The Descent to Madness (8 page)

             
Stone gazed into that savage visage, fear clutching his innards in its icy grip, just as it did after the mauling at the hands (or rather claws) of the bear. And just as before, something reminded him that he had the power to alter his destiny, escape this pain. He always had. Always would. And with that, the fear went, just as it did before. And that latent power surged once more, to the fore.

             
Even as the muscles in his arms strained and buckled before the onslaught, his consciousness seemed to expand, to reach down into the ground beneath him. He could feel the topsoil, compacted hard on top, but softer underneath, wriggling with life despite the harsh winter above. Further down, he could feel the thick clay, then further still the rugged bedrock, within which rushed underground streams of mineral-rich water. Here and there, veins of metal glinted in his mind, copper, tin. Even further down than that, he could feel a distant and immeasurable warmth, but something told him to venture no further, that he could sate his thirst for power with what he’d tasted already.

             
As though he were a man dying in the heat of the desert and stumbling upon an oasis of cold and clear water, he supped from the rich, minerally goodness of the earth, feeling nutrients and pure, natural vitality flowing into his every cell, replacing everything that had depleted, suffusing him with renewed energy and strength.

             
His mind returned from the depths of the earth to find only a moment having passed, the tip of the bronze dagger still pressing sharply, but shallowly into the soft flesh of his face, dragging slowly downwards to form a jagged line of searing pain. Having tasted the tin and copper of the underground, he was surprised to find the touch of the dagger intensely familiar, almost as though he were tasting a favourite food that he’d not had for a while.

He hadn’t realised that bronze was a combination of the two metals.

              It was while he was almost casually pondering this that he slowly prised his enemy’s hands away from him, the dagger leaving his cheek and a rivulet of blood welling up where it had nicked him. His strength was refreshed, his muscles still echoing to his brush with the eternal unyielding earth and he levered the powerful warrior away from him with nary a grunt of effort.

             
The barbarian’s eyes widened with confusion, once more bewildered by the abilities of the savage, but he had little time to wonder, for soon as there was room between the two, Stone brought his bound feet up to the Slaver’s mid-section and kicked with all his might. The warrior went flying through the air, the power of the kick akin to that of a horse, before landing slap bang in the middle of the campfire, scattering hot logs and ash all over.

             
His scream shattered the quiet of the night and all the hitherto sleeping barbarians awoke at the racket, flying out of tents half asleep, fumbling for weapons. Two of the guards who were already awake ran over to their leader, tossing weapons aside in readiness to aid him as he rolled on the floor, hands clutched to his face in agony, the other two running over, weapons drawn, to avenge him on Stone.

             
Stone ripped the corded leather of the bola, limbs still suffused with strength, and leapt to his feet. Men closed in on him, but he was fresh and, with a now-practiced thought, he seized the moment, the warriors slowing as they charged, no threat for now.

             
Looking across the camp, Stone regarded his assailant, now on his back, a man at either side attempting to help him to his feet. His face was pockmarked with burns, wisps of smoke rising from the still glowing embers embedded in his skin, the ends of his long droopy moustache singed and curling. He stared back at Stone, his eyes a battleground of emotion, confusion and fear warring with rage and hatred. His mouth opened, whether to issue orders or curses, Stone couldn’t tell and didn’t wait to find out.

             
He ducked a sword that swung at him as though through treacle, turned on the spot and ran, the strength of the earth lending his legs the ability to move in the moment with a speed he’d never known before, entering the forest and leaving the camp, and its guards, in his dust. Eventually the moment tore itself free from his mind, as it always did, but by then he was hundreds of yards into the night and not stopping for any man…

***

Raga sat in the saddle of his gelding, the morning wind gently tousling the topknot of his hair, the coolness welcome on the still raw burns the bedecked his cheeks. Haresh was of Clan Blood-Serpent, renowned for their skill in the healing arts, and his soothing ointments had helped take away the worst of the pain, but Raga knew the scars would never fade.

             
As the convoy moved off behind him, he thought back again to the altercation, replaying in his mind – as was his wont – the fight, scene by scene, blow by blow. The man’s speed had defied belief, his form blurring as he’d dodged attack after attack. Then, just as he’d seemed defeated, he’d summoned a hideous strength from nowhere and thrown him. He shuddered as he remembered feeling the terrible power suffusing his foe’s limbs. It had reminded him of being a small child, wrestling his older brothers as they had toyed with him. Only one manner of creature could summon forth such unnatural powers.

             
Shamans.

             
Raga had ambitions to lead, to rule. He had confidence that he could best any man, whether through might or subterfuge, but last night he’d come across something he’d never factored into his plans. Shamans. He’d never again let them surprise him like that, he’d learn their ways and how to defeat them. He had learned a valuable lesson last night. He reached up and touched the stinging pockmarks on his cheeks.

             
The scars would forever remind him of that lesson.

             
With a tug on the reins, he span his horse about and trotted after the rest of his Savaran, in the direction of the Barbarian City.

Chapter Five

The sun was warm on his back and the breeze cool and refreshing. The ground underfoot was green with grass, rich and loamy as it made its way down the length of the river. The river was wider now, the waters calmer and more peaceful than up in the foothills, the land flatter, the trees growing further apart, with bright leaves and low branches taking over from the tall needled evergreens.

              The land in general was less hostile, more welcoming, giving Stone the chance to relax and think as he ambled along, following the course of the river, his mood light and stomach verging on hungry as the day approached noon.

             
It had been a week now, since his altercation at the slaver camp and during that time he’d been pondering the events. His first contact with humans in his living memory, and it had turned out violent. He’d been lucky to escape with his life. Well, luck had some part to play; he still remembered the indomitable strength that had flowed through him as he’d lain helpless on the ground with a dagger at his throat, the ease with which he’d kicked the man away.

             
The strength had left him quickly, during his flight from the pursuing barbarians, but the minerally aftertaste remained in his mouth even to this day, the ghost of that brief, empowering contact with the spirit of the earth. How he’d managed that feat was beyond his ken, but he was sure he could figure it out eventually, same as he had with his speed.

             
His stomach gave a gentle rumble, just as a keening cry pieced the sky above. Without so much as a second glance, he bent down to the water’s edge, picked up a suitable stone, smooth and flat, turned and threw with all his might.

             
The stone cracked the bird hard on the head, having intercepted its flight perfectly, and it plummeted to the ground in a flurry of feathers, rolling to a stop in the grass. Walking over, Stone picked up the still-twitching bird and snapped its neck to end its suffering. Holding the creature swaying by its feet, he made his way over to a large rock by the stream and sat down, absent-mindedly plucking out its feathers as he continued thinking.

So much had changed about him during the last few weeks, quickly too, and he was confused, beginning to lose track of what it was to be a normal human being, if he’d ever known it to begin with. The men back at the slaver camp had seemed surprised, even frightened by his speed, just as he was beginning to accept it as something normal, something that maybe came with living wherever he had found himself. Obviously that was not the case; the ability to slow the pace of time – or one’s perception of it, whichever was the case – was certainly not commonplace, even here. Other things, too, had struck him as being out of the ordinary; not just the obvious, that is, the seeming ability (at least once) to suck the strength out of the very earth itself, but other, more subtle things. For one, injuries seemed to heal almost overnight; more than once he’d gone to sleep with a fresh scrape or cut, only for it to vanish without trace by next light. He instinctively thought of the jagged cuts down each cheek that he’d sustained during his fight with the barbarian leader, both now long gone, the skin as smooth and fresh as the day he was born.

              Another thought struck him, as the pile of feathers from the stripped falcon gently rustled in the breeze at his feet; he’d been eating fare of late that no human stomach had any right to. Raw meat straight off the animal was not fit for consumption by man, surely? Rabbits, fish, stoats, snakes, birds – all had been fair game, all had been devoured with no consequence. He should have been ill, by all rights, but he’d been fine, surviving, nay,
thriving
on such food.

             
Staring at the bird that lay nude and limp in his hands, his mind wandered back to the cooked meats denied him back at the camp of the barbarian traders, his eyes closing with the memory of the sweet, savoury aromas, his mouth all but watering even at the thought. Even functioning as well as it was on raw, unprocessed meats, something told him that his body would make even better use of cooked food, that the already impressive use to which it was putting the food would be nothing in comparison to the wonders it could do with good, honest, cooked fare.

             
He looked up, tearing himself from his reverie, and gazed from the grassy bank to the trees. The weather down here was warmer, drier, the ground not subject to the permafrost of the mountains. Could he… could he maybe
make
a fire himself? Materials wouldn’t be a problem, of that he was sure, but did he have the skill? He couldn’t think back to beyond the snowfield; he’d attempted on several occasions, each time rebuked by the violent migraines that left him gasping with pain, only to fade momentarily. No specific memories could be recalled, no events, no places or names, save his own. But basic skills, rudimentary knowledge, all were freely available to him, as though all but the most essential was barred him by some higher power. He knew that to produce fire he needed dry wood and he needed friction. He dimly recalled visions, like half-remembered dreams, outdoorsy people lighting campfires by rubbing sticks together in the midst of dry grass, all the while gently blowing and praying.

Perhaps he could do the same.

              It took him but a few minutes to build a worthy stockpile of ammunition; twigs, branches, grass, everything he could find that was dry and looked like it might prove vaguely useful. To be honest, he didn’t know what he was doing, how to go about it, but it couldn’t hurt to have a go. The aroma of roasted meats haunted him, giving all the inspiration he needed.

             
Taking a larger branch, he placed it on the ground in front of him. He took a small, thinner one and placed it perpendicular, with one end resting on the top of the other, then gathered a small amount of dried grass that looked like it could catch easily. Everything in place, he began, rubbing the stick between his toughened, calloused hands.

             
He sat, cross-legged, his whole world the pile of twigs in front of him, his entire being focussed on the spinning twig twixt his hands, eyes trained for the briefest spark of flame, the tiniest hint of smoke, lips pursed in readiness. Like this he sat for five minutes, then ten. After fifteen minutes the only thing burning was the muscles in his forearms and he sat back, drawing in deep breaths as he relaxed, not even realising that he’d been holding it in. He shook his arms to rid them of the lactic acid, feeling the blood rushing back in to replenish oxygen stores, his body replacing the spent energy quickly. He resumed his task.

             
The stick span, this way, that way, this way, that way, his eyes trained on the little, tiny area where wood met wood, willing, hoping, praying for a trace of fire. Nothing. Five minutes later. Nothing. Ten. Nothing.

             
With a snort, he threw the stick away, and leant back against the rock, shaking his head in defeat. He reached with one hand, touched the horizontal branch where he’d been rubbing; it was barely warm. Gah, he was annoyed. Something wasn’t right; perhaps the branches were too young, not dry enough, despite the weather, sap inside robbing the friction of any purchase. Maybe it was simply his technique, just something glaringly obvious to someone with experience that he was doing wrong, just his own ignorance.