The Dark Stone Page 16

  There was an outburst of laughter at that and one chap slammed his hand on the table, making the tankards jump and rattle. “Sounds more like an angel to me,” someone said.

  “That’s what I said. But he butchered a dozen armed men he did. Says he came from nowhere, with eyes like two glowing coals and fangs bigger’n a bear, with claws to match. Ripped out their hearts and ate them he did. Skinned ‘em and left ‘em hanging from the trees before vanishing in front of the poor woman’s very eyes.”

  Sam couldn’t help but be impressed at how the story of his confrontation had evolved. He was almost minded to butt in and set them straight.

  “Bollocks.” Someone piped up.

  “Just tellin’ you what I ‘eard.”

  One of the men around the table looked at Sam and nudged his friend with his elbow. “Hey you,” he shouted over.

  Sam pretended not to hear. His heart began to race. He felt his blood rising.

  “Hey you.” He shouted again through fits of laughter and almost choking on his beer.

  Sam looked up at him. On the exterior, he stayed calm.

  “You the demon monk?” His friend spat beer across the table as laughter burst from him.

  Sam didn’t know how to respond, he just looked over at them dumbly, pretending not to understand while beneath the table his nails were digging into the palms of clenched fists.

  “Show us yer fangs,” one of them shouted.

  Sam very nearly did. Not out of choice, but because the power growing strong within him longed to spill some blood. He was unnerved by the ferocity of his feelings and keeping them under control took all Sam’s strength and concentration.

  The men mistook his lack of response for fear. One began to shout something but the one who’d been wiping foam from his beard cut him short. “Leave off him will you. He’s just a lad.” He looked over to Sam with kind, brown eyes. “I’m Jeb by the way. Pay no mind to these morons.”

  “Sam,” He introduced himself and a part of him unclenched, his anger subsiding as the situation was defused. A small part of him was disappointed.

  “Pull up a seat and join us young Sam,” Jeb offered. He looked around for the innkeeper. “Oi, another drink over here for our young friend,” he shouted.

  Sam didn’t take kindly to constantly being called young but Jeb’s intentions seemed good, so he let it pass and shuffled his chair over to join the group. Although he wanted to keep a low profile, he figured a direct conversation, rather than eavesdropping, might reveal more about the people who’d invaded the monastery and burned Elle’s village. The ones he was hunting.

  “So,” began Jeb, “Tell us about yourself. How did you find yourself in this dive?” He peered around the inn with disdain to accentuate his point. He wasn’t wrong. It was many years since the dingy walls had seen a hint of paint, and most of the tables had gouges taken out of them from uncountable mishaps over the years.

  All the others around the table had fallen quiet, all ears for what they hoped would be an exciting tale. Sam shrugged. “Not a lot to tell really.”

  “Really?” Jeb’s voice was full of disbelief. “It’s not every day we get an escaped monk come to visit.”

  “Escaped?”

  “Well, it’s been a while since you shaved your head,” said Jeb. It was a fair assumption. Sam’s hair had grown back, thick, short and spikey. A practicing monk would have kept it shaved, or at least trimmed.

  Sam ran his fingers through his short tufts while he thought about where to begin and how much of himself to tell. “I suppose I am,” he said. “When the monastery was raided, I ran.”

  “You were at St Peter’s?” A look of wonder passed across Jeb’s face. The others at the table sucked in their collective breath. “I thought none got out of there alive?”

  Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I did,” he said. “I was hoping there might be others too, but I haven’t come across any yet.”

  “Made a right mess of that place they did,” a wiry old man exclaimed with more gums than teeth in his weathered face. Then he looked at the table as if shamed by what he’d said.

  “I know,” said Sam. “I was there.” For a moment he was back amidst the smoke and wreckage; the mutilated bodies of his brethren; the cold and dark of the catacombs. He’d found the stone there and thinking about it took the edge off his pain a little. For a moment there was silence before he asked, “Does anyone know why they did it?”

  Everyone looked at Sam expectantly as if he’d asked a rhetorical question. The old man spoke again before the silence became too long and uncomfortable. “’Spect it was the gold.”

  “Suppose you’re right,” said Sam and everyone nodded in agreement. “Do you know where they came from.”

  “Most trouble’s coming from up North now,” said the old man. “Since the plague it’s lawless country all around Riverford. Got themselves a regular little army together they have. Folks coming from down there are telling of a bandit lord, going around demanding taxes and burning those who don’t pay.”

  “So what happened then?” Jeb butted in eagerly after another lengthy pause.

  Sam told them about the village of St Peter’s, and how it had been sacked. Likewise he told them of the children who’d escaped and of Elle, but not of his lust. They read enough between the lines of his enthusiastic descriptions of her to guess at that part though. “I was hoping I might find them here,” he finished.

  “That you might. Like I said, there’s plenty of refugees in town, all camped in the market square. Most of them coming from up North but there’s your best bet. Not that there’s been a market for a while.”

  From the tone of his voice Sam sensed some resentment toward the refugees, but none around the table voiced it directly, apart from raised concerns about how they’d all be fed.

  “Sure will be tough times ahead,” Jeb muttered.

  As he sensed a change of mood and that the debate was about to become heated, Sam made excuses to retire to his room, telling them how tired he was after a long and exhausting journey. No one doubted it. On his way, he found the innkeeper and told him the same thing, and that he’d likely sleep all day long, so not to bother cleaning the room or waking him for breakfast.

  33

  Noise drifted up through the floor from the bar downstairs; raised voices, shouting and laughter. Sam paced his room, which felt all too small and claustrophobic, way too small to contain him. He needed air; to be outdoors, roaming free. Out of frustration he flung open the window and peered out onto the narrow street below. All was dark and not a soul stirred. The cool breeze on his face livened him further. Sam didn’t want to walk back out through the crowded tavern and without a thought he climbed onto the windowsill and dropped down onto the cobbles below. It was a drop which would have crippled or killed any man but Sam landed in a crouch and slunk off into the night.

  Jeb had told him that refugees were camped in tents near the market square, which he presumed would be near the middle of town and so he went to investigate. He moved unchallenged and saw no one. Every so often he paused, probing with his new senses. Everywhere there was life, hidden away behind closed doors and he’d hoped to single out Elle from all the other minds he could feel, but if that ability existed in him, it was one he was yet to master and his attempts proved fruitless.

  The warren of narrow streets eventually opened out into a large square completely enclosed by the town's tall buildings. At one end stood a church, towering over a motley collection of tents which filled every available piece of open ground. He’d reached his destination. People scurried to and fro between walls of canvas, but none that Sam saw left the square.

  He stayed where he was for a while, watching. A handful of guards were keeping a close eye on the camp from the edges of the square and on the side opposite from the church, a tavern was doing a roaring trade. It was a much finer looking establishment than the one he’d chosen to reside in. Light flooded out from the doors, onto patrons cram
med on a wooden porch.

  A figure caught his attention; dressed in robes like Sam was wearing, was a monk. In one hand he carried a tankard and in the other a bottle. Sam watched as the monk made his way through a large group of people, across the square and into a white marquee near the centre and Sam realised he had no reason to hide. Still, he had no desire to draw attention to himself and touched the edge of his hood to check it was still low over his face, before starting to pick his way between the tents.

  One or two people nodded and moved out of his way as he moved across the cobbled square; a sign of respect he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Upon reaching the big tent he’d watched the monk enter, he peeled back the door. Blankets covered almost every bit of ground and on them lay injured and dying men, women and children. He could almost taste the stench of death and his nerves were alight as suffering washed over and through him. Many, but not all of the injuries looked like they were caused in battle, or more likely, straightforward attacks on innocent villagers. Sam felt his anger rising.

  Monks, nurses and one or two other able bodied people were picking their way between the blankets, tending the sick. What surprised Sam was that for the most part, the injured lay quietly. Every now and then one would scream out before someone came to their aid, then they would soon calm down again.

  He was pondering this, being sure that if he’d lost an arm or leg he’d be screaming loud enough to wake the dead, and also wondering which part of the country the monks were from, and whether there would ever be a chance of him joining them, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “That fellow over there needs your prayers,” came a gentle voice from behind his left ear.

  Sam didn’t turn around and kept his cowl pulled down low, simply nodding the back of his head to the carer and picking his way through the bodies on the floor. It was easy to see which person was being referred to; the man was deathly pale, coughing up blood and obviously at death’s door. A dark, wet stain spread out from the middle of the blanket, coming through from a wound in his belly. Sam crouched and placed a hand on the man’s forehead before starting to recite a prayer.

  The wounded man opened his eyes a little to peer under Sam’s hood and to look upon his face. His eyes widened in terror and he started to gasp for air, weakly kicking his legs and convulsing to try and make an escape. Droplets of sweat formed on his pale face.

  Sam leaned in close and whispered to the man, “It’s alright, God will deliver you.”

  “Death has come,” the wounded man rasped to no-one in particular, spraying red spittle over Sam’s robes. He convulsed and Sam touched a finger gently to the middle of his head. The man calmed and a small smile came over his face before a final, rattling breath left his body.

  Sam was shaking when he stood and felt nauseous but there was also another sensation; one of elation. There was however, no time for recovery as someone else needed assistance and prayer. He continued to work, moving from one patient to the next until he slowly became aware of sunlight shining through the canvas and filling the tent.

  Although the thick fabric filtered out much of the light, it blinded his eyes and burned his skin, although with his hood pulled down tight it was almost bearable. The thought of going outside however, frightened him and so he carried on working long after his body became exhausted and all he wanted to do was lie down with the wounded, dying and dead on the floor. Eventually there was no option but to collapse into a corner, pull a blanket all the way over his head and fall into a sleep, so deep it was near death.

  He slept soundly for the whole day, although more than one observer saw the figure of Sam twitch under the blanket as if in the throes of some nightmare.

  He woke shortly after sunset when the healers were going about their work by lamplight. Sam was once again ravenous and the urge to hunt was so strong it made giving his assistance an impossibility. As soon as he rose he made for the exit, avoiding contact with anyone and resolutely gazing at the floor.

  Moments later he was outside in the night air and surrounded by the bustle of the square. His nostrils flared as he took in a long, slow breath. The smell of cooking wafted from several of the tents and more than one had a queue of hungry refugees outside it. The doors of the inn stood open and the aromas of meat and beer were escaping from inside.

  Instead of going to the tavern or joining a queue, Sam slipped unnoticed into a side-alley where it didn't take him long to catch a rat. Without pause he bit the head off the vermin, as it squirmed and shrieked in his fist, and drank its blood. After a few mouthfuls of flesh he threw the creature aside. It wasn't venison and didn’t nearly satisfy, but it took the edge off his hunger.

  And so, after his meagre meal, Sam came to be lurking in the shadows at the corner of the square for another night. There was no plan. Without going from tent to tent and peering inside he couldn’t think how he’d find Elle. Like a statue, he stood motionless for long hours watching the comings and goings of people, remaining so still that more than once somebody walked close enough that he could have reached out and touched them and yet they didn’t notice him. It was as if he’d turned to stone. He suffered no aches or cramps, only boredom. There were some entertaining moments as the night wore on and drunks played havoc, weaving and tripping on tent ropes, yelling insults at the sentries or even, on one occasion, brawling on the tavern porch. The latter resulted in one man lying motionless at the bottom of the steps and being carried off to the same makeshift hospital Sam had helped at the previous night.

  Only determination kept him waiting for as long as he did and just as hope was fading and he was about to retire back to the room at the inn, he saw a face he recognised. Although he couldn’t remember the girl’s name, he was sure she’d been one of the children from the village. She went to a long, unremarkable tent nestled amongst all the others. Silently, Sam followed her across the square, picking his way over ropes and trying to avoid contact with anyone, unsure if he’d remember which tent she’d gone into if he became distracted and took his eyes from it. When he reached the right tent, Sam pulled back a corner of the flap and slipped inside. No one saw him enter.

  34

  As far as he could tell, all the children from St Peter’s were inside and his heart gladdened to see them alive and well. There were also others in the tent, people he didn’t recognise, refugees from other villages. Sam’s eyes passed over everyone as they sought out Elle and eventually he saw her - crouching near the middle of the tent and stirring a big cooking pot while talking to an old woman - and his heart skipped a beat. He waited until she moved away and was on her own before he walked over and although he made no effort to hide his approach, she let out a small, startled squeal when he tapped her shoulder.

  “Hello,” he said as calmly as possible. He felt his voice trembling.

  She spun around to face him. “Sam! You came.”

  He smiled to himself, pleased at her reaction and that no bad blood remained between them.

  “Take off your hood, let me see you,” she said with a warm smile.

  He pulled the cowl back from his face and uncovered his head. She cupped his cheeks in her hands. “Thank God you’re alright.” She looked as if she might cry.

  “Likewise.” All of a sudden his confidence seemed to leave him. He stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself and lost for words.

  Elle threw her arms around his neck and tears came into her eyes.

  When she drew away, she took his hand and led him over to a blanket at the edge of the tent, just one amongst many. “Wait here,” she said before disappearing back to where the old woman was crouched over her cooking pot. Sam sat and let his eyes linger on her body as she moved and smiled to himself. Elle was smiling too as she spoke to the woman, who looked over her shoulder and Sam raised a hand in greeting. The woman didn’t wave back.

  Elle returned carrying two cups of steaming herbal tea. She passed one to Sam and sat down cross legged next to him. The initial awkwa
rdness between them quickly vanished and they spoke long into the night about everything and nothing. He told her his journey had been long but uneventful, while she told him of their arrival in Princeton and how they had sought sanctuary in the church. From there, the group had been directed to the tent they were still living in. “It’s truly awful what’s happening,” she said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper so as not to disturb the people sleeping all around them. “New families are coming all the time. Soon there won’t be enough room for everyone and I’m afraid of what'll happen. Already the townsfolk are getting a bit hostile." Her mouth flattened into a small grimace while she paused for thought. "It’s not their fault, they’re only worried too. Something needs to be done about these attacks. They're happening all over.”

  “Someone will do something about them. They can’t run free, plundering whatever they want forever,” he tried to reassure her.

  “Who?” she asked. “Who is there to do anything? No one.”

  Sam could not answer. He wanted to tell her about the powers he’d been gifted with, but something held him back. He didn’t think she’d understand.

  Elle’s eyes had taken on a distant faraway look as they both thought on what had been said and the conversation began to reach its natural conclusion. Elle yawned. All around them people were asleep on their blankets and the only other sounds were those of peaceful snores and the occasional flapping of canvas as it caught in the breeze. They’d been talking in hushed tones for some time and the hour was late.

  “I’ll leave you to get some sleep then.” Sam stood up. “I’ll come back tomorrow night if that would be alright with you?”

  “Daytime would be good?” she asked and peered around the tent. “I don’t have much else to do.”