The Descent to Madness (16 page)

             
“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, before 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.”

             
Stone shook his head, still wondering at the pace of events, still looking, despite his own dislike of Arnoon, for a peaceful way out that didn’t involve him leaving the village, leaving Lanah and the other village-folk that he’d come to like.

             
“But it doesn’t make sense for him to challenge me. Not to blow my own trumpet, but does he really think he can win?” He bunched his right fist, looking at it intently. “This fist killed a boar today, with one punch…”

             
“Arnoon values honour above all else,” explained Wrynn. “It is a trait he gets from his father Narek and he from his father Lorn and so on, back into the depths of time. He would rather die at your hand than suffer the ignominy of living with shame.”

             
Again, Stone shook his head, unable to comprehend valuing honour above life. Honour, which could not be eaten, drank, traded. Honour which would not keep you warm on a cold, windswept mountain or keep you safe when the wolves come a-prowling.

             
“Then it really is him or me?”

             
Faces grim, the three nodded.

***

The crowd remained mute, impassive, even as Arnoon, his family and closest friends made their way up the slope to the Proving Ground. The silence was deafening as Arnoon took his place opposite Stone in the centre of the training area, an array of weapons laid out behind each combatant.

             
Farr walked to stand in between the two, raising his voice that all assembled could hear with ease as he spoke.

             
“These two come before you bearing a grudge that cannot be settled with words. A grudge that can only be settled by blood or banishment.” He turned to Arnoon. “Arnoon, leader of the Youngbloods, son of Narek, son of Lorn. Do you wish to leave this village to never return, or do you wish to fight unto the death?”

             
Arnoon narrowed his eyes, lip curled in a killing sneer.

             
“I will fight.”

             
Stone shook his head slowly.

             
“You don’t need to do this, Arnoon. Cancel the grudge, neither of us need be hurt, neither of us need leave. Honour is not worth all of this.”

             
Arnoon spat on the dusty ground.

             
“You know nothing of honour.”

             
Farr turned to Stone, eyes sad, repeating the same ceremonial question.

             
“And you, Stone of the Wilds, Nagah-Slayer, Boar-Slayer, do you wish to leave the village, never to return, or do you, too, choose to fight unto the death?”

             
Silence for a few seconds. He glanced over at Lanah, her face sombre, set in stone. She nodded. He sighed.

             
“I… will fight.”

             
“All have witnessed your oaths. So the fight begins. One shall stand. One shall fall. Begin.”

***

For a couple of moments they just stood there, sizing each other up, before Arnoon burst into action, running to the stockpile of weapons behind him. Thoughts of the boar still fresh in his mind, he immediately went for the ranged option of a Yaht, grabbing a handful of arrows and spinning to face his opponent.

             
Stone tensed, unsure what to do, knowing that to turn and go for a weapon himself would leave him an easy target. His indecision was all Arnoon needed, loosing off two arrows in quick succession. Stone called upon the Falcon-Sight, the arrows slowing enough to be visible, but not slow by any means. He called harder, raging with his mind against the flow of time, leaping out of the way as he did. The first arrow missed him, just, but the second arrow, despite his preternatural speed, clipped him across his bare back, the thin, bronze head leaving a line of blood as it scored his flesh.

             
He landed on the ground, rolling upright, releasing his grip on time to rest his burning mind, even as Arnoon nocked another arrow, teeth bared in a feral grin. Seizing the brief, brief lapse in action, Stone reached out towards his own arsenal of weapons, grabbing a Hruti and standing in a defensive stance, just as a fresh arrow soared his way. With a thought, the arrow slowed slightly, enough for him to see and swing his staff on an intercepting arc, knocking it off course enough to miss him by a hair’s breadth. Another projectile, Arnoon in his element now, treating Stone as nothing more than a target sack on the range. Another, another, another, each time Stone deflecting them away, each time the effort weighing heavier and heavier on his mind as the spirits of air – as Wrynn had informed him – struggled to escape his grasp.

At last, the arrows too fast, he missed a swing, the arrow within his guard, bronze head burying itself into the flesh of his left shoulder to partially emerge the other side, causing him to cry out as searing hot pain enveloped him. A voice called out his name in fear, Lanah’s. Out of instinct, he dropped the staff, his only defence, and Arnoon, sensing victory, nocked a final, killing arrow,
loosing it with unerring aim at Stone’s head.

Hand clasped to the burning wound that bled profusely down his arm, Stone looked up in time to see the projectile flying towards him to impact between his eyes. His grip on the flow of time
slipping away as the capricious spirits prised his mental fingers apart, one by one, he knew he could do nothing more than watch as his inevitable doom sped his way.

All he could think of in the instant during which the arrow made its way towards him was the white hot agony in his left shoulder. The incandescent burn, like ice-cold water or scorching hot embers, put him in mind of the song he’d made up as he’d pictured the slaver fire in his head on the banks of the river nearly two weeks ago;
the waltzing, rhythmic accompaniment to the dancing particles that made up the fire. Ludicrously, it played through his head, faster and faster, building up to a crescendo, even as his doom drew nearer.

The arrow reached him.

It exploded.

The crowd gasped as a cloud of fire and white smoke enveloped Stone, before the gentle breeze cleared it away, to reveal him, rising,
bloodied and battered yet still very much alive.

“Interesting…” he murmured to himself, as wisps of ash gently floated around him before dissipating on the wind.

Arnoon raged, fury overshadowing any trace of fear.

“Your shamanic tricks won’t save you forever, Nagah-Slayer!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. “If you can bleed,” he gestured to his wounded arm, “then you can die!”

As his foe grabbed a fresh stash of arrows, Stone barely paid attention, once more lost in surprise and confusion at his abilities. Perhaps it was time to stop doubting himself, perhaps he’d been playing it all wrong, wasting his energy defending himself. Stop reacting.

Start acting.

With bated breath, he reached round with his right hand to grasp the arrow, grunting with pain as he snapped it in twain. He pulled the shaft from the front of his arm, the bronze head from the rear, the blood slicking his fingers as it did. Then, thinking back to the empowering rush he’d felt at the slaver camp and when facing the boar, he grinned.

I’m always surprised by what this body can do, he thought. I shouldn’t be. It’s my body, I should know its limits. Let’s test them, use powers in concert, see what I’m actually capable of. He
watched his would-be-killer nock another arrow. What better time than now. He closed his eyes and focused.

The pain subsided as the spirits of earth lent him nourishment and vitality, his shaking limbs becoming strong, his tired mind full of renewed and indomitable will. Opening his eyes with a smile as yet another arrow winged its way towards him, he
called upon the Falcon-Sight once again. No you don’t, he thought, as the playful spirits attempted to twist away; he funnelled the power from the earth into his mind, keeping it strong, rendering his grasp on the flow of time absolute for now, his body a chain between the elements, the spirits of earth and air.

He walked forward towards Arnoon, towards the speeding arrow, with only an inclination of his neck avoiding the barb entirely. With incredible swiftness, Arnoon sent another two arrows his way, one after the other, but to no avail. The first one, dodged again, patted away with the flat of his palm. The second, Stone grinned, bringing to mind the sing-song rhythm of flame, feeling the familiar heat build in his mind. The bronze arrow-head flared with incandescent heat, the air trapped in the wood behind it superheating and exploding, blasting the arrow apart, the sharp head flying off to embed itself harmlessly in the ground, the earth sizzling at its scorching touch.

Abruptly, after a slow walk that looked a blurring rush to all observers, Stone stopped an arm’s length from Arnoon, the former outwardly calm despite his bleeding arm, the latter shaking, quivering with rage and disbelief.

“End this, Arnoon,” Stone implored him, quietly, the blood dripping down his arm from his fingers onto the ground as it had after killing the boar, only this time it was his
own lifeblood seeping into the soil. “One of us is bleeding already, don’t make it two. Call off the grudge.”

Arnoon turned away from Stone to face the crowd and the gathered weapons, chuckling gently, dropping the bow on the ground. He stopped laughing and there was silence for a moment, then, just as Stone was hoping for a reply, some offer of armistice, he span, a huge, thick, wooden axe with a heavy bronze blade hefted in his strong arms, arcing an unstoppable path towards Stone’s head.

Stone reached up with his uninjured right arm and arrested its swing, the axe stopping instantly, the blade dented where it was pinched between thumb and forefinger. Arnoon tugged, using all his weight, but axe wouldn’t move, his opponent stood rooted, anchored, as immovable and unbreakable as the mountains that rose up in the distance at the edge of the plains.

Arnoon stared into his opponents eyes and staggered backwards, his rage draining away along with the colour in his face.
For in those green orbs he saw no trace of humanity. Instead, the raw fury of the elements, impossibilities of scale and time that man was not meant to behold. He saw the raging of stormy oceans, the howling of icy-winds, the thunderous eruptions of titanic volcanoes. He watched forests spring up and burn away, mountains rise up only to be ground back down by relentless rains.

For an instant, Arnoon understood what it was to be a Shaman.

He turned, gazing about at the village folk who watched on with rapt attention. He looked at his father, Chief Farr, Lanah, Wrynn then finally back to Stone. They stood and regarded each other for a second, neither talking, before Arnoon turned and ran. He ran past the crowd, down the slope that led from the Proving Grounds. He paused for a long moment, looking out at the village of his birth, then ran away, up the plains in the direction of the wild foothills of the mountains.