder to shoulder with the army of protesters. Gemma led the way, slipping through the throng, exchanging waves and friendly words as she went. Cally followed as best she could. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m just…excuse me…excuse me.”
This is ridiculous
.
I must be the politest protester in history
.

Eventually, Gemma found a space near the centre of the crowd and seemed satisfied. “This will be perfect.”

“Yeah,” Cally said, though she wasn’t so sure. She didn’t like to be so penned in, so surrounded by strangers. But at the same time, there was an energy in the crowd; a buzz, a sense of common purpose. This was something new, something thrilling. It made her heart beat a little faster.

Gemma nudged her. “Can you see the stage all right from here?”

Cally peered over the heads of the people in front of her. The temporary stage was topped with banners and surrounded with placards. At the back of the stage, a row of people stood, waiting to have their say. Occasionally, one of them would raise a hand or wave their arms in the air and the crowd would cheer. She had no idea who any of these people were, but there seemed to be quite a few of them. She tugged at Gemma’s sleeve and leaned in toward her. “Are they all going to make a speech or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” Gemma said. “Make yourself comfortable. Could take a while.” She smiled.

“OK,” Cally said, trying desperately to summon up some enthusiasm. “Great.”

This is a bloody nightmare
, Andrew thought as he mingled with the crowd. There were a lot more marchers than he’d anticipated and on top of that, he’d never felt so out of place. He was only a couple of years older than most of the protesters, but as he squeezed in among them, it was obvious that his jeans were too new, his hair too neat, and he was probably the only man in the whole place wearing a smart jacket.
Thank God I didn’t have time to shave
. And perhaps his stubble helped him to blend in because, thankfully, no one was taking any notice of him. He kept moving, trying to look casual while scanning the crowd, searching for a glimpse of the girl. But it wasn’t easy. It was a big crowd and he didn’t have much time. For all he knew, she could’ve got off the bus at a different stop and gone somewhere else entirely. Or she could be in the crowd but decide to slip away at any moment, and then he’d have lost her until she went home again.
Hopeless
.
Bloody hopeless
. And at that moment, a cheer went up and a PA system squealed into life.
Oh great
—
speeches
. That was all he needed. He pulled the straps on his rucksack tighter against his shoulders and moved on. She had to be somewhere in the crowd. She
had
to be.

Cally cheered along with everyone else, although she hadn’t quite agreed with everything the last speaker had said.
Was that the fifth speech or the sixth
? It didn’t matter. They’d all said pretty much the same thing. Cally ran her hands through her hair. Over the last hour, the crowd had grown denser, and the day had grown warmer. Now, with people pressing against her from all sides, she felt sweaty and grubby. Was this march ever going to actually start? She used the handful of flyers she’d been given to waft some air across her face, but it didn’t really help. She cast a sideways glance at Gemma and watched her cheering, enjoying herself.
How would she take it
if I tell her I want to go home?

As if reading her mind, Gemma turned to her. “What do you think of our Damien?” she asked.

Cally glanced toward the stage. “Oh. Yes. Very good. Very…inspiring.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Do you not recognise him? He’s a local hero.”

Cally peered at the young man standing at the microphone. All she could see was a thin young man in a tight suit. His hair was a fashionably tousled mop and his eyes were concealed behind designer sunglasses. “Is he in a band?”

“No,” Gemma said. “But you might have seen him on TV. He blew the whistle on the plan to close all those community centres. You remember—I told you about the campaign to stop it.”

Cally nodded. “Oh, yeah.” She tried to concentrate on what the speaker was saying, but she couldn’t take him seriously. He was strutting up and down the stage, enjoying the limelight a little too much. No wonder she’d thought he was a singer. Bored, Cally scanned the faces around her. Everyone looked serious and intense, but they didn’t look like they were having much fun.
I bet they’re all as fed up as I am
. She pursed her lips. Maybe she shouldn’t have come after all. The crowd roared and Cally guessed the local hero had said something the protesters wanted to hear. She looked up. The young whistle-blower was punching the air. “No more cuts!” he shouted. “No more cuts!”

The crowd took up the chant, waving their fists in the air and stamping their feet. There was an energy in the crowd now, a surge of shared anger. It suddenly seemed as though everyone was pressing closer together. Someone jostled against Cally and she stumbled forward. A flash of fear rushed through her mind. She was going to fall. She’d be trampled, crushed beneath the mob’s stamping feet.

But then Gemma grabbed her by the arms, pulled her back onto her feet. “You’re all right, Cally,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

Cally smiled gratefully and straightened her hair. “Thanks.” She raised her voice to be heard over the chanting. “For a minute there, I thought…well…”

Gemma leaned her head in close to Cally’s ear. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Although…” She broke off and scanned the crowd behind them.

“What?”

Gemma shook her head. “Probably nothing. It’s just, we’ll be setting off soon. If there’s going to be trouble, it’ll probably happen now.”

Cally froze. Had she heard Gemma properly? The crowd pressed in even tighter around her, their chants growing louder. For a split second, Cally was floating above the crowd, looking down on herself. There she was—a tiny figure, a lonely island of sanity amid an ocean of madness. Then suddenly, someone said something over the PA system and in an instant, the mood of the crowd changed. The sense of anger and fury faded away, and now that the stage was empty, the protesters turned their attention to their neighbours, exchanging meaningful looks, grim smiles. Everyone began talking at once; a drone of determined voices.