The Descent to Madness (29 page)

             
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 proffered 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.

             
Heading south.

***

The trail wasn’t too tough to follow, for Arnoon had taught him the ways of bush-craft, how to track prey and foe alike through the marks in the ground and broken foliage that marked their passing. From the looks of what had been left the force that had destroyed his home had been considerable; hoofmarks of countless horse, tracks from cart wheels, the trudging bootprints of scores of warriors.

              Once or twice he lost the trail as the convoy had passed over rockier ground, but not for long; the spirits of water, he discovered, were curious and ever exploring, happy to seek out minute disparities in the evenness of the ground, and with gentle coaxing they made every track clear, the same way even the tiniest hole in the bottom of a bowl would cause a clear and visible funnel of draining water to start spinning about it, pointing in accusation.

             
He followed his unwary prey for two days, three, walking through freezing night and scorching day, drawing solely on the earth for his nutrition and energy, but even his fortitude began to crumble after a time, his legs beginning to weary and he knew he needed a night’s rest and a real meal to restore his strength.

             
Catching his meal was the first real test of the subtlety he’d learned in the underground realm of the Avatars, for the animals were scarce and wary here, the land of the South seeming more hostile, as though rebelling against the encroachment of man.

             
As evening drew in, he knelt down to the ground as he’d seen Lanah do before, closing his eyes, asking the water to guide him to a suitable meal. It did, seeking out, as it raced through the earth, a rabbit, unwary and oblivious, cocooned safely in its warren some yards distant.