The Dark Stone Read online

  With fewer foes to contend with, Joshua's hands were freed and in an instant he’d reached around and taken both his own daggers from his belt, one in each hand, and driven them into the final assailant’s eyes. It screamed and as Joshua pulled out the knives, it died leaving him pinned beneath the body. Without enough strength left in his arms to lift it off, he squirmed his way out and rolled over, panting in the snow. The ground all around them was more red than white and both boys were dripping from head to toe in gore.

  Sam dropped to all fours and vomited. Joshua turned his head, without moving from where he lay, and smiled; his eyes and teeth shining behind a bloody red face. Sam retched again and Joshua burst out laughing like a maniac.

  The rest of winter played out in much the same way as it had begun; looting, drinking and coaxing the diseased half-dead folk out of hiding so they could cut them down.

  11

  Months later, with the harshness of winter nothing but a fading memory, Sam and Joshua were sitting on their haunches beneath a blazing sun, both barefoot and dressed in rags. Spread on the ground between them were the spoils of their morning’s foraging, ready to divvy out before they each went off to hide their own share.

  The return of warmer weather had brought with it flies; fat and bloated like the bodies they crawled from. The boys had long since given up trying to swat them away, and were forced to speak through tightly pursed lips. Then there was the stench. They had hardly noticed it during the deep cold of winter but with the arrival of the sun, the reek of death had ripened and spread, smothering the city and environs with its foulness.

  The distant sound of hooves and wagon wheels, trundling up the road toward the city, made them both stop admiring their treasure and spin around. A plume of dust rose from behind the tree line, hanging brown and dirty against the greens and blues of the countryside.

  For a moment they just stared. Sam rubbed his eyes, wondering whether he was seeing things. “Quick,” started Joshua, who was up and running in a flash, scooping treasure into his arms. “Hide it,” he shouted whilst dashing across the field. The open countryside offered neither of them much in the way of hiding-places and after a couple of tight circles, Joshua sprinted directly toward the stinking pile of corpses at the dump. Sam’s hole in the tree was long full and he was using a simple hole in the ground to bury his stash. By the time he’d thrown in the gold and hauled a rock over the top to cover it, he was left frantically scanning his surroundings for a place to hide. Moments later, as the train of carts pulled up alongside the fields, he also started to run.

  A shout went up and a handful of figures jumped into the road. They were all wearing long, coarse hessian robes with baggy hoods covering their faces and the sight of them filled Sam with utter terror.

  With no regard for being scratched he dived under a wiry thicket of gorse and the instant he lay on the ground it was obvious his hiding place was hopeless. The bush grew from one scrawny, gnarled and thin stem and the earth beneath it was barren. And yet there he stayed, paralysed through fear and hoping beyond all hope that danger would pass him by.

  As the figures approached they didn’t rush, instead seeming to glide effortlessly across the furrowed earth as their robes fluttered about their feet. He looked around for any sign of Joshua, but feared to move even his head and so only wriggled his eyes. His friend was nowhere in sight.

  A sandal clad pair of feet and bony ankles stopped inches in front of his nose and Sam squeezed his eyes tight shut, holding his breath and trying to make himself small and invisible. The bush rustled above him and mumbled cursing caused Sam to shrink into an even tighter ball before a hefty hand caught him by the scruff of his grubby tunic and yanked him out into the open. Sam yelped as spines raked across his skin, drawing long welts in their wake. He kept his eyes shut and hoped they would be spared.

  He kicked hard and thrashed his arms, cursing himself for leaving his weapons on the ground next to the treasure, but the stranger’s grip was too strong and Sam's struggle proved futile. Only when tiredness took the fight out of him did he open his eyes and look up toward his captor. From beneath a baggy cowl two bright, sharp eyes peered back at him. The rest of the man’s face was in shadow. Standing behind the stranger were two other figures, equally mysterious.

  Thinking death had finally come for him, and not in the way he’d expected, Sam screamed and found new strength to resume his fight.

  "Calm down," a voice said from behind the hood. "We're not going to hurt you." It was a soothing voice and not at all what Sam had expected. His strength deserted him altogether and he sagged into the stranger’s arms.

  "Don't be afraid," said the man. "Here." He removed his hand from Sam's shoulder in order to pull back his hood.

  Sam seized the opportunity and made a bolt for freedom. The man lurched forward and shot out his hand, just about catching hold of Sam’s wrist. Momentum carried his body forward and he twisted out of the man’s grip, falling into the dirt, clutching his arm tightly to his chest with tears welling in his eyes.

  He blinked against the sun, magnified by blurry tears, and looked up. Three strangers were crouched over him, all of whom had removed their hoods to reveal shaved heads and furrowed brows. One of them half turned towards the others. "Brother Michael: Go and fetch Father Geoffrey. Brother Aaron: can you hold his shoulders?"

  Before Sam had chance to register why his shoulders were being pinned to the stony ground, a sweet tasting liquid was poured into his mouth and a strong hand clamped under his jaw, forcing his mouth shut so he had to swallow.

  Almost immediately a wave of nausea came rising up from deep within his guts and Sam turned his head to spew in the dirt. Someone pulled the hair back from his face; hair which had become long over the winter months. Sam started to cry. A warm feeling was spreading throughout his body. Pain melted away; hurts he hadn't appreciated until they were gone. The world went out of focus and swam around him. Suddenly he thought about Joshua and tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn’t make the right shapes and any sound he made was feeble and unintelligible.

  "Shhh," someone whispered over him.

  Sam looked up through blurry eyes to see who it was, but the world was just a collection of fuzzy blobs.

  "Shhh," the voice said again, fainter now, flowing into him like honey. "Don't speak."

  "But..." Sam's voice tailed off. He wasn't even sure he'd said the word. No matter how much he wanted to tell them Joshua was somewhere nearby, he could not. Tiredness had rendered him dumb and his eyes slid shut as he succumbed to a deep, healing sleep.

  Rocking, jolting and the constant, steady drumming of horses’ hooves let him know he was in the back of a wagon long before he opened his eyes. A raging thirst tightened his throat and made swallowing all but impossible, but no sooner had the thought of water crossed his mind, a pitcher was lifted to his lips. He took as much as he could, until the water trickled from the corner of his mouth and into his ear and he signalled for the youth kneeling beside him to stop pouring.

  A rut in the road sent a jolt through his body, smashing his teeth together and bringing on a fit of choking. His head throbbed mercilessly and he thought he was going to vomit. Worst of all was the pain in his arm where the robed man had grabbed hold of him and wrenched it. Sitting up took a lot of effort, but with a lot of wriggling and determination he eventually managed to get his back propped against the boards at the front of the wagon.

  The youth looked at him. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

  "Where am I?" Sam’s voice sounded foggy and faraway.

  The youth looked at him, "On a wagon."

  "I mean, where are you taking me?" Sam was struggling to organise his thoughts but as his senses slowly returned, a sudden panic rose up in him. "Where's Joshua?" he asked.

  "Who?" said the youth and a puzzled look flashed across his face.

  “Joshua. He was with me when you..." The sedative was fast wearing off and the gravity of his predicament washed over him. "No
one," he mumbled.

  The youth jumped up, almost falling straight back over again when the cart hit another pothole and he lurched forward, only just saving himself from falling onto Sam. But after righting himself, the youth made his way to the back of the cart and pulled back the flap of canvas. Through it, Sam caught sight of a thick, greasy column of black smoke rising on the horizon and knew the people buried at the dump had finally had their funeral.

  "Stop. Father Geoffrey. Stop," the youth hollered out of the back of the cart while clinging to a post which supported the canvas.

  Behind Sam, and hidden behind the boards of the wagon, the driver could be heard reining in the horse and willing it to halt. A few moments later there was a scuttling of feet on the road outside before two more people clambered into the back. He recognised them both from the field. One of them, he now knew was called Father Geoffrey, and the other was the man who'd hurt his arm, whose name he didn't remember hearing.

  "Father Geoffrey," the youth started speaking before they'd finished dusting themselves off. "He says there's someone else back there."

  "No I didn't," said Sam.

  The youth’s eyebrows shot up but he held his tongue and stayed calm, bowing his head and telling the older man what Sam had let slip.

  Father Geoffrey looked Sam straight in the eyes, "Is it true?” he asked. “Is there someone else alive back there?" He cocked his head back to point off down the road.

  There were no threats in Father Geoffrey's question, but his voice held a quiet authority which made it impossible for Sam to lie. He nodded and dropped his head in shame.

  “Brother Aaron, take one of the carts back would you?" he said in the same quiet voice. "We'll carry on ahead and meet you at the castle."

  Brother Aaron cast another glance in Sam’s direction, as if he wanted to apologise for the arm twisting before he turned away, folded back the canvas at the back of the wagon and jumped back into the road. Sam’s intention was to follow but he struggled to rise to his feet. Father Geoffrey placed a hand on his good shoulder and gently but firmly pushed him back onto his rump. "I think you should stay there." he said.

  "Who are you?" Sam asked. "And why have you taken me?"

  "I prefer to call it rescued," laughed Father Geoffrey. "And there's no rush to thank me."

  "Thank you?" Asked a bewildered Sam.

  "That's more like it." Father Geoffrey laughed again, but not mockingly. "Brother Aaron will soon get - was it Joshua? - back to us. Who is he anyway? Family?"

  "My brother," answered Sam.

  "Oh."

  “So why are you keeping me prisoner?” Sam asked again.

  “You’re not a prisoner.”

  “So why can’t I go and find my friend?”

  "I thought you said he was your brother?” Father Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “Besides, it's too risky.”

  "We've done alright so far, me and Joshua," Sam blurted.

  Father Geoffrey shifted his position slightly, "How old are you?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject as if an abrupt thought had struck him.

  "Twelve, I think." Sam concentrated hard, trying to remember. Since all the people died, the passage of time had lost significance and the days all blurred into one. “Maybe thirteen.”

  "You poor, poor thing." The older man looked as if he might shed a tear. “I’m Father Geoffrey by the way.” He held out his hand but Sam didn’t return the gesture, leaving his own hand where it was. “We’re monks, simple men of God, and I assure you we have no interest in kidnapping anyone or hurting you.”

  “Then I can go back and find my friend?”

  “Do you feel you’ve the energy for it?” asked Father Geoffrey.

  Sam thought about it and knew that he didn’t.

  12

  As dusk drew close around them, the drivers urged the horses forward. Sam and the youth had to hold onto their seats to save being thrown about but thankfully the dash didn't last long before they pulled to a halt. Outside, it had gone almost fully dark and the air carried with it a chill. Gingerly, Sam clambered to his feet and leaned on the young monk for support before they both made their way to the back of the cart and poked their heads out through the canvas flap to take stock of their surroundings.

  For the first time he saw how many other carts were travelling in their caravan; one ahead of them and another seven behind, some covered and some not. All the ones he could see into the back of were stacked high with barrels and boxes. Although at the time he didn't know it, they contained fine wines, beers and other luxuries the monks had found in Riverford while he’d been drugged.

  They were on top of a hill looking up at a set of studded, timber gates which were set into walls of massive grey stone blocks. Wind tugged at the canvas covering the carts, slapping it against wood and itself. Sam jumped down off the wagon and almost lost his balance in the dirt but no one seemed to notice and he dawdled over to join the group, who were in the midst of a heated debate. All eyes were upon a young monk who, from what Sam could gather, had volunteered to shimmy up the walls to find a way inside. Simply peering up at the ramparts gave Sam vertigo and he could well understand their concern. The youth who’d tended him along the journey chuckled under his breath. One idea after another was floated, suggesting safer ways of getting inside, but eventually they conceded and the climb began.

  There were plenty of foot and hand holds between the blocks but that didn't stop the gathered crowd collectively holding their breath while the ascent was made. Progress was painfully slow and as he scaled higher, the monk’s robes flapped more violently in the wind. Each inch up the wall was torture for those watching. When a bird’s nest became dislodged and plummeted to the ground, a collective gasp rang out but the boy on the wall didn't look down. Eventually, when he looked impossibly small, the monk heaved himself over the parapet and out of sight.

  Those gathered on the ground all breathed a sigh of relief and a few let out small nervous laughs. After their tense silence, the air filled with chatter. Some however, looked uneasy; more than one of them glancing nervously over their shoulder, peering down the road and into the dark. The chatter soon faded as anxiety became contagious and spread throughout the monks. When an owl swept overhead, letting out a screech, Sam wasn't the only one who jumped.

  An impossibly long time passed while they waited out on the road and in the dark, before the sound of bolts being wrestled with and drawn back made everyone take a step forward. A small door set into the gates swung open and a shaved head and young smiling face appeared through the gap. His smiles were returned and he held the door open for the rest of the monks to file through, their heads bobbing from side to side as they took in their surroundings.

  Sam followed, glad he hadn't been ordered back to the wagon. Above him, set into the ceiling of the wide arch were slots which he eyed nervously, half expecting boiling oil or sharp things to be dropped down on them. But they weren't and his attention was instead drawn to the bottom of the iron portcullis which poked out from a groove in the roof. If it had been left lowered there would have been no getting into the castle.

  The scale of the entrance left him overawed, until he poked his head into a small guard room, which was built into the thick wall. Although it was dark, the gruesome detail of the half decomposed guard was clearly on display, slumped over what must have been his last meal. His head was resting on a small stone table and next to it was sitting a half-full flagon of ale. The empty space in the top of the tankard was taken up with furry, white mould.

  Sam looked away and quickened his step until he was through the entrance and standing on the edge of a vast courtyard. Bathed in full moonlight, dog-rose and ivy grew tall up the walls and in places completely covered the windows. Grass grew up between the cobbles and brambles threatened to choke a once grand ornamental fishpond which stood in the centre. Sam let go a shriek and jumped back as a rat scurried past his feet. A few turned toward him but no one paid him much attention.

  The u
nsteady sound of horses’ hooves rang loudly on the flagstones and made him turn. Two of the horses were uncoupled from their carts and were being coaxed in through the small door before they were tethered to heavy iron rings in the gates. Sam watched as a group of monks struggled to remove a huge timber which served to brace the main gates together. When it slipped from their grip, the crash it made falling to the floor echoed around the courtyard, making Sam cover his ears. The horses whinnied and shied but they were weary and it took a quick, sharp slap to their rumps to set them moving. Hinges squealed into the night with dis-use but once the gates started to move, they swung slowly open to reveal the road winding off and down the hill outside. Wind came whistling into the courtyard and Sam shivered.

  As the carts were brought in and the horses tended to, Sam wandered off from the group to explore further. Off to one side of the courtyard he came across the stables, which like so many places, were humming with flies, even late at night. All the horses were dead, their once fine coats gone black and slimy, becoming one with the straw. The stench prevented him looking further and he scurried back to join the others.

  The gates were being pulled closed again and the wooden brace lifted back onto its hooks. Father Geoffrey was standing talking in a group when Sam sidled up to him.

  "Oh. Hello there." Father Geoffrey looked down as if he'd almost forgotten Sam existed. "Grim isn't it," he said with a wave of his arm.

  Sam nodded.

  "Shall we see if we can find you a bed for the night, rather than the back of a cart?"

  Sam nodded again although he didn't feel at all sleepy.

  13