The Descent to Madness (28 page)

             
“Then I implore you do so fast, for time is of the essence.”

             
There was an urgency in his eyes and voice that Stone had not seen before and it worried him, tearing his mind away from the matters of before.

             
There was silence as the elements  conversed in ways beyond that of mortal men, before Water spoke.

             
We agree to give our blessing, but in return for this concession there is a forfeit to be paid. Only Stone may return to the surface world. You, Shaman Wrynn, must remain here with us until we see fit.

             
Stone’s eyes widened at this, memories of Yalen’s words leaping to mind unbidden.

             
“No! You cannot do that! The Plains-People need Wrynn!”

             
The old Shaman turned to him, his face resigned, acceptance of his fate clear to see, yet also a paternal love and pride for his pupil.

             
“No, Stone, they need you. Go, do what you can for them. I will see you again one day.”

             
Then it is decided.

             
“No, wait!”

Stone’s head was spinning. He was just on the cusp of revelation about himself, now all this; his friends, Lanah, all in grave danger. Wrynn, gone, for god knows how long. It was all too much.

“Go,” spoke Wrynn, gently. “And remember, no matter how hard life gets, your roots are what you make them.”

Stone opened his mouth to reply, his eyes glistening, but he was consumed in a flash of blinding white light, the metallic taste lingering in the air long after he had gone.

Wrynn closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“He won’t get there in time to make a difference, will he?”

Water was at his shoulder as the rest of the elements looked on.

No. The time difference is insurmountable. The deed will already have been done.

Wrynn nodded, things having moved far faster than he’d wanted but accepting of this all the same, before Fire enquired.

Will he endure?

“He will have no choice.”

And will the world endure his vengeance once the Enemy has him?

Wrynn looked thoughtful.

“I believe so. No matter how deep his fury runs, he will never lose himself entirely, even if he forgets for a while. He will never forget this summer; it will lay a groundwork.” A single tear rolled down one cheek. “The sacrifice of our people will be a worthy one.”

The Avatar of Air landed on his shoulders, stroking his greying hair, no laughter for once, issuing from their fey mouths.

The Earth rumbled, the tones shattering the peace in an earthquake rumble.

Have you made provision for the survival of spirit-craft?

“I have.”

Then we can do nothing more than wait.
             

Chapter Ten
:

The family of rabbits huddled close together beneath the faint moons of early evening as they grazed on the grassy plain, ears scanning this way and that for predators. It wasn’t their hearing that warned them, however, but their innate connection to the earth, triggering some deep and primeval flee response in their primitive minds, causing them to scatter and race for their burrows despite not knowing the reason why.

             
A moment later, a crack like the splitting of the heavens, before the plains whited out in a searing flash, bleaching the retinas of any poor beast unfortunate enough to be looking that way. A circle of dried grass, scorched and smouldering, in the centre, a mighty warrior rising up, breathing in, as though for the first time, the sweet, fresh plains air.

             
Stone opened his eyes, the dizzying sensation of dislocation, his being in two places at once, slowly fading, before looking about. Something felt odd and it took him a few moments to work out; the world seemed bustling, vibrant, more alive, somehow.

             
With a grin, it became clear; his connection to the elements had been restored, the blessings of the Avatars renewing his might. With a thought, as though flexing a muscle, he tested, feeling the surge of power rushing to the fore, the strength of the earth, the roar of the water, the speed of the air, the sucking destructive hunger of the fire all channelling through him with ease and he laughed at the thrilling one-ness with the elements.

             
His laughter died in his throat as memories forced themselves to mind; Barbarians, war, his village and people in danger. Lanah.

             
Terror clutched his heart and he knew that he must move now or there would be no reason for his being here.

             
He let go of three of the elements, retaining his connection to the air, feeling the capricious power  attempting to  evade his grasp but soothing it, assuaging it with mental promises and petitions, the bond growing stronger without the need for brute might; he had learned at least something useful from his subterranean voyage.

             
He looked up at the moons, the stars, the skills he’d been taught by Arnoon telling him exactly in which direction the village lay, before slowing the flow of time and making off at a run, the cool, evening air whipping past his limbs in streaming trails of moisture.

             
The rabbits watched, with interest, the two-legged creature that streaked from their warrens in a blur of motion, leaving nothing but a thunderclap behind it, then forgot the scene in an instant as they ventured out once more to feast on the tasty grass; for life as a rabbit was harsh and it didn’t do well to dwell on things when there was eating to be had.

***

The spirits of air left him a little over halfway back to the village, bored with the lack of action, his speed slowing to a mere athletic sprint, and he let them go with no argument, unwilling to force their hand just yet, to anger them, for despite his urgent need to reach the village, he knew that he’d have need of them when he reached his destination.

             
He’d reached the Yow, running parallel, along its banks, cresting a small mound of grass, and that was when he saw the smoke in the distance. His heart stopped, face running cold as he surveyed the scene, knowing that there was only one place the smoke could have come from. Fists clenched, he powered on.

***

Not for the first time that day, Barjeen riled at the indignity of his situation.

             
The raid had gone as planned, the force of the villagers exactly as Raga’s pet sorcerer had described; a ragtag band of untrained youths and greying men, easily overwhelmed by the might of the Steppes-Warriors army.

             
Those that could be had been subdued with minimal injury, for profit was to be had in the strong and proud Plains-People down at the slave markets in Barbarian City. Women, children, easily taken, bound, forced onto the carts. The warriors, not so easily; some had been dragged down unharmed, of course, for the Steppes-Warriors were masters of the art of capturing slaves, it being a long and proud tradition; the elders in particular being easily subdued, easily outmatched by the speed and ferocity of the barbarians.

             
Not
all
the elders, of course.

A pair of large, greying warriors, one of them no doubt the Chief, the leader of the village, had laid about them with axe and bow, hewing barbarians left and right, the slavers having to resort to bringing them down from afar. The Chief had roared his denial at his foes, even as arrow after arrow
impaled him, the might of his righteous indignation terrifying and thrilling in equal measure as he fell to his knees and crumpled into the dust, defending his proud wife and daughter.

These were the exception amongst the elders.

              The youths of the village, however, had been a surprise, fighting with a bravery and raw determination that had surprised even the experienced Barjeen. Thus, unfortunately, most of them had been slaughtered, for the risk of trying to capture them – winding them with bolas or snaring them in nets – was too great, the barbarians learning that lesson the hard way at the sharp end of bronze-tipped arrows and ivory knives.

             
Barjeen recalled a particularly fearsome youth that had charged him as though he had something to prove to himself; he could still picture the blue war-paint, the three braids of hair flying in the air as the young warrior had leapt down on him from the roof of a hut, brandishing two wickedly serrated daggers. The ferocity and recklessness had been an inspiring sight for the barbarian, and it was with remorse that he’d cut the boy down, dodging the clumsy attacks with seasoned grace and running the youth through with his scimitar. The youth’s lifeblood still stained his hands. He remembered the smile of duty done on the boy’s face as he’d fallen to the dust and envied him the honour of such a worthy death.

             
Honour. Such as was not to be found in his current job. After every battle it was customary to scavenge, to plunder the homes of their fallen enemies and to make the rounds, checking the fallen for loot and ending the suffering of those in which the heart still beat. Normally a duty befallen the youngest, greenest, rawest of recruits.

             
But Raga, the bastard, the conniving, glory-hunting hound, had a habit of delegating such tedious, demeaning chores to his lieutenants, his way of curbing their ambitions, bringing them to heel. He brooked no challenge from his juniors. Barjeen both admired and despised the man’s scarred visage, even as he looked down on the latest victim of the rounds, cast red in the sunset as though lying in a river of blood.

             
That the youth still breathed was testament to his incredible will-power, for Barjeen distinctly remembered him charging at Raga, assailing him in a flourish of skill and courage that Barjeen wouldn’t have expected from a primitive. Folly, of course, for as much as Barjeen despised his Marzban, he had to admit that the man’s skill with his dual scimitars was legendary and the tall, handsome youth, with his long, dark braid of hair, had been cut down like the child he was.

             
Looking down on the stricken youth who breathed in short, rasping gasps, blood trickling from a corner of his mouth, Barjeen could feel the pride and satisfaction radiating from him in great waves, even as his life slowly faded away.

             
He knelt down, till he was close to the boy’s ear and whispered.

             
“What is it you’re so proud of, child?” His voice was filled with jealous venom. “Your village burns, your people are taken or dead. Nothing remains of your legacy. In a hundred years, no-one will remember your people ever existed.” He spread his arms to encompass the blackened, burning remains of the settlement. “Where is the victory in this?”

             
The youth looked over Barjeen’s shoulder, his blood-shot eyes widening in recognition. His lips parted in a pained smile.

             
The Barbarian leader turned, frowning.

             
There, silhouetted in the crimson and purple evening sky, the figure of one lone primitive stood, bare-chested, in the emptiness of what was once the village square. His paler skin stood out from the rest of the tribesmen, the moonlight reflecting off his green eyes – something Barjeen had never seen before. With a smile, he called his men, happy that he would be able to extract at least a little satisfaction from his task.

             
“Haresh! Lutar! We have a live one…”

             
The pair of warriors came out from a hut they’d been ransacking for whatever possessions had escaped the fire, eyes lighting with glee as they saw a fresh victim. Haresh unslung his bow from his back, nocking a long, barbed arrow.

             
“Go for the shoulder but miss the joint; he’s in good shape, will make us a pretty penny if we keep him a secret from the Marzban.”

             
The warrior nodded, aimed, fired, all in one motion, the target easy pickings for a skilled marksman such as he.

             
They blinked, expecting a cry of pain, but none forthcoming.

             
The tribesman stood, holding the caught arrow in his hand, inspecting it momentarily, before losing interest and snapping it betwixt thumb and forefinger, slowly marching towards them.

             
Haresh looked in stunned silence to Barjeen, who took a step back, frowning in confusion, before regaining his composure.

             
“Lutar, take him.”

             
The brawny slaver growled, cracking his knuckles, before marching forwards towards the approaching primitive, stance low, practiced, ready to wrap his meaty forearm about his foe’s throat in order to bring him choking to the ground.