The Descent to Madness (11 page)

“I was hungry!”

“No,” he waved aside Stone’s protests. “Not you – the slavers. Steppes People; violent folk, they live far south of here in the Barbarian City, but pass by often on the other side of the river on raiding sorties.” He snorted. “They live only to consume, whether that be people or land, caring only to satiate their own lust for blood and power. Their Clans would fight amongst themselves if they weren’t so scared of that vile king of theirs.”

Stone was curious, now that he was on a subject he’d had some experience with.

“Why don’t they raid here?”

Lanah answered. “We’re pretty far from their city, out here on the plains, not worth  them sending a large army. But at the same time, any small raiding party will be taken apart by our warriors. We’re not the only village of the Plains People. Any threat arises and we band together to protect our own.”

Stone looked down, images of the slaves in the back of wagons flashing before his eyes.

“I’m assuming the folk in the mountains don’t have that same protection…”

“No,” Wrynn replied, his voice tinged with sadness. “The Hill People live in small, scattered villages, isolated from each other by the weather and terrain. Some are safe, hidden in remote valleys. Others are easy pickings.”

They were all silent for a moment, before Lanah spoke to Stone.

“Your strength recovers fast. What are you planning to do when you’re well?” Her eyes bored into him, gently, if it were possible for something to be gently bored.

He thought for a few seconds before replying. “I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think I have a plan. I’ve just been kind of wandering, taking each day as it comes.”

Lanah smiled, that warm and welcoming smile that he was starting to notice more and more, before looking up to the Shaman.

Wrynn stood for a moment, lost in his ponderings, before turning to him, his face serious.

“You have potential, my young hero. To master the Falcon’s Sight, let alone the Earth Tap, with so few summer’s under your belt… I’ve never seen the like.” He stopped, thinking hard again, before continuing with conviction.

“A shaman only has one apprentice. This is tradition. Lanah here is my young student.”

Stone glanced at the girl who nodded in confirmation.

“She shows a mastery of the healing arts. She is my bound apprentice and I will teach her everything I know in the realm of restoration.” He paused again, briefly. “She is seventeen summers now, I have been teaching her for ten.”

She looked at him, eyebrows questioning.

He smiled and continued.

“She takes up hardly any of my time these days, only needing a guiding nudge in a direction of study once in a while. So I offer you this chance, Stone, and you must take it seriously, because it breaks tradition and I won’t offer it again.”

Stone listened.

“I offer you the chance to be my student alongside Lanah. I will mentor you, teach you to the best of my abilities. In return, I am your master. You will respect my every word and question nothing. Of course, this all depends on the blessing of the Chief. Though, so far you’ve acquitted yourself pretty well in his eyes…” He glanced to the Chief’s daughter beside him. “So what do you say, Stone of the Wilds, Nagah-Slayer? Will you, Chief-willing, accept this compact?”

Stone’s eyes studied Wrynn’s face, then flicked to Lanah. She smiled.

“Yes. I think I will.” 

Chapter Six:

He emerged from the hut, pushing aside the hide curtain that acted as a door and blinking as his eyes acclimatised to the bright sunlight
. Stretching his arms, he relished the cool morning breeze on his skin after what had seemed an eternity spent in the hut. It had taken him another two days to regain his strength after he’d awoken, such was the severity of the infection from the snake-bite, but he’d risen this morning feeling strong and fresh and resolved to make himself useful, repay his debt to the village for looking after him.

             
He adjusted the leather jerkin and trousers that had been laid out for him, the material itchy and harsh next to his skin after weeks of wearing nought but a rag about his waist. His feet were bare – thankfully such was the custom in the village and he was happy with this arrangement. Looking about, he took in his first views of his home of the last week.

             
The village was larger than he had expected, the settlement consisting of perhaps thirty or forty wooden huts similar in style to that in which he’d been staying, clustered together along the banks of the river. At one end, a somewhat larger and more decorated building, painted hides stretched on frames outside, which he had been informed was Chief Farr’s abode. Towards the centre of the encampment, a large clearing, like a town square, with benches and a firepit. On the outskirts of the village, farmland, small fenced-off paddocks with goats, cattle and horses, small copses of trees and bushes where fruit grew.

It was mid-morning, the sun well into its daily climb, and the village was busy with folk, bustling hither and thither as they went about their daily activities; men were baking, fishing, skinning; women were washing clothes, tending to animals, preparing meats for the evening’s meals. From over the rooftops in one corner of the village, smoke and the clang of metal on stone suggested a smithy. Children played together, running through the village centre, small dogs yapping at their heels, tails a-wag and tongues a-lolling. All (save the dogs) possessed the same healthy, olive skin and dark hair as the chief and his family and, with them in mind, he began to make his way to the largest building.

As he walked through the village, his height and his pale skin stood out, people watching him pass as they performed their tasks, neither over-friendly nor hostile, just curious to catch a glimpse of the newcomer they’d heard so much about. A gaggle of children, no older than five or six, eyed him, giggling, as they darted from hut to hut, keeping a safe, watchful distance as they tried to keep out of his sight.

An old man was sat on a stool outside a hut, a long, curved bow leant against the wall behind him and a long, curved pipe hanging from his lips, gently smoking in the breeze. He had an arrow in
his hands, four feet long, polished to a sheen, with a looped hole at the flighted end of the shaft, like the eye of a needle. He was busy tying a bronze arrow-head to the end, expertly lashing it in place with thin cords of cured hide. Tanned, leathery face creased with the lines of years, his hands gnarled and calloused with hard work, but his fingers moved with the dexterity of a man a quarter of his age. He finished the arrow, setting it down with care on a pile of its finished brothers before looking up at Stone with impassive grey eyes.

“So,” he bega
n, his voice quiet, hoarse, the rustle of dry autumn leaves. “You must be our esteemed guest, the Nagah-Slayer?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

Stone didn’t know how to respond, instead, picking up one of the finished arrows, admiring the workmanship.

“Fine arrows,” he remarked, feeling stupid under the scrutiny of the old man, even as the words left his mouth. He frowned, puzzled, as his fingers probed the looped carved into the end of the shaft. “Why the hole in the shaft?”

The old man stared, one greying eyebrow raised.

“Fishing arrows,” he replied, as though stating the obvious, holding up a length of cord and making a tying motion with it.

“Oh.” He was still none-the-wiser. The old man sensed this and his leather face cracked into a smile.

“For the first man I’ve known to slay a dreaded Nagah, you have little grasp of river-craft.” He laughed, the whispering of gravel underfoot. “After you shoot a fish, how do you reel it in?”

Stone’s eyes flicked back and forth between arrow and cord, until finally the penny dropped.

“Oh,” he said again, again feeling stupid. The old man disarmed his embarrassment with another smile.

“I shall have to teach you, Nagah-Slayer; it doesn’t do a man of your summers to not know how to fish!”

Stone smiled. “Thanks, I might take you up on that. And please, call me Stone.”

The elder nodded and took another puff on his pipe, blue smoke wreathing him like some mountain-top mystic.

“Yalen.”

And with that, he returned to his work.

***

The interior was dark, even at this early hour, and thick with smoke from the fire in the centre and the pipes that hung from many and varied lips. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and, looking about, he took in the crowd that stood waiting in the flickering light about the Chief’s hut. Both men and women stared at him as he entered, some young, some old, some welcoming, some guarded. It was with relief that he recognised some familiar faces, the Chief himself, his family, Wrynn.

              The Chief rose from his chair, arms wide, and Stone noticed a terrible shape hung from the wall above him that almost caused him to start; the fearsome, mounted head of a huge serpent; the very same one he’d killed. He suppressed a shudder as Farr began to speak, his voice strident, full of warmth and authority, filling the large building with ease.

             
“Honoured Elders, Noble Youngbloods, gentle womenfolk, it is with pleasure that I introduce to you the Nagah-Slayer, Stone of the Wilds.”

             
Nods, murmurs of approval, smiles from the women. Stone felt himself begin to redden at the attention, but was saved as Farr walked towards him, a warm smile on his face and arms outstretched as if to embrace. He placed his hands on Stone’s shoulders, a gesture he was beginning to recognise as a customary greeting, before turning to the assembled villagers.

             
“This fine, young man is the reason my daughter stands with us here today.”

             
Stone looked at Lanah standing with her sister and mother next to Farr’s seat, that smile half hidden by the wavering shadows, her brown eyes twinkling in the orange glow.

             
Farr continued.

             
“Stone has asked to remain with our people for a time, to learn our ways and I ask that you all welcome him. Remember, he is a stranger to our lands and customs, so forgive any ignorance on his part and do your best to ease him into village life.”

He turned to a group of muscled, topless youths who stood close to the fire, brazen and confident, long-black hair in braids down their backs and faces and chests bedecked in war-paint. He addressed the tallest youth, a handsome, square-jawed fellow.

              “Arnoon.” The youth nodded in acknowledgement. “Our guest has already shown potential as a hunter. I want you and your Youngbloods to train him in the art of bush-craft, the way of the bow, the spear, the trap. He has earned his place among you, so you will hold nothing back from him.”

             
The youth nodded. Had Stone imagined the glance over at Lanah? He had no time to form a thought as the boy replied.

             
“Don’t worry, Honoured Chief.” His eyes locked onto Stone’s. “We will hold nothing back. I’m sure the Nagah-Slayer will find his place very quickly.”

             
His cohorts, behind him, grinned.

             
Clearly satisfied, Farr turned to the imposing form of Shaman.

             
“Elder Wrynn believes that our newcomer has a touch of the shamanic about him.” Murmurs around the tent. Arnoon frowned, the grins of amusement disappearing from the faces of his men. “He has asked me for permission to take him on as apprentice, to teach him our Spirit-Craft.”

             
More murmurs, more urgent. Some of the elders frowned. One choked on his pipe-smoke. Farr looked about, sizing up the mood.

             
“I’ve said yes.”

             
The murmurs grew to an excited din as elders fought to make themselves heard. One rose above the rest, a tall, greying man of heavy-set shoulders and barrel chest, clad in fine-leather bedecked with feathers and jewels that spoke of wealth. His thick eyebrows and squared jaw bore a startling resemblance to Arnoon. The room fell silent as he spoke.

             
“Honoured Chief,” he began, his voice deep but syrupy smooth. “You surely cannot be suggesting that we allow this
stranger,
” he gestured towards Stone, “to learn all of our ancient secrets? We have traditions for a reason, each shaman passing his learning onto one apprentice, so only the most worthy of each generation possess the power. The arts of the shaman have protected our land and people for countless years. If that art should fall into the hands of the Hill-People. Or the Steppes-People…”

             
Murmured agreements. Arnoon spoke up now, his voice eager and strong. “I agree with father. I will gladly train him in bush-craft, for with bow and spear he is still but one man, but to arm him with the power of the spirits – “

             
He was cut off by the Shaman, walking out into the firelight, his voice a landslide of booming syllables that brooked no interruption.

             
“Arnoon, you will know your place!” His eyes blazed with controlled power and sure knowledge. “Youngbloods do not speak at a Gathering without being spoke to first.” The young man looked down, chastened and Wrynn turned his attention to the father.

             
“And you, Narek, who are you to speak of protecting our tradition, you who grow fat and rich from trading our knowledge of bronze-craft with villages long our rivals?”

             
The big man opened his mouth to reply, but was silenced by a raised hand.

             
“I have no time for your excuses, peacock, ‘less you wish our gathered elders to know why you can’t go without the potions I craft for you every week?”

             
Narek looked at his wife, mortified, who flushed red with embarrassment. His mouth opened and shut like a fish, no sound coming out, before he looked down, defeated.

             
Wrynn continued, addressing the entire hut now.

“The Chief has spoken and so it shall be. I will give you my promise that I will exercise due caution in teaching my new student. He will know of the importance of respecting our knowledge. And he will know the severity should he abuse it.” The shadows seemed to retreat from him and even the hardest heart in the room was moved to fear by the ancestral power innate in their shaman.

              “But know this, too; as the Nagah-Slayer is under my watch, so also is he under my protection. I will not invest time and teaching into someone, only for him to leave due to hostility from our folk. You will make him welcome and let him learn our ways and traditions in peace.”

             
He looked about the room, eyes settling on each and every person in turn, as each nodded in accordance, before finally  resting on Arnoon. The youth looked up, defiant and proud before his Youngblood brothers, before giving a sniff and a curt nod.

             
The Chief clapped his hands together, a smile on his face and warmth in his voice to dispel to sombre mood.

             
“Enough! This is no welcome for a guest. Youngbloods, hunt us a boar or two. Elders, make ready your tales and prepare fresh pipes. Women, you have food to prepare and instruments to string! At the end of the week, we feast in honour of our newest villager!”

             
And through all of this, Stone stood, alone, uncomfortable and eminently visible in the bright glow of the fire. He gulped.

Not really the smooth, informal introduction he’d hoped for.

***

Lanah caught up with him as he leant against the outside of the hut, his eyes closed as he recovered from the heated welcome he’d encountered within. He could smell her presence before she spoke, lightly perfumed oils lending her a floral fragrance that suited her slender, sylph-like form. He opened his eyes and smiled as she spoke.

              “That didn’t go how you thought?”

             
He laughed. Over the last couple of days they’d spent many an hour talking; he, eager to learn about the village; her, his life in the wilds, and, despite her enthusiasm upon his awakening, he’d soon learned that she had a gift for the understatement. After his short life of drama, he liked the way she kept him down to earth. 

             
“No, not really. I was hoping for something a little more low key, with, you know, a little less simmering tension...”

             
It was her turn to laugh.

             
“Ignore the Elders, I do. They’ll soon get used to you, they’re just set in their ways. That’s the problem with Elders,” she added, eyes twinkling in the mid-day sun. “They’re old.”

             
From the tent emerged a stream of youths, Arnoon at their head, silent, sullen, whilst his men chattered, bantered, slapping each other on their backs as they proceeded away through the village.

             
“He’s not old,” Stone gestured to Arnoon, “so what’s his problem?”

             
She was quiet, one hand brushing her long hair out of her face where it had fallen from behind her ear. Her silence told him everything.

             
“Ah,” he said. “He has a thing for you…”

             
She frowned quizzically. “A thing? That’s a funny expression.” She shrugged before continuing. “His family are old, been in the village for a long time, always respected, always wealthy, always siring strong sons who grow to be fine warriors. I don’t have a brother and a woman cannot be Chief, so he sees himself as heir to the mantle, as do most others in the village.”

             
“So he sees you as, what? Betrothed? His by right?”

             
“Something like that, yes. But he is arrogant, so sure of himself, happy to be the big man in the village. He wants the big hut,” she thumbed behind her, “the fine clothes, the many sons and the respect of his men. He’s no different from any of the other men in this place.”

             
“So, you’re not into that then?”

             
She laughed.

             
“No, I’m a shaman. I want something different; excitement, adventure. I want to see what’s out there.”

             
He watched her as she absent-mindedly braided her hair, eyes half closed in the warm sunlight. He didn’t see Arnoon stopped a hundred yards away, watching, face impassive but fists clenched white.

***

The shaman didn’t even look up from his meditations, his eyes closed as Stone entered his hut, closing the hide door behind him to shut out the cold wind and rain of the night.

             
“You’ve had a difficult first day, I take it?”

             
Stone slowly, painfully crouched down across from him, the small fire in between them. After long moments, Wrynn opened his eyes. Stone’s face was a mess of bruises and cuts; his lip split, one eye black and swollen. The knuckles on both hands raw and bruised. He looked up at the shaman with his one good eye, hair dripping rainwater down his face.

             
“You could say that, yeah…”

***

It was one of the other Youngbloods that awoke him early that morning for his first day of training, a tall, gangly youth who didn’t offer his name, and, together, they walked in the cold light of the dawn to the Proving Grounds a short way from the village. The training area was a small, flat-topped hill, accessible by one winding path, ringed with cloth flags and containing all the equipment they needed for the day’s training; weapons, targets, as well as stones and logs of various sizes for testing ones strength.

             
The other Youngbloods were already there, waiting, between fifteen and twenty of them, a lot more than Stone had been expecting. War-paint was daubed carefully across their chests and faces, each youth having a design unique to himself. He noticed that none wore the headdresses the Elders sported. They walked closer, he could see that they varied in age, the youngest no younger than fourteen, the oldest no more than eighteen or nineteen.

             
Arnoon was at the older end of the spectrum, and he stood in front of the troupe that milled and chatted, arms folded in front of him, an unsettling grin on his face as Stone and his escort filed into place with the other youths.

             
Slowly the hubbub began to die away until, at last, the only sound was the whispering of the wind across the plateau as the rising sun began to beat down.

             
“Good morning,” Arnoon greeted them, his voice loud and strong.

             
“Arnoon! Arnoon!”

The youths shouted in unison, pumping their arms and causing Stone to jump
with the unexpectedness of the reply. Arnoon looked about, seemingly satisfied with the response.

             
“Today,” he began, “we have an honoured guest with us.” He performed a slow and elaborate bow in the direction of Stone. “The great and mighty Nagah-Slayer.”

             
The gathered Youngbloods grinned, quietly laughing together as though in remembrance of some shared joke. Arnoon continued.

             
“The Elders have asked us to ease our guest into the art of Bush-Craft, and that we shall. This morning, we run the Trial.”

             
Their leader turned to look out on the Proving Ground. It was laid out akin to an obstacle course, with stones, logs, sacks of grain, hurdles and a myriad other ingenious tests of speed, skill and strength. The mirth of before evaporated, replaced with groans of dread, only Arnoon and his closest friends retaining their sly grins.

             
“Line up!” he roared and the assembled Youngbloods gathered about a starting line, where several such courses started, running parallel to each other as they traversed the plateau. The smaller, younger lads convened at one end, where the course was easier, the larger youths beginning further and further up the line, with the course getting progressively harder looking, with bigger stones, taller hurdles. Stone found a place about halfway down the line, in the middle of the group. He looked at the course in front of him, sizing up the obstacles ahead.

Daunting, he thought. But not impossible. I can do this. He could feel his adrenaline beginning to flow, his heart beginning to pump.

              A tap on his shoulder made him turn, and another lad pointed him up the line where  Arnoon was waiting, arms folded and a grin playing his face. He shook his head and beckoned with a finger. With a sigh, Stone walked over.

             
“Oh mighty Nagah-Slayer,” Arnoon began, “no need for false modesty here, we’re all brothers.”