The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “You want to play? Fine. Let’s play.”

  With a confident, albeit gormless, grin, his foe began to circle him once more, swirling his Hruti with seasoned grace that belied his Neanderthal appearance. The staff swung round in an arcing blur, a blow aimed at Stone’s temple. A blow that would never land.

  Up till this point, Stone had been holding back deliberately, keen to learn the staff the hard way, to ingratiate himself. Well, fuck that, he thought, as with but a mental command he rendered Rico nought but a martial statue.

  Falcon-Sight: he stepped aside, out of the path of the blow, bringing his own Hruti round in a swing aimed at his opponent’s mid-section.

  Real-time: Rico doubled over in pain as the wind was driven from his body. Grunting in pain, he turned, whirling his staff about to sweep Stone’s leg once again.

  Falcon-Sight: Stone casually stepped over the slowly swinging weapon, walking round his foe before jabbing his staff, end first, into the back of Rico’s right knee.

  Real-time: The brutish Youngblood fell to his knees with a cry of despair, unable to comprehend how his opponent had circled him. Acting on instinct, he swung the Hruti downwards, tucking it underneath his right arm, thrusting backwards like a spear in an attempt to stab Stone’s stomach or groin.

  Falcon-Sight: he watched as the staff lunged glacially towards him as though through treacle, before forgetting it and walking back around to his foe’s front. He brought his staff up over his head, and brought it down, bending with speed, over Rico’s forehead.

  Real-time: the Hruti snapped clean in two, the part he wasn’t holding sent flying off into the air. A small trickle of blood began to slowly work its way down Rico’s forehead, to his nose, his mouth. He tasted it, reaching up with tentative fingers to touch it. He looked at the crimson liquid dripping from his fingers. His eyes crossed and he tumbled sideways, unconscious.

  Stone stood victorious over his opponent, his knuckles bruised and raw, chin red from the blood leaking out of his lip, one eye already beginning to swell shut. Neroo stuck his staff in the soft grass, end first, then slowly began to clap, the applause spreading to become whooping and laughter as two of Arnoon’s lackeys dragged Rico off into the shade.

  The leader himself stared daggers at Stone, and he knew that he was devising yet more cunning and painful methods of ‘teaching’ him their ways. Tomorrow, he knew, would be a difficult day again. But he didn’t care.

  He merely met his gaze. And nodded.

  ***

  Warm, juicy, delicious, the roasted chicken went down a treat. He’d been eating cooked food for a couple of days now, but still the novelty hadn’t worn off and already he could feel reserves of energy being replenished as his stomach worked overtime to extract the nutrients and goodness. He even fancied he could feel his wounds knitting while he ate.

  “You certainly know how to make an impression,” chuckled the Shaman, his normally dour demeanour creased with laughter after Stone’s recounting of the day’s events. “You split the Elders, you nearly kill one of the Youngbloods. What tomorrow? Set fire to the Chief’s Hut?” He guffawed again and took a long drag on his pipe as Stone retorted through mouthfuls of meat.

  “Arnoon has it in for me. He thinks it something personal, he was going out of his way to make today as miserable for me as he could, despite everything you told him!”

  “But of course.”

  Stone frowned as he chewed and Wrynn continued.

  “Arnoon is a proud youth, he brooks no authority. He was bound to do the opposite of whatever I told him.”

  Stone stopped eating and stared incredulously, chicken leg in hand, at the smiling Shaman.

  “So… you knew he was going to give me this beasting?”

  “Aye, but it’s all for a good cause.”

  “A good cause?” Stone spat. “That’s all well and good, when you’re not the one with the black eye!” He jabbed the chicken leg towards his face, as though the shaman didn’t know what a black eye was.

  Wrynn dismissed his protestations with a wave of his hand.

  “Shush, boy. You don’t look far enough into the future, something you’ll have to change if you wish to exploit your full potential.” He paused for a second to take a puff on his pipe, savouring the sweet flavour of this particular blend, before carrying on. “Arnoon is less popular than you think in the village, regardless of the peacocking he inherits from his father. By standing up to him – as I knew you would – you make more friends than you know.”

  “Great, well let’s hope those friends don’t mind lifting logs for me tomorrow. I’m in agony.”

  Cue more laughter from the shaman.

  “Well luckily for you, your first night’s training in Spirit-Craft involves no lifting.”

  Rapt attention now, his pains and the events of the day forgotten in anticipation of this, yearning to know more about the talents he possessed, the talents which saved his hide on many an occasion and saved his pride today.

  “Where do we start?”

  “Where does one always start? At the beginning.”

  The shaman took a big, long draught on his pipe, leaving the stem in his lips as he exhaled, so twin clouds of blue smoke left his mouth and the bowl, twisting and twirling before being caught in the updraft of the fire, racing upwards to leave the hut via the chimney hole in the roof. Presently he removed the pipe and began to speak, slowly, quietly, deliberately.

  “Do you remember me telling you that this world is full of spirits?”

  “Yes. You said that even the stones have their own spirits.”

  Wrynn nodded. “This is true. The stones are part of the Earth element. Every element has its own spirits, many and varied, weak and strong. This fire,” he gestured to the small cooking fire between them, “has its own spirit that you can call upon, with practice and the right teaching. This is what forms the basis of Spirit-Craft, what gives the shaman his power.”

  “So every time I use a power, I’m calling on the spirits of one element or another to help me?”

  The shaman nodded again. Stone thought for a second.

  “So, the Falcon-Sight. What element is that?”

  “The flow of time is the domain of the spirits of air. When you use that power, you call upon them. The reason you feel a strain as you call upon the power is that the spirits of air are capricious and flighty, always seeking to escape your grasp.” He took a puff on his pipe, his fingers held over the end to choke the tobacco, for it had nearly gone out whilst he was talking. “Probably a good thing, to be honest. As you’ve no doubt found, the ability to move at speed is thrilling, empowering. Addictive. If one could live at that speed permanently, then who could stop them?”

  Stone thought about that, picturing himself with limitless access to the Falcon-Sight. Imagining the things he could get up to, moving so fast that no-one could see him. Who could stop him?

  “Another shaman?”

  Wrynn shook his head.

  “Though we live all over the world, some of us here with the Plains-People, others with the Hill-People, others still…” he shuddered, as if repressing some terrible memory, “choosing to live in the south, with the folk of the Steppes, we are all one order. We do not fight amongst ourselves. For many reasons. To fight amongst ourselves with our powers is to force the spirits to fight amongst themselves too. This disturbs the natural order of things and angers the spirits. If you’re lucky, then they may refuse to treaty with you.”

  Stone frowned.

  “That’s if you’re lucky?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And if you’re not?”

  “Put it this way; any spirit which will willingly fight for you against its own kind is probably not one you wish to call upon too often.” His face was stern, eyes holding warning of forbidden knowledge. “Many shaman fall into the trap of believing themselves master of the power, believing they own it rather than borrow it. Travel too far down that path, parlay with spirits too dark and some may
find the opposite becomes true.”

  He took a puff on his pipe, but no smoke came out; it had finally gone out. He reached for his tobacco pouch.

  “But enough on that, such talk is heavy for a first night of training. Let us speak of lighter things, nicer memories. Remind me again of the time you called upon the Earth-Tap.”

  Shaking further questions from his mind, Stone thought back to the time at the slaver camp, seeming so very long ago now, bringing to mind the memories of the earth, the sensing of the tin and stone, the flood of strength that had invigorated him. He told the shaman of all this, who nodded in silence as he listened.

  “Again, I’m surprised that you can call upon this power at so few summers of age. The Earth-Tap is a mighty skill. At lower levels it can be used to sustain you in the wilderness, drawing fresh strength from the ground when there’s neither food nor water to be found.”

  “Is that why I recover so quickly?”

  Wrynn looked thoughtful.

  “Perhaps, yes. It could be that you have a connection to the lesser spirits of the Earth at all times, keeping you refreshed. But what interests me more is the strength that you say you felt as you connected with the Earth. Are you sure of this?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied, the memories still fresh in his mind. “I felt as though I could move a mountain.”

  Just the turn of phrase was enough to convince Wrynn of his sincerity.

  “Intriguing. To call upon the strength of the Earth requires parlay with some formidable spirits. Have you repeated this since?”

  Stone shook his head.

  “Nope. I don’t remember how I did it.” He touched the lump on his head where the log had knocked him out. “I sure could have used it today.”

  Silence for a few moments, as Wrynn thought.

  “Well, we know that you have this ability, you’ve used it before, even if you know not how. So I resolve that our first port of call be to harness this skill again. Close your eyes.”

  The command took Stone by surprise, having just bitten off a huge chunk of chicken leg. He rested his hand on his knee, chicken leg still clutched, and chewed furiously, swallowing the mouthful down before obeying. Wrynn sighed. Sitting cross-legged, Stone tried to clear his thoughts and focus on his breathing as the shaman began to speak.

  “What do you feel beneath you?”

  Stone thought for a second.

  “The rug…”

  “Yes… and?”

  He focused more. The rug was uncomfortable.

  “Stones? Dried earth?”

  “Better.” The shaman’s voice was quiet, patient. “But use more than your flesh. What can you smell? What can you hear? Use it all, form a picture.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Stone analysed what he could smell. The sweet wood-smoke of the fire. The unmistakable aroma of roast chicken. No, these weren’t what he needed. Another breath, concentrating harder, trying to weed out the smells of the earth.

  “I can smell… the rain hitting the stones outside. I can hear the puddles splashing as they form… I…”

  “Focus…” Almost a whisper.

  The crackling of the fire receded, leaving only the noise of the rain on the ground and the roof of the hut. The smell of chicken disappeared, replaced with the rich, earthy smell of wet soil and grass. He pictured the rain falling, landing on the hard stones, trickling down, working their way into gaps in the soil. Further, they worked their way down, past the topsoil, winding their way through the roots of nearby trees until they reached layers of rock. The water forced its way into gaps even in this, trickling down, down into the depths. He could smell the rich mineral scent of ancient rock. He could taste the tang of copper on his tongue. The water fell further down, following lines it had travelled for millions of years and would travel for millions more, down, down, down until it reached a vast, flowing underground stream that rushed, bigger, mightier than the river that meandered from the mountains to the plains of the surface world. Downward he journeyed, till he reached the bedrock of this subterranean flow, and further still. The rock was dense now, hard, tempered by unknowable aeons of pressure, time the very scale of which would drive a man insane should he know but a fraction of its expanse.

  The stone was cold, but the further down he travelled, the warmer it seemed to get.

  Stop.

  Further down now and the stone began to melt, glowing orange, then white, and he could tell that it descended down an unimaginable distance, far greater than that of the solid rock above, dropping away beneath him like a great, endless ocean of burning, liquid rock.

  Come back.

  He swam, marvelling in the bright, white light that should have been impossible in the bowel of the earth where no sun could penetrate, but was generated instead by the heat of the rock itself.

  Come back now!

  He recoiled momentarily in shock, as a giant shadow swam past, a predator, living and hunting in the incandescent fury of the earth’s blood.

  You must return!

  He gazed in wonder as a diamond the size of a mountain floated past. He turned his senses further downwards, thousands of miles, sensing a looming mass of impossible density, great even than the diamond, feeling an attraction drawing him in.

  Enough!

  ***

  He opened his eyes, gasping for breath. He could smell burning and it wasn’t the fire. Wrynn stood a distance away, on the other side of the hut. He looked down at his sleeves, once sodden, now singed, long past steaming, beginning to smoke at the edges. The chicken leg, still clutched in his hand, a charred, unrecognisable lump.

  He looked up.

  “Wha… what happened?”

  The tall shaman loomed closer, his eyes glistening with a curious mixture of emotions; caution, respect and most of all, curiosity.

  “You went in too deep, I had to call you back.”

  “You mean, I was actually there…?”

  Wrynn nodded.

  “In spirit, yes.” Drama over, he sat down again, in his place opposite Stone. “By travelling like so, you channel the essence of your destination back to you. You travel to the earth, you bring back its strength, its nourishment.”

  Looking down at his gently smoking clothes, Stone gulped.

  “And I went too far…”

  A nod.

  “You need to show more restraint,” he warned. “The heat of the earth’s own blood was pouring into you. If you were there any longer, I would have had to flee.”

  Hesitating, Stone continued.

  “There was another realm, even further beyond. I could feel it, heavy, leaden, drawing me in. What if I’d ventured there?”

  The shaman fixed him with a serious stare.

  “Then you would have entered the lair of the Elements themselves uninvited. And perished.”

  Silence for a time, neither talking, both thinking of the events that had just unfolded.

  After length, Wrynn spoke, Stone confused by the sudden levity in his voice.

  “However,” he began, a slight and unexpected smile lighting up his face, “the very fact that you have to learn restraint is… quite extraordinary.”

  Stone looked confused, so he continued.

  “Most apprentices struggle even to scratch the surface of the Spirit-World, let alone venture too far. Remember how I told you that to draw strength from the earth was a feat of note? I wasn’t joking.” He paused to allow to import to sink in. “In my years of practicing the Spirit-Craft – and it has been many years, young one – I have ventured but once into the realm of rock-fire. You, on the other hand, did it by accident.”

  ***

  He slept soundly that night, despite the drama of the day, and awoke refreshed the following morning in the small hut the village had requisitioned for his use during his stay. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, stretching out his arms and legs; they felt curiously strong and limber for saying the gruelling paces he’d been put through the day before…

  He w
alked over to the pot of water hanging on the wall and poured some into his hands, washing his face, noting the lack of swelling about his eye, the perfectly uncut lip, the smooth contours of his forehead where there should be a bump.

  At first, he was confused, but then he remembered how fast he healed; it seemed so long since his life in the wilds that he’d completely forgotten. He was beginning to feel like a regular human being again, he laughed. Wrynn hadn’t mentioned anything about fast healing during his lessons last night. He resolved to ask him when he next had the chance.

  He grabbed a bread-roll for his breakfast from a small table by the door and pushed aside the hide to venture out into the light of the morning. He stretched again and looked about, the same villagers performing the same tasks as the morning before and the morning before that. He smiled, enjoying the familiar sense of routine. It had been a long while since he’d had routine. Or so he assumed.

  He took a big bite of crusty bread and made his way through the village, as though to head out to the Proving Grounds for yet another arduous day of training, but as he rounded one corner he spied familiar figures and heard heated words. Ducking back out of sight, he watched as Arnoon had Lanah backed against the wall of a hut, arguing furiously, venom in his words. She slapped him. He stormed off.

  Stone backed away again, then rounded the corner nonchalantly as though he was just coming round, oblivious to any happenings around the corner, almost colliding with Lanah coming the other way. She muttered an apology, moved to pass him, then looked up and realised who it was, her face lighting up in an instant.

  “Stone! Good morning! I was just talking about you.”

  He smiled. “All good, I hope?”

  She threaded her arm through his and they walked, arm in arm towards the centre of the village. He was acutely aware of the softness of her skin on his.

  “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but shouldn’t I be heading over to the Proving Grounds for another day’s torture, sorry, training?”

  She laughed. “Not today! Have you forgotten? It’s the feast tonight in honour of your arrival to the village. The Youngbloods are venturing to the foothills today, hunting the boar. You’re going with them.”