The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  His laughter died in his throat as memories forced themselves to mind; Barbarians, war, his village and people in danger. Lanah.

  Terror clutched his heart and he knew that he must move now or there would be no reason for his being here.

  He let go of three of the elements, retaining his connection to the air, feeling the capricious power attempting to evade his grasp but soothing it, assuaging it with mental promises and petitions, the bond growing stronger without the need for brute might; he had learned at least something useful from his subterranean voyage.

  He looked up at the moons, the stars, the skills he’d been taught by Arnoon telling him exactly in which direction the village lay, before slowing the flow of time and making off at a run, the cool, evening air whipping past his limbs in streaming trails of moisture.

  The rabbits watched, with interest, the two-legged creature that streaked from their warrens in a blur of motion, leaving nothing but a thunderclap behind it, then forgot the scene in an instant as they ventured out once more to feast on the tasty grass; for life as a rabbit was harsh and it didn’t do well to dwell on things when there was eating to be had.

  ***

  The spirits of air left him a little over halfway back to the village, bored with the lack of action, his speed slowing to a mere athletic sprint, and he let them go with no argument, unwilling to force their hand just yet, to anger them, for despite his urgent need to reach the village, he knew that he’d have need of them when he reached his destination.

  He’d reached the Yow, running parallel, along its banks, cresting a small mound of grass, and that was when he saw the smoke in the distance. His heart stopped, face running cold as he surveyed the scene, knowing that there was only one place the smoke could have come from. Fists clenched, he powered on.

  ***

  Not for the first time that day, Barjeen riled at the indignity of his situation.

  The raid had gone as planned, the force of the villagers exactly as Raga’s pet sorcerer had described; a ragtag band of untrained youths and greying men, easily overwhelmed by the might of the Steppes-Warriors army.

  Those that could be had been subdued with minimal injury, for profit was to be had in the strong and proud Plains-People down at the slave markets in Barbarian City. Women, children, easily taken, bound, forced onto the carts. The warriors, not so easily; some had been dragged down unharmed, of course, for the Steppes-Warriors were masters of the art of capturing slaves, it being a long and proud tradition; the elders in particular being easily subdued, easily outmatched by the speed and ferocity of the barbarians.

  Not all the elders, of course.

  A pair of large, greying warriors, one of them no doubt the Chief, the leader of the village, had laid about them with axe and bow, hewing barbarians left and right, the slavers having to resort to bringing them down from afar. The Chief had roared his denial at his foes, even as arrow after arrow impaled him, the might of his righteous indignation terrifying and thrilling in equal measure as he fell to his knees and crumpled into the dust, defending his proud wife and daughter.

  These were the exception amongst the elders.

  The youths of the village, however, had been a surprise, fighting with a bravery and raw determination that had surprised even the experienced Barjeen. Thus, unfortunately, most of them had been slaughtered, for the risk of trying to capture them – winding them with bolas or snaring them in nets – was too great, the barbarians learning that lesson the hard way at the sharp end of bronze-tipped arrows and ivory knives.

  Barjeen recalled a particularly fearsome youth that had charged him as though he had something to prove to himself; he could still picture the blue war-paint, the three braids of hair flying in the air as the young warrior had leapt down on him from the roof of a hut, brandishing two wickedly serrated daggers. The ferocity and recklessness had been an inspiring sight for the barbarian, and it was with remorse that he’d cut the boy down, dodging the clumsy attacks with seasoned grace and running the youth through with his scimitar. The youth’s lifeblood still stained his hands. He remembered the smile of duty done on the boy’s face as he’d fallen to the dust and envied him the honour of such a worthy death.

  Honour. Such as was not to be found in his current job. After every battle it was customary to scavenge, to plunder the homes of their fallen enemies and to make the rounds, checking the fallen for loot and ending the suffering of those in which the heart still beat. Normally a duty befallen the youngest, greenest, rawest of recruits.

  But Raga, the bastard, the conniving, glory-hunting hound, had a habit of delegating such tedious, demeaning chores to his lieutenants, his way of curbing their ambitions, bringing them to heel. He brooked no challenge from his juniors. Barjeen both admired and despised the man’s scarred visage, even as he looked down on the latest victim of the rounds, cast red in the sunset as though lying in a river of blood.

  That the youth still breathed was testament to his incredible will-power, for Barjeen distinctly remembered him charging at Raga, assailing him in a flourish of skill and courage that Barjeen wouldn’t have expected from a primitive. Folly, of course, for as much as Barjeen despised his Marzban, he had to admit that the man’s skill with his dual scimitars was legendary and the tall, handsome youth, with his long, dark braid of hair, had been cut down like the child he was.

  Looking down on the stricken youth who breathed in short, rasping gasps, blood trickling from a corner of his mouth, Barjeen could feel the pride and satisfaction radiating from him in great waves, even as his life slowly faded away.

  He knelt down, till he was close to the boy’s ear and whispered.

  “What is it you’re so proud of, child?” His voice was filled with jealous venom. “Your village burns, your people are taken or dead. Nothing remains of your legacy. In a hundred years, no-one will remember your people ever existed.” He spread his arms to encompass the blackened, burning remains of the settlement. “Where is the victory in this?”

  The youth looked over Barjeen’s shoulder, his blood-shot eyes widening in recognition. His lips parted in a pained smile.

  The Barbarian leader turned, frowning.

  There, silhouetted in the crimson and purple evening sky, the figure of one lone primitive stood, bare-chested, in the emptiness of what was once the village square. His paler skin stood out from the rest of the tribesmen, the moonlight reflecting off his green eyes – something Barjeen had never seen before. With a smile, he called his men, happy that he would be able to extract at least a little satisfaction from his task.

  “Haresh! Lutar! We have a live one…”

  The pair of warriors came out from a hut they’d been ransacking for whatever possessions had escaped the fire, eyes lighting with glee as they saw a fresh victim. Haresh unslung his bow from his back, nocking a long, barbed arrow.

  “Go for the shoulder but miss the joint; he’s in good shape, will make us a pretty penny if we keep him a secret from the Marzban.”

  The warrior nodded, aimed, fired, all in one motion, the target easy pickings for a skilled marksman such as he.

  They blinked, expecting a cry of pain, but none forthcoming.

  The tribesman stood, holding the caught arrow in his hand, inspecting it momentarily, before losing interest and snapping it betwixt thumb and forefinger, slowly marching towards them.

  Haresh looked in stunned silence to Barjeen, who took a step back, frowning in confusion, before regaining his composure.

  “Lutar, take him.”

  The brawny slaver growled, cracking his knuckles, before marching forwards towards the approaching primitive, stance low, practiced, ready to wrap his meaty forearm about his foe’s throat in order to bring him choking to the ground.

  It all happened so fast as to be almost impossible for the human eye to follow.

  Lutar leapt forwards in the traditional tackle, forearm poised for the capture, but the youth evaded the move with ease, reaching up with his own hands, snapping the p
roffered limb with a wet and sickening crack, the barbarian screaming in agony, but only for an instant, before a fist hammered into his midsection, driving all the wind from his lungs, bloody chunks of unknown origin catapulting from his open mouth, before falling to the ground in disbelieving horror and, finally, lying, dead, in a spreading pool of his own crimson blood.

  The young primitive continued his slow, purposeful walk towards them, not slowed, even for a second, by the killing of his foe and Barjeen’s eyes widened, his chest pounding with unaccustomed fear.

  “Haresh, what are you waiting for? Take him down, now!”

  The archer launched a volley of arrows, one after the other, each perfectly aimed, each streaking with killing speed. In a flurry of blurs, the warrior evaded each shot, not breaking stride for an instant, the arrows thudding instead into the wooden wall of a hut behind him, before becoming bored of the game and catching the last missile, throwing it back with unnatural force and impeccable aim.

  “Haresh? Why have you stopped? He’s still coming!”

  His warrior turned to him, eyes staring blankly, the shaft of his final arrow sticking out a clear foot from the centre of his forehead. He tried to speak, but only a long, drooling strand of spittle came out as he burbled incoherently, before collapsing to the dust.

  Barjeen gasped in sheer, unadulterated horror, turning back to his approaching foe. His hand fumbled for the hilt of his scimitar, drawing it and brandishing the sharp blade in warning.

  “What manner of creature are you? Get back! Get back, I tell you!”

  He swung the blade round in a practiced flourish in an effort to halt the primitive’s advance and, for an instant, it seemed to work, the youth halting his forward march, but as an evil smile began to spread across his foe’s face, all hope fled from Barjeen’s heart.

  With horror, he looked into his opponent’s eyes, seeing an eternity of dancing flames, a ravenous, burning hunger dwelling therein and, in an instant, the blade of his scimitar glowed like an incandescent star, the heat travelling down until it reached the hilt, flashing the skin from his hand, filling the air with smoke and the stomach-churning scent of burning flesh.

  Screaming, the warrior dropped the sword, the grass withering beneath its touch, before falling to his knees and clutching his ruined hand, staring with incredulous eyes.

  A shadow loomed over him, the warrior, the flames having died from his eyes, now restored their luminous and eerie green. One sweeping backhand delivered with inhuman force, and the barbarian was sent skidding into a pile of burnt timber of his own making, knocked senseless, but still clinging to life.

  ***

  Threat dealt with, Stone finally permitted himself the luxury of letting out his grief at the loss of his village. With a choking sob, he fell to his knee at Arnoon’s side, glistening green eyes taking in the numerous deep and bloody gashes that scored his pale and broken frame.

  “Arnoon… the village… the elders… the Youngbloods…”

  The Youngblood leader reached out with one weak arm to place his hand on Stone’s shoulder, his breath coming in shallow, pained bursts, before shaking his head.

  “Too many… my friend. They… overran us.”

  Stone’s eyes widened in horror. If only he hadn’t gone to meet the Avatars. If he’d been here, to fight alongside his brothers. Perhaps even a blunt instrument would have been enough to turn the tables.

  “I should never have gone, my brother. I should have been here, with you, to protect our people.”

  “No!” The word came with a force that belied his fading state. “You would have… died with us. Not for you… that fate. You need… to live… I know this.”

  He winced, face contorting in agony at some horrendous internal injury.

  “Rest, Son of Narek!”

  Arnoon shook his head once more, despite the pain, determined to go on, for his time was short.

  “Need… to tell you…” His pain was clear, his breath rattling with the build-up of fluid in his chest. “Need to… tell you… Lanah.”

  The word was like a splash of cold water in Stone’s face.

  “What about Lanah, Arnoon?” He had his hands on his friend’s shoulders as he drifted in and out of consciousness, skirting the edge of the realm of death, refraining from shaking him for fear of causing him yet more agonies. “Is she okay? Do they have her? Tell me, please!” he begged, tears threatening to spill down cheeks now blackened with soot from the smoke of burning homes.

  Arnoon turned his head, staring at him with eyes that now saw past the veil.

  “Lanah is… Lanah… is…”

  No fanfare signalled the passing of Arnoon, Son of Narek. No crashing of thunder, nor slow pitter-patter of a starting rainfall.

  He was merely there one moment, and not the next.

  Stone stared for a moment at Arnoon’s chest, unable to comprehend that a minute ago it was rising and falling and that now it wasn’t. With a shaking hand he reached out to close his friend’s eyes, giving him the semblance of being asleep.

  He rose, turning slowly to look about him, noticing for the first time the raft of faces, ashen, lifeless, that he recognised scattered about the ruin of the village, feeling as though he were in an awful dream, hoping against hope that he might yet wake up, but knowing in his heart that it was not so.

  He spied a large, unmistakable figure, riddled with arrows, an axe by his side.

  Chief Farr. Oh god, Chief Farr. The pain shook him to his core, but it was with some pride that he noticed the ring of dismembered barbarians that lay hewn and broken about the corpse of the village leader.

  He took in a deep breath, suppressing a sob, as he noticed Neroo, too, lying not far, a puncture wound clean through his stomach where he’d been run through with a sword.

  He shook his head; Neroo, the first of the Youngbloods to give him a chance to win their trust and respect. The three of them, Stone, Arnoon, Neroo, had become like brothers over the summer, the eldest of the troupe, the trio the others looked up to, strove to become like. He remembered hunting with them, learning campfire sing-songs that told the history of the village, swimming in the cool waters of the Yow under the summer sun while the girls of the village watched on in sighing admiration. They were the future of the village, the hopes and dreams of the elders resting on them.

  Dreams now nought but ash to be scattered on the wind. Nought but food for the worms.

  His mind drifted to Lanah, having not dared till now, lest the grief shatter his already fragile sanity. What had Arnoon been meaning to tell him? Was she alive? Was she, right now, being carted off, crying, broken, fatherless to some god-awful jail to be sold off to the highest bidder who would bind her and have their way with her?

  A hollow, helpless ache filled his chest, but then a crunching of charred wood dragged him from his melancholy, and a blazing rage began to surge through his veins as he watched the leader of the barbarian trio slowly crawling his way out of the wreckage of a burnt out hut.

  He stormed over, the Steppes Warrior turning over as he heard his approach, flailing with his booted feet in a pitiful effort to keep him at bay.

  Stone grasped the bigger man about his throat, and, with no more effort than it would take to lift a child, hauled the man up, high into the air, dangling, helpless, feet kicking for purchase.

  “Speak!” he commanded his struggling prisoner.

  The barbarian garbled some incomprehensible gibberish in Steppes-tongue, not much, for his throat was in danger of collapse, but it was enough; the linguistic centres of Stone’s mind took the harsh, guttural words, laying them out on the surgical table of his subconscious and dissecting them like a medical student would a frog.

  “Who led the army that attacked here?”

  The barbarian’s eyes widened in even greater fear, if such a thing were possible, for how could this primitive know their tongue?

  “Raga…” he gasped. “Raga of the Clan Two-Scimitars.”

  “Where does
he take the prisoners? Answer me!” He shook the warrior for added emphasis, the once proud taker of life pissing his hide trousers in terror, the wet patch spreading down his legs as Stone wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “South,” he managed to croak, his face turning blue and eyes beginning to bulge, “to the Barbarian City! Please! Please have mercy on me!”

  Stone smiled as blazing embers settled in his heart that had nothing to do with the element of Fire.

  “Oh, I will have mercy. The same mercy you showed the people that took me in and gave me a home.”

  A squeeze of his mighty forearm. A sickening crack of finality.

  He threw the corpse to one side to land in an undignified heap on the dusty ground.

  South. The Barbarian City. He knew where he had to go.

  But first, he had a task to do.

  With solemn care and reverence, Stone gathered the charred and blackened wood that remained of the village, building a pyre. Then, he carefully gathered the corpses of the fallen villagers, knowing each and every one of them by name, dragging them, tears in his eyes, to place them on the top of the wood, taking care to close their eyes, clothe them, make them look respectful.

  During his task, he found Yalen, the wizened old man still clutching a bow in one hand. His teaching of the fletcher’s art ended here and Stone struggled to contain his heartache.

  Finally, the corpses of all the villagers were in place, the pile topped with the bodies of Arnoon, Neroo and Chief Farr.

  He said one final farewell to them, salty tears dripping down each cheek before evaporating in an instant as he called upon the elemental Fire to set the pyre ablaze.

  He watched for a moment, before turning, never looking back.