He stopped and looked at her, head cocked to one side.
“I’m going with them? I’ve had one day’s training. I hardly think I’ll be any use…”
“Judging by your skill with a bow, I’m tempted to think otherwise,” she smiled.
“How…?”
“Neroo is an old friend of mine. He told me of your efforts yesterday. You riled Arnoon, that’s for sure.” She laughed, adding, “and for that, you have my eternal gratitude.”
She paused, a frown of puzzlement playing across her features.
“Going by what he told me, I expected you to look more of a mess this morning.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, turning him this way and that.
“What can I say? I scrub up nicely.”
“That you do.”
They resumed walking, coming shortly to a village centre thronged with Youngbloods and villagers, the Chief and Wrynn both standing in the middle of the crowd. Surreptitiously, Stone unlooped Lanah’s arm from his own, spying Arnoon in the midst of the Youngbloods. The leader of the youths didn’t need any more incentive to make his life hell. He glanced sidelong at Lanah, whose eyes showed she understood.
Just say they got to the crowd, Farr began to speak, his voice raised for all to hear.
“Tonight we feast, and so we thank the forests of the Hills for the bounty it yields. We thank our Youngbloods, for their bravery and skill in going out to claim that bounty.” He gestured over to a wizened, old man who stood, inconspicuous to one side. “And we thank our fletcher, Yalen, for giving them the means.”
Yalen walked up to Farr, handing him a long arrow, painted white with red feather flights, different from all the arrows he’d seen up till now. Farr took the arrow, raised it up for all to see.
“Who leads this hunt?”
Arnoon stepped forward from the crowd, his chin high. Stone fancied he could see one cheek redder than the other. Farr handed the arrow to the youth, speaking as he did.
“As leader of this hunt, you have the right to First Kill. With this arrow, you hold the honour of our village and you deliver the thanks of our people to the forest.”
Arnoon lifted the arrow in one fist, high into the air in salute. His Youngbloods cheered his name as before, “Arnoon! Arnoon!” though Stone was sure that certain faces in the crowd called out with less enthusiasm than before.
“Every hunt is a cause for celebration,” continued Farr as the chanting died down. “But today’s even more so, for we do it in readiness for tonight’s feast, in honour of our newest villager.”
The crowd parted, leaving Stone on his own, save for Lanah by his side.
“Err… hi.”
The crowd rippled with laughter and Farr smiled as he spoke.
“You have been here but a short while, but today you venture on your first hunt. It is a noble tradition and I ask that you watch, listen, learn. To be a true member of the Plains-People, you must learn to respect the land, reap its bounty but at the same time give thanks.”
He hadn’t noticed Raine and another young girl of the village coming up to him. They stripped him of his jacket, his chest and midsection in the morning sun seeming somehow thicker, more muscled and defined than even the day before. Lanah circled around to his front and, in her hands, she held a bowl of green war-paint.
“To match your eyes,” she whispered, as she leant in close. She dipped her fingers in the green pigment, and smeared it in swirls across his chest. Then, using finger tips, she drew a single vertical line down each cheek. She turned and nodded to her father, who nodded in return.
The Youngbloods turned and, to the cheers and encouraging slaps of the villagers, began to march off to the plains on the edge of the village that would, in turn, lead them to the forests in the foothills of the mountains. As Stone turned to leave with them, Lanah stopped him.
“You might need these.”
She handed him a bow and quiver of arrows, to the quiet laughter of those nearby who noticed. He grinned sheepishly.
“Cheers. That would have been embarrassing. Would have been embarrassing to face a boar with my bare fists.”
“Stay safe.”
He nodded, turned and strode to catch up to the group.
***
Despite how he was settling into village life, enjoying the company of fellow man, returning to the forest gave him a strong sense of homecoming. He was in his element, his senses rising to meet the sounds, sights and smells of the woods, his bare feet practiced at moving stealthily. Neroo looked at him, whispering quietly.
“I thought this was your first hunt…”
Stone didn’t reply keeping his eyes peeled, staring into the forest ahead, dark and shadowed despite the sun high in the sky behind them. They’d been tracking this boar for an hour now, Arnoon on point, prized arrow never leaving his hand, the rest of the youths strung out behind, moving cautiously and quietly. Several times Stone had been tempted to tell them about the multiple boar he’d smelt passing within bowshot of them, including a whole family, a mother and litter of piglets, snuffling their way oblivious past the equally ignorant Youngbloods. But as Neroo had warned him at the start, this was Arnoon’s hunt. Many a hunt had he led in his time as leader of the Youngbloods, but this was the first feast-hunt, the first white arrow. Do not get in his way, he’d been warned. Watch, observe. Stay back.
Arnoon raised his hand, signalling the troupe to stop. Neroo strained his eyes beside Stone, trying to catch a glimpse of the target. Stone could see it clearly; a thick, hairy boar the size of a calf, rooting with its hard nose through the moist soil of the forest floor in search of some hidden grub or plant, though judging by the size of the fearsome yellow tusks that erupted from its jaw like ice-age mountains, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had dragged the entire tree up by its roots and scoffed it down whole.
The Youngblood’s leader nocked the arrow with care, crouching down, taking aim, his muscles drawing the heavy bow with practiced ease, a smile that spoke of supreme confidence hidden from his friends by the shade.
Stone watched, his subconscious mind racing as it calculated angles. He’s going to miss, he thought. The sun was behind them, the shadows messing with his perspective.
The bow went twang. The arrow went whoosh. The tree went thud.
Eyes wide with surprise, then fear, Arnoon could only gasp as the boar span, mindless instinct driving it to rush in rage at its attackers. Like some unstoppable landslide, the heavy, thick-set beast bounded towards the group like a porcine nightmare. Foolishly or bravely, Arnoon grabbed another arrow from his quiver, rather than flee, but had no time to loose; the beast smashing into him with the force of a falling tree, launching him head over heels to land with a crump. Its momentum nowhere near arrested, the beast flew on, bowling aside the terrified Youngbloods like so many tenpins. Rico, big, burly, oh-so-stupid Rico, lunged at the pig, attempting to wrap his arms round its throat, only to be dragged across the forest floor then catapulted away with a kick from a stubby leg.
Towards them it thundered, squealing its single-minded fury. Neroo jumped sideways out of the way, screaming for Stone to do the same.
Falcon-Sight, and Stone had time to think.
He looked in the creature’s tiny, beady eyes and knew that it would not stop, would not be placated. After this run it would merely turn and rake them again, stabbing with its hideous tusks and kicking with stubby, yet mighty legs. With the Youngbloods in disarray, scattered dazed and sprawling about the forest floor, they would be easy and fragile targets for its vengeful wrath.
Against his better judgement, he knew what to do.
As the beast flew on towards him, fast even in Falcon-Sight, Stone drew back his right arm, curling his hand into a fist. With his mind, he reached down, deep into the earth, feeling his way through the nourishing topsoil until he reached what he was after; the hard, unyielding bedrock that had supported for a billion years the weight of the mountains and would continue to do so till the stars had
cooled. He called on a fraction of that infinite strength and, once again, the spirits of rock answered that call.
***
Neroo watched in horrified fascination as he lay in the leaves of the forest floor. The Nagah-Slayer stood his ground before the rampaging animal and, in an instant, the beast was on him, an irresistible force of rippling flesh, jutting bone and bestial hatred, tusks bared as it bore down for the kill with a terrifying squeal. Neroo could not tear his eyes away as he watched Stone, whether fuelled by insanity or bravery, laughably draw back his fist in readiness to punch the beast square in the face.
A booming crack, like a thunderclap, that caused him to close his eyes and cover his ears in shock, the report echoing a thousand times off all the trees. He opened them again, in time to see the lifeless corpse of the beast skidding past him through the dried leaves, back the way it had come, its tongue lolling out its mouth, eyes glazed, lifeless, an indentation in the centre of its forehead that spoke of massive, instant brain trauma.
Slowly, disbelievingly, he turned to gaze, along with the rest of the troupe, with awestruck eyes to the figure that stood, silhouetted with the sun behind him. Stone’s face was invisible, his fist held to his side, blood dripping to the forest floor with a steady drip-drip-drip.
***
The cheers rang through the night sky, the wine running freely and the pipes laden with blends saved for just such a time as this. The villagers danced, sang and ate as they crowded the village centre, the fire in the middle lit, roaring, a huge, skewered boar suspended in the heat, already half eaten.
Sitting, cross-legged, between Chief Farr and Wrynn, Stone watched the womenfolk of the village dancing in the grass, to the echoing beat of the drums, his eyes forever lingering on one such girl in particular, much to the delight of her father.
“You have done well today, Nagah-Slayer!” He clapped the younger man on his shoulder, the force of his arm belying the Chief’s age. “Not two weeks living with the Plains-People and already your deeds become legend.”
Every now and then, a Youngblood would tap Stone on the shoulder, offering him a hand of friendship, a word of thanks, a nod of respect and a welcome glow of kinship and acceptance beginning to make itself known as it spread through Stone’s chest. Only Arnoon had failed to appear so far. As they had made their way back from the forest, he had stalked off ahead, nary a word to anyone, retrieved arrow stashed in his quiver. None had seen hide nor hair of him since then.
A pipe made its way round the circle towards them, Wrynn taking a deep puff, before slowly exhaling, eyes half closed. He shook his head, puffing out his cheeks, much to the amusement of his fellow revellers, rare for the Shaman to be letting his guard down in company.
“Strong stuff,” he offered, by way of explanation.
Stone, next in line, reached out to take the pipe, Wrynn giving him a wary look.
“You sure? This isn’t an everyday blend.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine!”
He took the pipe, placed the stem between his pursed lips and drew in a deep breath, letting out a choking fit of coughs as the thick smoke burned his lungs, his audience creasing in laughter.
“Not into your lungs, lad!” advised the Chief in between bursts of mirth. “Just into your mouth, then out again, like this!” He mimicked the puffing breaths of a woman in labour.
Coughing finally subsiding, Stone tried again, drawing slower, feeling his mouth filling with grassy tasting smoke, letting it out in a steady stream the snaked up into the night sky. Something was certainly different about this tobacco; he began to feel light-headed, dizzy, but in a good way, the beat of the drums taking on a more hypnotic, deeper rhythm as he passed the pipe, smiling, to Farr. The latter took a deep and grateful chug before passing it on again to the person next in line, then turned back to Stone.
“Nagah-Slayer, it is you who made the kill this day, therefore it is tradition that you give thanks to the beast for providing us with this meal.” He rose and gestured over to the drummers who ceased their playing for the moment, allowing the night’s silence to fill the village square.
“My good people, let us be silent for a moment that the Nagah-Slayer might give thanks for our feast tonight.”
Stone stood, all eyes upon him, not sure exactly what to say but, thanks to the influence of the pipe, pretty happy to wing it.
“This pig,” he gestured to the firepit, “was a beast of spirit. He led us on a merry chase and, just as we thought we had him, turned upon us with a fury we could never have imagined.”
The eyes of every Youngblood in the circle closed as they thought back to the scenes of rampage earlier that afternoon.
“If the life of this animal shows us anything, it is that we should never underestimate the power of nature. She can be our friend one minute, our deadliest foe the next, so we must always remember to show the spirits respect.” Nods from about the circle, including Wrynn, gently swaying.
“So, it is in remembrance of this lesson that I give thanks to this boar for providing tonight’s feast.” He raised in salute the roasted chop upon which he’d been feasting. “To the boar; you were a worthy foe and an even worthier meal!”
Laughter, as the crowd cried in unison:
“To the boar!”
Stone was just about to bring the chop to his mouth and take a bite when a flash of white snatched it from his hand. The crowd gasped as, looking behind Stone, they saw the chop stuck fast ten feet up a wooden post that held up a string of lanterns, impaled upon the sleek, white form of a red-flighted arrow.
Arnoon stalked through the circle, the crowd parting like waves before the bow of a ship, slowly lowering his bow, face a vision of incandescent fury.
The Chief leapt up, the fog of pipe-weed cleared in an instant, bellowing.
“What is the meaning of this, Arnoon? Have you gone mad?”
The youth stopped, snarling.
“Mad? Is it mad to demand justice? To demand my honour repaid? He stole my kill! My. Rightful. Kill.”
Stone defended himself.
“Are you mental? You missed! The beast was running wild, if I’d waited for you to recover your senses then it would have killed someone.”
“And it would have been a worthy death for them!”
Stone, blinked, staggered by the arrogance of his accuser.
“You value your own honour more than the lives of your men? Your friends?”
“I am Arnoon, son of Narek, son of Lorn. My family have served this village and its people for ten generations. I value honour above anything.”
The rotund form of his father sat on a nearby log visibly swelled with grotesque pride in this display.
“And you,” continued Arnoon, pointing an accusing finger at Stone, “have besmirched it. I demand satisfaction.”
The crowd drew their breaths and Stone looked about confused as the Chief enquired.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Arnoon nodded, a savage glee in his eyes.
“Tomorrow, sunrise, the Proving Grounds. We fight. Single combat. To the death.”
Chapter Seven
The training ground was strangely silent, despite the crowds that gathered about its edge. The only noise that of the gentle breeze rustling through the long grass, whipping the flags about on their posts. His opponent and his family hadn’t arrived yet, so, with Lanah, Farr and Wrynn at his sides, Stone had plenty of time to reflect on the night before.
***
The festivities had halted abruptly after Arnoon’s dramatic interruption, as everyone had returned to their own huts in groups to excitedly discuss the events of the evening, the implications of the challenge. Stone had followed Farr and the others to the big hut, where they turned to him, concerned. Wrynn was the first to speak.
“You have two choices, Stone,” he began. “You can face him in combat, as he demands…”
“Or…?”
Wrynn looked at Lanah and Farr in turn, b
efore continuing.
“Or you can leave the village.” Stone was quiet. Wrynn carried on. “This is our tradition when it comes to challenges. Fight, or leave in shame.”
“If I fight, I have to kill him?”
Farr nodded.
“Unless he gives in, in which case he will have to leave instead.”
“He’s not likely to give in, is he…?”
Silence. He turned to Lanah, who until now hadn’t spoken a word. Her eyes were on the ground, not meeting anyone’s gaze.
“Lanah…? What do you think?”
She raised her eyes to meet his, deep, hazel orbs that shimmered with emotion barely held in check.
“I’m a healer, Stone. It’s my calling. I try to avoid conflict wherever I can.”
He went to speak, but she held up her hand to stop him.
“But… All the same, I don’t want you to go.” She seemed to straighten, confidence returning to her voice as though some inner turmoil had been resolved. “There’s something about you, Stone,” she said, looking him over. “I feel as though you’ve been sent here for a reason, as though you can make a real difference to this land.” She walked over, took his hand in hers. “Loathe as I am to say it, I think you should fight.”
“You do?”
Farr answered in her stead.
“She is right, Nagah-Slayer.” He sighed, as though in deep regret at things that must be done. “Arnoon is a brave youth, strong and skilful, but he has shown himself to be callous and arrogant as well. We are the Plains-People; we have bravery and skill coming out of our ears; such attributes, I’m afraid to say, aren’t enough to tip the balance in his favour.” He moved closer to Stone, placed a hand on his shoulder, so now the Nagah-Slayer was a link in a family chain, binding together father and daughter. “Take the fight to him, Nagah-Slayer. If it is what he wants, give it to him.”
The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 11
