The Dark Stone Read online

  He followed the line of the road while staying under the cover of the trees. Not that he felt threatened, rather he preferred it. He was on his way to Princeton, where Elle had taken the children and while he was there, he figured he could find information to lead him to his prey. Eventually he planned to travel back to Riverford and find Joshua.

  There was a commotion ahead, which Sam sensed long before he was in earshot and he slunk through the trees, silent as a cat, until voices carried to his ears and he crept to the edge of the forest to take a closer look.

  It was a part of the road where trees grew thick on either side and a simple uncovered wagon, pulled by a sorry looking mule, had come to a halt. Surrounding it were five men, each waving knives or swords. One of them, a large man with a full, long beard was shouting up at the family huddled on the cart, pointing his knife like he meant to use it and looking every bit the killer. His companions seemed just as rough. On the wagon, a man, equally as large as his assailant but with a more gentle look about him, was bargaining for his worldly goods. Behind him cowered a woman - about the same age as the man and wearing a simple green dress with a white collar - a girl of similar age to Sam and two young children; a boy and a girl who could have been twins. All of them were terrified, as the men on the ground issued menaces.

  Sam watched from the fringes of the trees, invisible in the shadows as the situation unfolded in front of him. He felt the anger building inside and let it come bubbling to the surface, embracing it as it made him strong. The emotional energy coming from the people in the road washed over him like the colour red. In his pocket the stone was gently throbbing.

  The man on the cart wasn’t giving in to their threats and they dragged him down into the road, overcoming him by numbers. At least two of them were dealing kicks to his head, while the woman screamed and the children cried. While he was curled in the mud, hands up to protect his face, the one who’d been issuing demands raised his knife. The man on the ground was slow to see it and by the time he did, and tried to stand and fight, the knife was already arcing down. It sliced across the back of his neck before coming down again and again, plunging through his tunic and spilling blood into the mud.

  Sam let his anger reach boiling point but rather than vent it at the men in the road, he contained it and let the pressure build like ale in a keg. His exterior was calm as he stepped forward to show himself.

  The group of bandits all turned to look. The knifed man lay motionless and his family on the cart fell silent at Sam’s arrival.

  “Well, well, well,” said the one with the beard, smiling. “What have we here?”

  One of the others; a skinny, grimy looking youth, laughed.

  Sam didn’t reply and just kept on walking slowly toward them, although he felt ready to explode. He slightly parted his arms, palms forward as if to show he held no weapon, although his monk’s habit already showed him as a man of God.

  “Prayers won’t save you now boy,” said the bandit. “Give us what you have and I’ll consider letting you live. Unless you want to stay and watch the action, that is.” He looked up at the woman and girl on the wagon, licking his lips, with an eager look in his eye.

  The young one laughed again, as did his cohorts.

  Sam let the lid off his rage and exploded forward. His fist hit the bearded robber in the ribs, sending splinters of bone throughout his torso. In an instant he was standing on the wagon with the man impaled on his outstretched arm, legs dangling in mid-air. Sam looked into his face which even in death wore a slightly puzzled expression. His brow was furrowed and blood was leaking from his mouth and nose, going tacky as it reached his beard.

  For a moment time seemed to stand still and the forest was again silent. He let the man slide off his arm and to the ground, where he landed with a thump amongst his comrades. Their shocked deadlock was broken and as they scrambled to ready their weapons, Sam raised his arms to each side and jumped from the cart, straight away tearing out two throats with elongated, sharp nails as he flew through them. Two bandits collapsed to the ground, gurgling and clutching their necks as if trying to stop the flow of blood which sprayed through their fingers.

  The remaining two robbers fled in opposite directions. Within five paces Sam was upon the first. Taking full advantage of their combined forward momentum, he planted the palm of his hand on the back of the man’s head, shoving his face into the nearest tree. Bark and bone splintered alike as the bandit’s brain shot from his ears.

  The last one was easy to find, cowered in a small hollow beneath the roots of a fallen tree. His fear was thick, almost overpowering Sam’s senses like a heady perfume and all he needed to do was follow it to its source. He reached down and pulled him out by the scruff of his neck. It was the boy who’d been laughing at the bearded one’s quips but he wasn’t laughing now. The knife he’d been clutching fell harmlessly to the forest floor as Sam pulled him up so their eyes were level.

  “Remember me,” said Sam, still keeping his voice calm. “For my face will be the last thing you ever see.” With that he raised two of his fingers. The nails were now almost as long as his forefingers, slightly curved and ending in points, blackening at the quick. He rested the tips of them on the boy’s eyes, which had been so wide with fear he hadn’t had chance to close them. For a while he let them linger, scratching.

  The boy struggled to free himself but Sam’s grip was solid and escape was not an option. His terror was pure and Sam soaked it up, savouring and drawing strength from it. He became vaguely aware of the stone in his pocket, still throbbing but also getting warm, before increasing the pressure at the ends of his fingers.

  The boy’s eyes burst with an audible pop, sending goo running down his cheeks. He screamed a high pitched wail and clawed at Sam’s hand. Sam let him fall to the floor, clutching his face.

  Turning his back on the youth left writhing in the undergrowth, Sam went back to the cart and the children watched him silently as he drew near and the woman, who’d dismounted to tend to her dying husband, stood as if she intended to ask for help. He kept his hood pulled low over his face and didn’t give them a second glance as he went through the pockets of each of the dead men. The purse he found attached to the belt of the bearded man he kept for himself and the few coins he found on the others, he threw onto the cart before continuing along the road to be swallowed by the night.

  It was sometime later when the gravity of what had happened hit home. Like a drug working its way out of his system, his head cleared and the recollection of what he’d done came back to him in snatches. His memories were disjointed, almost like they’d happened to someone else. He held up his hands. They were red and thick with gore, as were his sleeves but otherwise they appeared normal, as if the nails had retracted back into his fingers like cats’ claws. He dropped to his knees and vomited in the road.

  Once he’d regained his feet he felt much better, and told himself the men he’d killed had deserved everything they got. Even though they were not the people he was hunting, he’d been chosen to mete out punishments and it was something he’d have to get used to.

  A little further along the road, a small stone bridge arched across a river barely larger than a stream. Sam clambered down the side of it, pushing through ferns and brambles to reach the water’s edge. His feet started to sink into soft mud so he kicked off his sandals and flung them up the bank. The mud pushed up between his toes. He pulled his robe off and threw it with the sandals before paddling out into the water.

  When he crouched to wash his hands and arms, a dark stain swirled away downstream as the blood washed from him. With his hands clean, he scooped water to splash over his head and shoulders, rubbing at his body. At the time of year the water should have been close to freezing, but its cooling powers helped revive his mind, cleansing his soul as well as his body.

  His robe felt crispy when he pulled it back over his head but rather than wash it, he decided to leave it caked in blood. The fabric was dirtied to a dark colo
ur anyway which he hoped would disguise the stains, thinking them preferable to wearing it soaking wet. He wondered, with his new found strength, whether he could get ill anymore but didn’t want to take the risk.

  30

  Shortly after midnight he arrived at the market town of Princeton. Long before reaching the squat walls of heavy stone, woodland gave way to fields and pastures. He approached along the road, walking in the middle of it and making no attempt at stealth, plainly in view of anyone who cared to look. It did him no favours in getting through the gates though, which he found to be firmly closed. A voice called down from atop the wall, demanding to know who wanted to get in at such an ungodly hour.

  Sam told the truth, that he’d been made a refugee when the monastery had been sacked and he’d walked from the coast.

  “The gate won’t open until morning,” came the response from above. “There’s a curfew you know.” The sentry was young, not much older than Sam and fear was evident upon his heavily pock marked face. He squinted against the dark to try and see the stranger more clearly.

  “I’m a monk, on my own and no danger to anyone. Surely you could let me in?” Sam shouted back, throwing back the hood to show his face.

  “There’ll be no exceptions tonight. Come back tomorrow in the light of day.” Sam sensed a resolution in the guard not to open the gate, even though his voice carried a slight tremble.

  Sam’s anger had been sated on the road and left him in no mood for further confrontation. “I’ll just wait here then, if that’s OK with you?” he shouted up into the dark.

  The sentry tightened his grip on his spear but did not respond.

  He moved to the side of the gate and found a small grassy hummock to sit on. Beneath his backside the ground was wet. Sam took the stone out of his pocket with the intention of memorizing more of its strange markings, but the luminescence he’d seen before was even brighter; bright enough to make his night eyes squint. Fearing it might be seen from above, he scrambled to shove it back into his robe, wondering what could cause it to glow with such an unnatural light. The glowing letters were etched onto his mind's eye and he yearned to take another look, but dared not take the risk of drawing unwanted attention.

  With little to pass the time other than to look off down the road or scan the edges of the forest for movement, the next few hours promised to be long ones. He didn’t relish the thought of waiting for the sun to rise either, knowing it would hurt, and so he rose and quietly slipped away. If the sentry saw him go then he showed no sign of it.

  He followed the wall, skirting close to it and looking for another entrance or weak spot to sneak into the town. It wasn’t tall, and he didn’t think he’d have too many problems climbing over, but with hours left until morning, Sam was happy to spend time exploring. It was a strange feeling, being on the outside while only feet away scores of people slept soundly in their beds. Mostly he didn’t hear anything from the other side of the wall but sometimes there would be the sound of footsteps on wooden walkways or voices speaking in hushed tones carried across on the breeze. His newly acquired senses however, were tingling with all the human life in close proximity.

  When Sam happened upon a small door set into the wall he tugged the handle and rattled it in its frame a little. But something else had excited his new senses and he turned away from the door and walked across the fields.

  He followed a path which was little more than grass which had been trodden flat as if seldom used, but while Sam walked along it his senses became electrified.

  In a natural hollow, so not easily seen unless someone was looking for them, Sam came across two long structures of wood, raised up on foundations of stone. They looked like soldiers’ barracks, but from the feelings coming from within them, he doubted they were full of fighting men.

  Pain and suffering were what set his nerves alight and drew him near. In his pocket, the stone radiated heat and throbbed against his leg. Sam placed his hand over it for reassurance as he grew close enough to the buildings to hear the pitiful moans coming from within.

  He tried to look inside, but the only windows were long horizontal slits just below the eaves and even if he climbed up to peer through, he doubted much would be revealed. So, he crept around to the front where both structures had identical, barn type doors. The misery coming from inside made his head throb, beyond the doors lay a seething cauldron of confusion and agony.

  When he opened open the door into the first building, the feelings amplified tenfold. Inside was one large hall, which looked as if it had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Crude beds lined the walls and every one had in it a half-dead - just like Sam and Joshua had hunted in the city - shackled to rings on the wall. Worse than the sight of them was the smell of rot and excrement. Between the beds, blankets had been laid on the floor and these too were full. A handful of nurses, or nuns, moved between them, mopping at weeping sores or wiping blood which had been coughed up and sprayed across the room. Sam's legs threatened to buckle under the assault the suffering launched on his senses.

  A moment of dizziness overcame him and when the room swam back into focus everything seemed somehow more vibrant. He became acutely aware of every little detail in the room; every breath, creaking joints as the half-deads shifted in their beds and of insects scuttling in the corners. He looked over to the nuns, every crease on their faces was as clear as rivers marked on a map.

  It was not only physical sensations which were heightened. He felt a tangible sentience within the stone, which had become heavy and hot within his robes. Tendrils of consciousness spread out from it, like hyphae from a toadstool, connecting first to him and then branching out to interconnect every living thing in the room, forming a giant web of invisible threads with Sam at the centre. And with the connection came immediate understanding of how the disease had robbed the half-deads not only of their bodies, but of their minds. Now they were only part human, rational thought and recollection of former lives had been driven out by constant pain and suffering. Sam knew then that he and Joshua had done the right thing by ending their misery back in Riverford, but it did little to ease his guilt.

  Along those strands of consciousness by which they were all connected, he drew their pain to himself, slowly at first, controlled, and then faster, absorbing all their suffering and locking it away somewhere deep within himself, storing it for later use. In his pocket, the stone had become hot enough for the smell of smouldering hessian and leg hair to be added to the stench already filling the hall. Sam became oblivious to his surroundings. The pain of the half-deads was like food for his powers and he revelled in ecstasy as the nurses looked on in awe. No one made a move to stop him.

  He emptied the half-deads’ brains, took all they were into himself, leaving them as empty husks. When he’d finished the room was silent. In the middle stood Sam, feeling like he oozed power from every pore. The connections were still there, but idle, waiting for him to act but he didn't. He had no idea what had happened or how he'd done it.

  "It's a miracle," one of the nurse muttered, falling to her knees.

  Sam shook his head and came out of his trance and back into the world. "What?" he said, confused about where he was and what had just happened.

  "They," she gestured about the room with her arm, "They were all so agitated. Always have been, poor souls," she crossed herself before continuing, "but you've soothed them. Eased their troubled minds and brought them peace."

  Sam didn't respond. He could feel all the emotions; all the pain and anguish he'd absorbed, adding to his own anger and grief, whirling around in a vortex of pure destructive power just waiting to be unleashed.

  The nurse who'd spoken took a step toward him but she saw something which made her stop and cross herself again.

  Sam looked about the room. All the half-deads were staring at him through expectant eyes but he didn’t know how to give them satisfaction. All the badness collected inside him was giving sustenance to his power but also threatened to burst fre
e and as he stood there he battled to keep it under control. Fearing what he might do, Sam turned and fled into the night, leaving the hospital in silence at his back.

  A howling erupted from the other building as he left, ringing in his ears as he raced across fields and into the woods. It too was full of doomed souls wanting to be relieved of their pain. Nothing more than a fleeting shadow, he ran across moonlit fields and open country. Walls and gates posed no obstacle as he vaulted them without missing a beat. Sheep bleated and beat a woolly stampede at his coming.

  At an isolated farmhouse, small and squat with thick walls of heavy stone, a solitary candle burned in one of two square windows. The farmer had risen hours before daybreak to tend his animals. He was just pulling on his boots when his trusted hound started to bark at the door. Almost directly afterwards the chickens, outside in the yard, left their roost with much flapping and clucking. Despite his haste to investigate the commotion, by the time he poked his head out into the night, Sam was long gone.

  Only when he ran into a hidden valley packed with dense woodland did Sam come to a standstill, after pushing through trees and into a small clearing. At its centre stood a blackened stump, split by lightning and around the edge, all the trees were scorched. Their charred branched reached into the clearing like blackened fingers. Brambles, grass and small shrubs had moved in to colonise the space left by the deadened tree but autumn rain had left them soggy and sparse.