Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) by Mikey Campling Page B

Hafoc told himself. And for once, he managed to hold his tongue.
    “I’m not sure,” Tostig said. “It was a good trail, left by a few men. But here, it splits into two.” He pointed to the ground, but Hafoc could not see the clues that Tostig seemed to read so easily. “I cannot tell,” Tostig went on, “which trail will lead us to Brond.”
    Sceort and Flyta looked at each other but said nothing.
    Tostig looked at Hafoc. “It will not help if we split up. If one pair finds them, two men will not be enough to save Brond.”
    “So which way should we go?” Hafoc asked.
    Tostig grimaced. “I cannot say,” he said. “Rest for a little while and I’ll see what I can find.” Tostig picked up his flask and pulled out the stopper. “Have a drink,” he told them.
    Sceort and Flyta stood and did as they were told, but Hafoc squatted down on his haunches. Suddenly, he was weary. How would they find Brond now? If they picked the wrong trail, they’d end up being forced to retrace their steps, and then they’d never catch up with whoever had taken his brother. Hafoc closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. For every moment they rested, Brond was being dragged farther away.
    A tap on the shoulder startled him out of his bleak thoughts. He looked up to see Flyta standing over him, holding out his flask.
    “Do you have water?” Flyta asked.
    Hafoc stared up at the older man. “Yes,” he said. “I think so.” He checked his own flask and felt its weight. “Yes. I have water.”
    “Good,” Flyta said. “Drink while you can. You’ll need it.”
    Hafoc nodded. “I will.” He pulled the stopper from his flask and Flyta sniffed and turned away. Hafoc opened his mouth to thank Flyta but that didn’t seem right. Instead, he stood and joined Flyta and Sceort, sipping at his flask in silence by their side.
    A few moments later, Tostig returned to the group. His face was grim. “It’s no good,” he said. “Although…”
    “What?” Hafoc said.
    Tostig chewed his lip. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But maybe one trail belongs to Brond alone.”
    “Alone?” Hafoc said. “You mean he escaped?”
    Tostig shrugged. “Or perhaps they let him go.”
    Hafoc smiled. Yes, that would be just like Brond. He was always the lucky one. “So what do we do?”
    Sceort shook his head. “The Wandrian don’t let people go. Not alive.”
    They all stared at Sceort for a moment. Hafoc broke the silence. “Tostig, what do you think we should do?”
    Tostig looked Sceort in the eye. “We carry on,” he said. “We stay together and we pick a trail. If we don’t find Brond on the one trail, we’ll return here and try the other.”
    Sceort hesitated and then he grunted his approval.
    Tostig turned away and squared his shoulders. But as Tostig turned, Hafoc caught a glimpse of the older man’s expression. Tostig was unsure. He doesn’t know! He has no idea which trail to take . Hafoc felt like yelling at the top of his voice. This was no good. They couldn’t afford to make a mistake. They needed some sign to tell them which way to go. But what could he do? An argument with Tostig would make things worse. Their leader might even decide they should give up and return to the tribe. Hafoc bit his lip and stared out into the forest, thinking of his brother, and suddenly, an idea struck him. “Nelda,” he said.
    “Be quiet,” Sceort said. “Tostig is finding the trail.”
    “But Nelda can find it,” Hafoc said. The others stared at him. “She’s Brond’s dog. She can tell which trail is his.” He looked at each of them in turn, hoping for a smile or a nod, but seeing only stony impatience.
    “How?” Tostig said.
    Hafoc opened his mouth. He didn’t know what to say.
    “She’s a dog,” Sceort sneered. “She can sniff out prey sure enough but that’s about it.”
    Hafoc felt the blood rise to his face. “She knows his scent,” he said. But it sounded feeble, even to him. He turned away from the men and