The Dark Stone Read online

  Despite the run, the energy with which he was filled had not subsided and he felt ready to burst with it. He was almost hopping up and down and needed a focus before he became completely overwhelmed and spiralled into madness. Somewhere distant a wolf howled. Sam returned its cry out of sheer pent up frustration.

  It was then he was reminded of the stone as it burned hot against his leg. He took it out and held it in outstretched arms before his face. Gone were the jet black, smooth surface and the luminous lettering. In its place he held a glowing, orange orb, so intense it appeared like tightly wound fire. Filled with constant movement, fine threads of black wove around its surface, rendering it almost liquid and reminiscent of the glowing heart of a camp-fire.

  It was hot. He could feel the heat on his face and imagined it singeing the hairs of his head and eyebrows and yet in his hands, it felt cool. As he stared into the enchanting orb, shapes seemed to move within it. Shadows passed across its surface and through the stone, not quite taking form.

  They were connected and he could no more tear his gaze away than he could reach up and touch the moon, and as he peered deep into the swirling magic, more power than he’d ever imagined flooded from the orb and into him. He could feel himself becoming stronger, more so than he had already. And as it grew brighter and hotter, his ecstasy was increased and with it came understanding.

  And then, when he felt on the brink of something remarkable, some great revelation, the light faltered and began to fade. A great disappointment filled him that the process which had begun stopped short of climax, leaving him unfulfilled. And then he was left holding but a simple, black stone. Even the characters decorating its surface were dulled, although the green glow still faintly pulsed.

  He fell to his knees, gasping. The woods were quiet, no animal stirred or night-time bird chirruped. Even the wind had dropped to leave Sam alone, clutching at dead leaves and illuminated by a moon barely a sliver off full.

  But as he lay sprawled in the clearing, pitiful, he understood. During the brief but wonderful experience, knowledge had been imparted to him. Life. Life was the key. Not just life, but emotions, the stronger the better. The stone fed off the energy of others and in turn bestowed its energy into him. When he’d taken the pain and suffering from the half-deads, that was when the stone had transformed and its power had been increased.

  Sam knew he’d been on the brink of something special. He also knew what he needed to do.

  31

  All concept of time deserted him and he had no idea how long he’d been in the clearing. It dawned on him that daybreak could not be far away and he filled with dread at the thought of being caught in sunlight. Without further delay, Sam picked himself up and sprinted as fast as he could toward Princeton.

  The sky had turned three shades lighter by the time he rushed upon the huts of the makeshift hospital. A gap in the stone foundations allowed him succour beneath the floor and he dived through it, scrabbling head first into the darkness. He crawled into the darkest corner, through mature accumulations of debris and dirt and an abundance of rat droppings.

  For a short while he lay on his back, panting while above him he could feel life and pain and could clearly hear groaning. A lone set of footsteps was noisy above his head. Chinks of flattened lamp-light shone down through gaps in the floorboards, occasionally winking out as someone moved above.

  Sam filled with anticipation and caressed the stone, on the brink of trying to rekindle its fire there and then. But also knew he had to wait until night for the power to reach full potency. He let his eyes close and fell into a corpse-like stupor while a millipede slowly tracked across his face.

  It was dark again. From the confines of the space under the floor, the huts seemed unchanged from when he'd fallen asleep, except there were maybe two people walking about above and from the occasional scraping on the floor boards, one sitting in a chair. Eager to finish what he'd started the day before, Sam pushed aside his hunger with surprising ease and crawled out into the open air. The half-deads within were becoming agitated and their groaning louder. In the other hut they still remained silent but he could feel them, waiting. Waiting for him to free them from their misery.

  The door scraped across the floor when he pushed it open and stepped inside. Three nuns, dressed in traditional black and white, halted what they were doing and turned in surprise to face him. Two of them had been tending patients while the third was sitting at a desk, writing in a fat book. She remained in her seat and opened her mouth to speak. As Sam walked further toward the centre of the room, picking his way between the beds and blankets, something in his look and manner made her stay quiet. The half-deads’ groans rose to a wail.

  “Can we help you?” The seated nun had found her tongue and she spoke with a gentle voice.

  Sam ignored her while he removed the throbbing stone from his pocket. It glowed as bright as any of the lamps, burning with the same liquid, orange fire as it had the night before, which spilled out in an aura and made it appear five times its true size.

  All three nuns took in a loud breath and crossed themselves as he held the glowing orb up in front of his face, staring unblinking into the maelstrom within. An unholy wind whipped up around him and the door slammed shut. Two of the women shrieked and the third clutched at a crucifix which hung around her neck, holding it at arm’s length in front of her face.

  Sam was oblivious to them and to the door. His mind had become intertwined with those of the half-deads. Their wails became shrieks and then gradually fell silent as he absorbed their anguish. The orb glowed brighter and hotter until it shone a radiant white. Shafts of blinding light streamed out through the narrow windows and illuminated the trees growing nearby.

  A narrow, dancing strip of light, brighter still, arced from the orb to the centre of Sam’s forehead. Like lightning it pulsed, but was constant rather than a flash. The arc multiplied, so it connected with every other living thing in the room, making real the web which connected them.

  He felt nothing and everything at the same time. Sensations beyond description filled his being. His eyes shone white like the orb, which now hovered just above his outstretched palm, pulsating and slowly revolving.

  And then the light blinked out. The stone once again turned back to black and cooled in his palm. All of a sudden it crumbled to a fine dust, which ran though Sam’s fingers into a small dirty pile on the floorboards. He looked closer and rubbed his hand with a finger, smudging the black dust which had collected in the creases of his palm.

  For a brief moment panic welled up in him, an anxiety of separation. Then he smiled. The smile turned to a chuckle and then into a full on and un-suppressible belly-laugh. He realised with certainty why the stone had crumbled. All its power had transferred into him and now it was spent.

  Laughing like a maniac, he looked about the room at the half-deads, who were now full dead, and no longer could he feel their tormented presence. Amongst them lay three nuns, their lifeless faces twisted in expressions of panic and horror, unfortunate victims of the power which had been unleashed. If he’d looked into the next hut, exactly the same scene would have been revealed.

  The night was still young when he arrived back at the town walls. This time he did not attempt to get in through the main gates but rather he found a place where the trees grew close, giving him extra cover from any eyes which might be watching. Cracks between the chunky, grey stones gave plenty of foot and handholds for him to climb, despite the verdant green moss which filled them and glistened with moisture.

  Someone was passing by on the other side. He paused as the hollow steps of heavy boots on wood approached at a sedate pace. Clinging to the side of the wall, Sam pressed himself against the stone in case the sentry happened to look over and down, but the footsteps carried on by without pause. When they’d moved far enough away, Sam vaulted himself over the parapet to land silently on the boardwalk.

  He kept himself low, creeping around the inside of the wall, invisible
from below and almost impossible to spot even if a sentry came walking directly toward him. He moved in the direction the footsteps had retreated to, following the guard at a safe distance. A quick glance around revealed no other people who might bother him.

  Part way around he came across a square hole in the walkway, which opened onto the street below. Sam dropped through it, not bothering with the crude ladder held together by coarse rope, and landed silently on his haunches. For a while he stayed motionless beneath the timber frame and hid in the deep shadows which collected there, vigilant for signs of life. A rat scurried past and shortly after the sentry passed overhead again but otherwise, he was alone.

  Shacks leaned against the wall, packed in tightly along a narrow lane. The stones of the wall itself formed the back of them while wooden poles were nailed haphazardly together to make the fronts, so that no two were the same. Most, he surmised, were stores and sellers of hot food, deserted and shut up for the night. With boards over the windows it was impossible to tell which sold what. None had anything so grand as a sign above its door.

  On the opposite side of the alley the buildings were of the same shoddy design, mirroring those propped against the wall. Sam needed an inn for the night and knew he’d have to move deeper into the town to find one, even the disreputable back street kind he was after.

  Fully aware of being covered in blood, he cursed himself for not washing himself better. His robe was crispy with it and he slunk from doorway to doorway, remaining all but invisible but the knowledge was always there that sooner or later he’d need to speak to somebody face to face.

  Before long he found a narrow street which branched off the one he was following around the perimeter of Princeton, heading into the warren of buildings. Away from the wall, more buildings were made of stone as well as wood, but all of them were crammed in so tightly that the stars above were all but obscured. Still he saw no one. Occasionally he heard chatter from behind closed doors, or laughter carried on the breeze from parts unseen.

  He was starting to lose hope of finding anywhere to suit his needs as he ghosted through the streets, knowing he was approaching the town centre and the bustle he’d undoubtedly find there. The closeness of the buildings and the grime and stench of habitation, made him homesick for Riverford. Not the deserted place left after the plague, but the lively city of his childhood and the everyday business of people.

  With his mind dwelling on a past lost, he almost walked straight past the Black Boar without noticing. A snatch of raucous laughter from inside pulled him from his thoughts and he stopped beneath the sign which swung from a gallows above the door, squeaking quietly. Faded paint on dark, weathered wood made it difficult for even his eyes to make out the once impressive portrayal of an aggressive looking pig, its white tusks now faded to dark grey.

  32

  After a deep breath he pushed open the door and was forced to blink as light flooded out onto the street. The smell of smoke, sweat and stale beer assaulted his nostrils and the volume of joviality jumped up a notch. He pulled down his hood, wanting to cover his face and hoping no one would notice the blood and grime in which he was coated. If anyone did notice, they paid him little attention and he only attracted cursory glances as he weaved his way through tables to find the innkeeper.

  He found him near the back of the tap-room, filling tankards and muttering to himself. He was a gruff looking man, unwashed with grey stubble. A beer-belly hung over the top of his belt, which looked two notches too tight. The innkeeper stopped pouring and looked down on Sam with piggy eyes, which flicked up and down, making an appraisal without tact. Planting his feet apart and hands on hips, he waited for Sam to speak first.

  “I’m after a room,” said Sam, keeping his gaze firmly fixed to the ground from beneath his baggy cowl. All the time he was hoping not to be turned away.

  “Are you now?” asked the landlord.

  Sam fumbled in his pocket for the purse he’d relieved from the bandits. It too was stained with blood and Sam ignored it as he tugged at the draw-string and jangled the coins inside.

  “Shy one are ya?” said the innkeeper, misreading Sam’s reluctance to show his face.

  “Yes sir,” he mumbled.

  “Well, I reckon I ‘ave something for you. Follow me.” And he set off toward the back of the bar.

  Sam started to follow before thinking to ask if there was a bath he could use.

  “That’ll be an extra two coppers,” the innkeeper said, stopping and turning. “You look like you could use it,” he said, eyeing him up and down again. “Want me to sort it out for you now?”

  “Please,” said Sam.

  They went through the door into a small courtyard stacked full of empty barrels and entered an outhouse on the opposite side. Inside it was dusty and unused, cobwebs hung from every corner. Near one wall sat a copper tub, it too covered in a fine layer of dust. The innkeeper fumbled to light a lantern hanging from an iron hook in the ceiling. “Wait there,” he instructed. “I’ll heat some water,” and he disappeared back through the door and into the inn.

  While he was gone, Sam used his sleeve to clean the bath as best he could and was still scrubbing when the innkeeper returned with warm, if not hot, water.

  There was no soap, but that was fine with Sam and after he’d finished cleaning himself he would have liked to have stayed longer in the bath, soaking, but the water had gone brown and scummy. By the time he’d washed his robes in it too, the water was bordering on black. Wrapped in a grubby towel, he waited for the innkeeper to return and show him to his room. When no one arrived, Sam was forced to venture out across the courtyard and back into the inn, still wrapped in just a short towel.

  The innkeeper was busy serving drinks and plates of steaming stew to a crowded bar and Sam tried to stay tucked behind the door, so as not to reveal himself to the customers. It took a while to gain the man’s attention and he only managed it when the innkeeper came rushing through with an armful of empty tankards. “Sorry,” he said, flustered. “The help’s not what it used to be.” Presumably he meant he had no help at all. “Up the stairs, first door on the left,” he continued. “We’ve got a fire on for you. Make yourself comfortable then come down for dinner.”

  Sam felt sorry for him rather than annoyed and nodded his thanks before going in search of his room. The stairs creaked as if they’d give way at any moment, as did the bare boards in the room which like the outhouse didn’t seem like it had seen much use or attention, but at least the bed linen seemed fairly clean and as promised, a couple of logs burned in the hearth. He had no need for the heat but did pull a chair in front of the fire to hang his robes on and as they steamed, Sam sat on the edge of the bed waiting for them to dry.

  When he pulled them back over his head they were still damp but warm and not at all uncomfortable. Then, he left his room and ventured back down into the bar.

  The innkeeper was smiling. “Better?” he asked, putting a bowl of steaming stew on the table. “Beer?”

  “Yes please.” Sam was in better spirits than he could remember. He was sitting in the corner furthest from the fire, at a small table for one. The inn was busier than he’d expected and he’d been lucky to find a seat at all. Soon he would search the town and find Elle. He had to see her, even if it were only once. He’d grown in the short time since they’d last met and nerves were something lost to him, replaced by feelings of lust now he knew she was close.

  He’d have preferred fresh meat direct from the animal rather than the tough, gristly and overcooked lumps which were served up to him in a bowl, but they sufficed. He ate slowly, nursing his beer and food and trying to discreetly listen in on conversations going on around him.

  “Anyone heard from old John?” someone was saying at the next table.

  The whole group of six men slowly shook their heads in unison, all muttering no.

  “He should have been back days ago. Bah. It’s a sorry state it is when you can’t travel around your own homeland witho
ut fear of getting robbed or killed.” The man took a large swig from his tankard and used the back of his hand to wipe foam from his beard.

  “’Tis worse up North,” one of the group was saying. “in’t nothing travelling over the moors, ‘cept for the refugees coming this way. Reckon they’re building themselves a little kingdom.”

  “Ay. And with the King’s army wiped out who’s to stop ‘em.”

  “Not the few brave lads we have here, that’s for sure.”

  They all paused a moment, looking into their drinks. Sam tried to act as if none of the news he’d heard was new.

  North of the moors was where Riverford lay. He wondered what had become of his home and worried if Joshua had managed to keep himself safe, or if he was still there at all. The group of men at the table carried on talking amongst themselves while Sam became engrossed in his own thoughts, thinking of Elle and formulating plans for the bloody work he would soon be embarking upon.

  While he fantasised about how to go about his task, his attention was once again drawn to conversation at the next table. The ale was flowing well and the volume increasing, although the topic had changed little. “Did you hear about that family that come in yesterday?” The man waited for the chatter of his friends to die down before continuing, as if waiting to relay a story of importance. “Proper shook up they was. But unharmed apart from the husband.”

  “Sounds like they were bloody lucky,” someone interrupted.

  “That they were,” he continued. “The bloke might not pull through, but they said…” he took a deep intake of breath, “they said a demon monk came to their aid.”

  Sam tried to make himself sink further into the shadows in the corner of the room.