The Descent to Madness (19 page)

             
The troupe, Stone included, sprinted to the edge, looking down the twenty feet to see what had become of the two combatants. The bear roused itself, shaking its head to clear its befuddlement.

             
The smaller figure brushed dirt of its shoulders and looked up, the youths gasping in astonishment. Neroo opened his mouth to say something to his saviour, but no words came out, shock stealing his voice.

             
“Looks like I arrived just in time to save your ass,” laughed Arnoon, son of Narek, son of Lorn.

             
The beast roared as it spied him, turning to face him and Arnoon paled, despite his bravado, at the terrifying visage of the burnt and blackened horned bear, its skin cracked and seeping reeking fluids. He had no weapons to hand. Nowhere to run.

             
“Stone!” Neroo’s voice snapped Stone back to reality as he watched the scene. “You need to save him! Only you stand a chance against that thing!”

             
Stone looked down the slippery, rocky slope to Arnoon, who glanced back up at him, face unreadable. Fiddling with the amulet about his neck, he thought back to the skill, speed and strength that the youth had shown back at the Proving Grounds, forgetting the arrogance and conceit. He thought also of the defeated look as he’d been forced to leave the village, the grief of his parents. He made a decision.

             
“Arnoon!”

             
The Youngblood looked up at him.

             
“Catch!”

             
Drawing the white arrow from the quiver at his back, Stone threw it down the slope, Arnoon catching it expertly, grasping it by the shaft. He looked at the arrow, then at Stone. He nodded in quiet understanding.

             
A rumbling roar signalled the charge of the beast and Arnoon echoed it with his own war-cry, sprinting forwards and leaping through the air to meet his foe in a heart-stopping show of courage and fury.

             
The bear snatched him clean out of the air, his midsection fitting neatly in its gaping maw, blood spraying from him as teeth crunched bones, punctured organs. With a cry partly agony, partly triumph, Arnoon took the white arrow in his hand and stabbed it through the monster’s one good eye, blinding it, forcing it deep, deep, into the dark recesses of the beast’s evil brain, before snapping the shaft, leaving the bronze head embedded there for all time.

             
In violent shock, the bear shook its head, sending Arnoon flying to crash in a heap against a tree. Frothing and foaming, the monster whined in pitiful refusal to accept its inevitable brain-death, before, eventually and finally collapsing to the floor, twitching and drooling until it at last lay still.

This time it was dead and no iron constitution would bring it back.

              Less than a minute later, the Youngbloods had managed to scramble down to the lower level, keeping a wary distance from the corpse of the monster as they rushed over to their fallen brother. He rested upright against the gnarled and broken trunk of a long-dead tree, the white shaft of the broken arrow still held firmly in his left hand.

             
Arnoon was weak, his face ashen, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth as he gazed about at the gathered Youngbloods with half-open eyes. Neroo crouched down beside him, tears glistening, as he looked over his mangled former-leader.

             
“Arnoon… you saved my life.” He turned to Stone, confusion and anger in his words. “You could have saved him from this! You know you could!”

             
A gentle hand on his arm drew his attention back to Arnoon, who spoke, his voice quiet, rasping, wet with the blood from lacerated lungs.

             
“No, Neroo, my friend… the Nagah-Slayer did… the right thing. He gave me… what I needed… to bring honour back to… my family.” He looked over at Stone, gratitude in his eyes though his strength was clearly fading. “He gave me… an honourable… death.”

             
Stone shook his head, smiling, despite the fear and grief that threatened to sweep over the troupe..

             
“No, son of Narek. You brought that honour back yourself. But death?”

             
To the confused stares of the Youngbloods, Stone knelt down, unhooking the amulet from about his neck. With a silent prayer to Lanah that her spirit-craft was as strong as she made out, he looped the cord over Arnoon’s head, the amulet dangling on his chest.

             
The young warrior closed his eyes, breathing out in a long sigh as though settling into his final rest. The troupe looked at each other, holding emotions in check, hoping against hope for some miracle.

             
Stone watched.
Come on, come on, come on…

             
A brilliant radiance suddenly engulfed the group, brighter than the sun yet soft and gentle on the eyes, warming, life-giving, before slowly fading away, leaving the hard earth blooming with fresh life, the blackened trunk of the tree fresh and youthful, sprouting with green shoots. With a gasp, Arnoon opened his eyes, sitting himself upright with the urgency of a man who’d just escaped drowning. His hand went to the amulet about his neck, but as he touched it, it crumbled to ashes that blew away on the wind, its power spent, leaving only the cord of string.

             
Hands pulled him to his feet amidst cheers as he looked down to where once terrible wounds had once wracked his body, smooth flesh now in their place. He looked about the troupe, hands clapping him on the shoulders in welcome and joy, before turning to Stone.

             
The pair looked at each other long and hard, before Arnoon thrust out his arm in a warriors handshake. Grasping it firmly in his, Stone embraced the warrior, all enmity forgotten, a new bond of brotherhood forged.

             
“Thank you, Stone.”

             
Stone shook his head.

             
“Don’t thank me, thank Lanah. It was her magic that brought you back.”

             
Arnoon nodded, no surprise on his features.

             
“I know.”

             
Stone was puzzled.

             
“You do?”

             
The Youngblood laughed, flashing the first truly warm smile that Stone had ever seen.

             
“Of course! I could feel her as the amulet healed me, I could sense her very heart.” His face grew more serious, though still friendly. “And I know now, to whom it belongs. And I’m okay with that.”

             
Stone nodded and Arnoon returned it. No more needed to be said on the matter.

             
Arnoon turned to his brothers and cheerfully raised his voice, resuming, once more, his role of leader, to no objection from Stone.

             
“So! Who is taking the head of this beast as trophy? Neroo?”

             
The Youngblood paled to the cheers and laughter of the troupe.

***

The afternoon of the following day, Lanah stood with her father and the Elders atop the warriors mound, the sacred site of homecoming where families watched for their sons to return from war.

             
The troupe were marching, cheering, jubilant at the sight of their village drawing closer, two figures at their head, striding purposefully side by side.

             
Stone, mighty, tall, green eyes and war-paint standing out from even hundreds of yards away.

             
But beside him, to the shock of many, to the smile of the Chief, to the whooping joy and tears of his family, Arnoon strode home, tears of pride  stinging his eyes, long black braid of hair swinging in the wind.

             
Between them, bound and carried with leather straps, the severed head of the beast. Behind them, on a sled, wrapped and anointed, the gathered remains of its prey, brought home to receive proper burial.

             
In the bright sunlight, amidst the cheers of the Plains-People, Lanah only had eyes for one man as she watched him march the troupe home, none lost, one man stronger, even, than they had set out with.

             
Wrynn was at her side, looming yet smiling, one hand on her shoulder.

             
“We were right about him,” his deep voice rumbled, quietly. “He is different. Special. Here for a purpose.”

             
She nodded. That he was, she thought. That he was.

Chapter Eight:

The weeks following the drama of the challenge and the hunt were a haze of summer-time joy and routine for Stone, his days filled with physical training with the Youngbloods; his evenings, spiritual instruction with Shaman Wrynn. The customs and traditions of the villagers soon became second nature to him, Lanah telling him stories of her people’s history on their frequent walks along the banks of the river.

              The pair grew closer, as time passed, and it seemed that everyone was happy with the arrangement. Even Arnoon.

             
Arnoon, that once proud and haughty warrior who had taken an instant dislike to the stranger from the wilds, before being broken and beaten, cast out and shamed, if only for a short-while, now a close and true friend of Stone and a mature, beloved leader of the Youngbloods.

             
Leader. A strong word, but good enough in this case; it was Arnoon who took the lessons, as before, instructing the troupe in the ways of bush-craft; the way of the Yaht, the Hruti, the lighting of fires and tracking of beasts. He led them, too, in the physical exercise of the Trial. They looked to him as leader, as guide.

But he, in turn, looked to Stone.

              As day followed night, as moon gave way to sun, Stone grew stronger, faster, his physical body changing in ways he couldn’t understand, his spiritual-connection to the elements becoming more and more second nature. Arnoon may have led the training, but Stone was its Master, long surpassing the Youngbloods in skill, speed and strength; his tall, muscled physique adapting each day to every fresh challenge, facing every obstacle and rebuilding itself anew overnight to fare better at the next opportunity.

             
As the weeks progressed, he found himself rarely calling upon the power of the earth to strengthen him, the need no longer there; even the heaviest logs in the Trial no effort to heave overhead, the tallest of hurdles a mere hop and a skip to overcome.

             
His skill with each weapon grew and grew, his mind seeing patterns and techniques that even the able Arnoon and the venerable Elders had never thought of employing. His aim with the bow, uncannily accurate, half the time not even needing to look at the target.

             
But through it all he kept a quiet and good-natured humility, never seeking to challenge Arnoon’s authority, for they had an agreement, a silent treaty, a bond of blood-brotherhood that nothing could sunder. Stone was content to practice with his new friends, demonstrating his preternatural skills but never showing off, happy to know, from experience, that he was of use and importance to his village, feeling no need to brag of  it.

             
And it was partly because of these previous deeds, partly his open and honest demeanour, that the village embraced him as one of their own, no longer an outsider, no longer the Nagah-Slayer; merely ‘Stone.’ And it felt good to be just Stone.

             
But fresh challenges awaited him, that neither his physiology nor shamanic gifts could render easy, trials that only strength of character and iron will could see him through.

             
And so it was that Wrynn called him one night.

***

The summer air was warm and still as Stone pulled aside the hide curtain to the interior of Wrynn’s hut, breathing in the instantly familiar smell of herbs, spices, all manner of ingredients that the shaman used to concoct his cures and remedies.

             
That such simple and paltry medicines were used at all by wielders of spirit-craft was confusing at first for Stone; for had he not experienced the subtle, healing magic of Lanah? But it had soon dawned on him, for though, thanks to his extraordinary capacity for adaptation the blight of spirit-sickness had long-since ceased to be an issue for him, for Lanah and even Wrynn, the cost of calling on the spirits was an ever-present companion. Fevers, serious wounds, all were fair game, but to abuse their connections for the healing of cuts, bruises, sniffles and sneezes would be folly, rendering them weak and impotent as the spirits daily plundered their essence.