Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) Page 14

  Glowan blinked and a tear slid down her cheek and splashed onto Banain’s face, but this time, he did not flinch. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.” She wiped the tear from Banain’s soft skin with her fingers then she sat back and closed her eyes, and quietly, she wept. Her son had never known much happiness in his short life. And now it was over.

  After a while, she rubbed her eyes and pushed herself up to her feet. She must do the right thing by Banain. She must make preparations and cover his body. She turned to the mound of stones and picked up the largest rock she could carry then she lay it beside Banain’s head. She took up another stone and another, arranging them on the ground around her baby. As she worked, pulling out the largest rocks from the mound, the remaining stones slid and rattled over each other, revealing a large slab of stone that lay flat beneath the rocks. As the smaller stones fell away, she could see that the flat stone was as thick as her thigh and longer than a man.

  Glowan ran her eyes over the flat stone. It was raised up above the ground, so perhaps it would be a better resting place for her only child. It would keep his body safe from the forest’s creatures, and it seemed right. She nodded to herself then cleared a space on the flat stone.

  She scooped up Banain, still wrapped in his bundle of furs, and laid him gently on the cold slab of rock. For a heartbeat, she thought her baby let out a soft whimper as she let go of him, but she quickly realised her mistake. She watched him carefully, but Banain remained still and silent. It was only a dream, she thought, or an echo carried on the wind.

  She carried on with her work, laying out a new outline of stones around her poor boy’s body. But she hadn’t even completed the first ring of stones when she heard a noise: the rattle of loose stones from the pit below the ledge.

  She stopped working and listened. Yes. She was sure. Someone was climbing up toward her. She thought of Cleofan. But if it was only him, he would’ve called out, wouldn’t he?

  She waited, her breath coming fast, the blood rushing in her ears. And there was another sound: a faint hissing, crackling sound, like the whistling of wet wood on a hot fire. And it was coming from the stones beneath Banain’s body.

  Glowan covered her mouth with her hand and stepped back. Demons! The Wandrian’s dark demons had done their work. They’d found her, and now they were calling out to their masters. The savages were already climbing up to take her, to spoil her son’s proper burial. They would drag her away and leave Banain’s body to be picked clean by animals.

  “No!” she said, and her hand went to her pouch. She wrapped her fingers around the striker’s handle then drew it out and held it in front of her.

  The sound of footsteps on the rock was louder now. They were closer. At any moment the Wandrian would clamber up onto the ledge and she’d see their hideous painted faces.

  The strange hissing noise grew louder, like the wind howling through the treetops. She looked down at Banain. “I won’t let them take you,” she said, and the words caught in her throat, became a sob. “I won’t let them touch you.” And slowly, she raised the striker above her head.

  ***

  Cleofan climbed up toward the ledge as softly as he could. He’d thought of calling out, but it didn’t seem right. And anyway, perhaps Glowan and her child had left already. It would be easier that way. If they’d gone, he could return home and forget all about them.

  Cleofan hesitated. Had he heard voices from above? He listened, but there was only the faint whistle of the breeze blowing through the forest below. Sometimes, when you were in the pit, it was hard to tell where sounds were coming from; they seemed to swell in the empty space, growing louder, shifting from place to place. A raised voice could become a booming yell, a falling pebble could sound like a tumbling boulder. The strange sounds had frightened Cleofan at first, and like the other villagers, he’d taken care to remain quiet whenever he’d come to collect stone. But since he’d taken to exploring the place on his own, Cleofan had become used to the pit’s unearthly noises, especially the hollow hiss he sometimes heard when he was up on the ledge. It was as soft as a gentle murmur, and it seemed to come from far away, but when he listened carefully, the sound filled his mind, sweeping around him like the giddying roar of a rushing stream. You’re whispering to me again, aren’t you? he thought. Welcoming me back to my home among the rocks.

  He frowned. The ledge had always been his secret place, his hideaway. But not anymore. Glowan and her child had blundered in and disturbed his peace. He should never have shown her the ledge, but there’d been something in her eyes that had clouded his mind and made him foolish.

  She’ll have to go, he thought. I must make her leave today. He started climbing again, moving as quickly as he could. In a few more steps, he’d be at the top. He cocked his ear as he climbed. The hissing noise was growing louder now. And it was different somehow. Another sound mingled in with the hiss: something like the crackle and sputter of fresh meat roasting over a fire. What was the woman doing? He’d told her to stay quiet. Surely she understood that anything but the smallest fire would give her away.

  Cleofan scowled and pushed himself to climb even faster. The ledge was within reach now and he hauled himself up, leaping onto the ledge, a few harsh words ready on the tip of his tongue.

  But what he saw, chilled him to the core, and he stood in silence, his eyes round with horror.

  The woman had placed her baby on the mound of rocks and she stood over him, the heavy striker raised in the air, as if to bring it down on the poor child.

  “No!” Cleofan yelled.

  The woman turned her head and stared at Cleofan, but her eyes were wild, her teeth bared, and her face twisted into a mask of frenzied despair. Cleofan was sure she did not recognise him.

  He ran toward her, holding up his hands to show her that he meant no harm.

  But the woman thrust her head forward on her shoulders and screamed at him: a savage screech of fury and desperation. And she did not lower her weapon.

  Cleofan did not hesitate. This woman had fought him before and got the better of him. She was strong, a fierce fighter, and she held a terrible weapon that could crush his skull. There was no time to use his bow, his only chance was to rush in and overpower her before she had time to prepare herself.

  Cleofan planted his left foot on the ground and dived headlong at Glowan, reaching out to grab her weapon. The woman stood her ground as though frozen in fear, and Cleofan barrelled into her, knocking her backward, lifting her from her feet.

  As they fell together, Glowan swung the striker wildly, aiming for Cleofan’s head, but he moved just in time, and the striker slammed into his shoulder. He grunted in pain and grabbed Glowan’s forearm, wrenching it back, twisting her bones as hard as he could. Something inside Glowan’s arm seemed to split apart with a sharp crack, and she let out a shriek of agony, but she did not drop her weapon. Cleofan’s grip was not strong enough, and Glowan screamed and pulled her arm free, stabbing her striker toward Cleofan’s face. This time, he could not get out of the way; all he could do was turn his face away and take the blow on the back of his head. The heavy striker glanced off Cleofan’s skull, and the pain consumed him. A terrible noise filled his ears and a bright white light washed the world away. But he could not give in. If he didn’t fight back, Glowan would end his life with one more blow.

  Cleofan let loose a roar of pure rage, and he pressed his weight down hard against the woman, trapping her beneath his body. He her heard gasp as the breath left her lungs, and he reached out blindly, scrabbling for a grip on her arm.

  Glowan yelled a curse and lifted the weapon again, but Cleofan’s vision returned just in time. He saw her movement from the corner of his eye, and when he tried once more to grab her arm, he did not fail. He gripped her wrist and forced the deadly weapon away, pushing her arm back against the rocky ground and pinning it there.

  The woman struggled and writhed beneath him, but she could not get free. She snarled and strained against his gri
p, but Cleofan held her down.

  “Drop it!” he growled. “Drop it or I’ll kill you now.”

  Glowan shook her head frantically from side to side. “No!” she screamed. “No! No! No!”

  Cleofan was breathing hard. A stream of hot blood poured down the side of his face. But he held on tight to Glowan’s arms. She was in a frenzy of rage. If he let her go now, she’d kill him in a heartbeat.

  “Glowan!” he called. “It’s Cleofan! I brought you food and water. I came to help you.”

  She stopped shaking her head and looked at him, studying his face. She lay still. “Cleofan,” she murmured. “Cleofan. Cleofan.”

  “Yes,” Cleofan said. “I brought food. Water. You can have it if you stay still and drop your striker.”

  Glowan looked away from him. Her body went limp beneath him, but she said nothing.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Just put it down and I’ll let you go.” He watched her fingers as they uncurled from the weapon’s handle. “That’s good, Glowan. Let go of it.” She turned her hand and the weapon fell to the ground with a dull thud, landing next to a circle of stones.

  Cleofan licked his lips. Could he trust her? Not when she’s like this, he thought. He watched her. She was lying very still but she was not looking at him. She was probably gathering her strength, readying herself to fight. He glanced at the weapon. It was just beyond his reach, but very close to Glowan’s hand. If he released her arm and she tried to take the striker back, could he grab the weapon before she could? Cleofan shook his head to clear it, but he was still dazed; his head throbbed, and the world was still blurred. And there was something else. The strange hissing crackling noise was even louder than before. Now that he noticed it, the eerie sound rushed in on him, sending a shudder down his spine. There’s someone else here, he thought. Someone watching me.

  He risked a glance across the ledge. There was no one there. There was not even a fire: nothing that could be making that terrible sound. So what could it be?

  For a moment, his mind whirled, and then suddenly, he understood. The woman had performed some terrible ritual. She’d made a circle of stones on the ground and called up an evil Shade, but it had crept inside her. That was why she’d wanted to harm her baby, perhaps had already harmed it.

  Cleofan set his jaw in a grim line. With the Shade inside her, Glowan could do terrible things. She could borrow its strength, its cunning, its power. She wasn’t just a threat to him, she was a danger to the whole village. But there was only one way to drive the Shade from Glowan’s body; she must be killed. And it must be done quickly. The longer the Shade stayed inside her, the harder it would be to send it back to the Shade World.

  He looked at Glowan. Her face was blank, her eyes staring into the distance. She looked exhausted, defeated. It could just be a trick; the Shade biding its time. But Cleofan had to take his chance. He had to act. He let go of Glowan’s arms and threw his body sideways, scrabbling for the weapon. His fingers found its handle and curled around it, but at the same time, Glowan struck out at him with her hands, pushing him with all her strength. Cleofan over-balanced and landed heavily on his back, crashing onto the circle of stones. The rocks bit into his spine and he cried out in pain. The arrows spilled from his quiver and the sound of splintering wood told him that he’d broken his bow. But somehow, he kept hold of the striker.

  He tried to turn, to push himself onto his side so he could scramble to his feet, but suddenly, Glowan was on him. She sprang at him, clawing at his face, grabbing at his throat, battering his head with her fists.

  A surge of cold fear ran through Cleofan’s body. He was going to die here. The Shade was desperate to stay in the world of men, and in its fury, it would tear Cleofan’s body apart. His only chance of survival was to strike the Shade down.

  He yelled and lashed out, swinging the heavy striker at Glowan. For a heartbeat, the strange axe head gleamed in the early morning sunlight as it arced through the air, and then it slammed into the side of Glowan’s head with the dull crunch of broken bone.

  Glowan did not cry out, she simply slumped to the ground, landing heavily on her side, her arms and legs splayed out unnaturally.

  Cleofan pushed himself up to his feet and stood over Glowan, staring down at her. His mind was a whirl, his head throbbing in pain. He gasped for air, his mouth open. The stench of blood was everywhere, and a thick stream of dark gore flowed from the side of Glowan’s head and spread across the ground. Cleofan’s stomach turned and he let out a low moan.

  He had fought often enough, but he’d never killed before. He was not a strong fighter, and although he’d helped to defend the village and played his part in protecting their hunting grounds, he’d left the killing to others.

  “What do I do now?” he murmured. He blinked, then raised his head to look around the empty ledge. “What, in the name of the Shades, do I do now?”

  But the only answer was the rising hiss that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. And as the sound surged around him, swamping his senses, Cleofan threw back his head and roared at the sky.

  Chapter 24

  2021

  IN A NON-DESCRIPT SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE in a small market town in the south-east of England, a slim, grey-haired man sat bolt upright in his chair, a remote control in his hand. He stared at the TV screen and pressed the rewind button on the remote then let the program play for a moment before repeating the process, over and over again. “There you are,” he whispered. “I’ve found you at last.”

  He fiddled with the remote control, hunting for the pause button, then he pressed it, freezing the frame. He stood up slowly and moved closer to the screen. “And you, you little bitch,” he hissed. “I should have known you’d be involved.”

  He reached out to touch the screen, running his hand along the outline of Cally’s hair. “But you won’t get away from me. Not this time.”

  He took a deep breath, felt it rattling in his chest, then he put his hand to his mouth, suppressing a cough. The two and a half years he’d spent confined in a safe house had not been kind to his health. A damp, unheated room, a poor diet, and barely enough exercise: all had taken their toll. And even though he’d been free for several months, he still struggled for breath if he overexerted himself.

  He moved slowly back to his chair and lowered himself onto the worn leather seat, all the while keeping his eyes on the screen. He fumbled with the remote and advanced the picture slowly, waiting for the moment when the camera would zoom in.

  He froze the picture, just in time, then he sat in silence for a full minute, drinking in the sight of the object he’d yearned for; the very thing that had occupied his mind every day for the last three years.

  The time has come, he thought. I’d almost given up hope. He shook his head slowly. Almost, but not quite. He’d been too strong for MI5’s bully boys to break. He’d fooled them—pretended to play along with their mind games—but he’d kept a cold spark of determination alive in his heart. And now he knew that his faith had been worthwhile; finally, his victory was at hand. He was to have his reward.

  He let out a long sigh. The amulet was just as wonderful as the one he’d taken from Seaton. The pattern was identical, and every delicate curling line was perfect. Every part of its surface was smooth, glistening, and unblemished.

  After a while, when he’d seen enough, he pressed the play button and allowed the programme to run, making a mental note of any significant details. “Grand-Pressigny,” he murmured, “that sounds familiar.” He picked up his iPad from the small table by his chair and began his research.

  His mind was as sharp as ever, and it only took him a moment to establish the location of the museum. Then he scanned the online map, checking the surrounding area, scrutinising every hill. And there it was. “Of course,” he said. “The stone is there—so close to Grand-Pressigny. And the amulet…they’re coming together. It all makes sense.”

  He opened a browser and began making his plans: re
serving a hotel room, hiring a decent car from the airport, and checking the flights to Paris.

  As he prepared to pay for his plane tickets, he flicked through his collection of credit cards, and one of the older cards caught his eye. He wasn’t supposed to have kept it; it should have been shredded along with all the other remnants of his true identity. But he’d clung onto it, and made sure it was still valid. He’d even told the credit card company his new address, which was an unforgivable breach of his resettlement protocols. But it was his way of defying the bastards who’d locked him up for so long. It gave him a certain grim satisfaction that, despite everything they’d done to him, he’d held onto the last slender thread of his identity.

  He ran his fingers across his lips then carefully extracted the credit card from his wallet, holding it gently between finger and thumb. “Oh yes,” he muttered. “That one will do very nicely.”

  He laid the card flat on the table. The silver embossed text glinted in the light from the window, and the man whispered the name aloud, enjoying the sound of it, relishing the feel of the words on his tongue. He smiled. “Hello again, my friend,” he said. “It’s been too long since we saw you.” He chuckled under his breath, his dry laughter wheezing in the back of his throat then he threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Welcome back, old man,” he murmured. “Welcome back, Mr. Crawford.”

  Chapter 25

  1919

  TREVOR CAUGHT UP WITH BRIAN as they neared the far end of the site. Trevor looked toward the narrow gorge, remembering the foolish fears that had plagued his night-time visit to the site. Obviously, the whole thing had been nothing but his imagination. He’d been tired and overwrought—excited about his prospects and worried that it might all go wrong and ruin his chances with Iris. But it wasn’t like him to let his imagination get the better of him, so there was no reason to dwell on it. It was best forgotten.