The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  He heard laboured breathing close by his left shoulder. A fallen tree ahead. With an evil grin he ran towards it till the very last split-second, not giving any indication of seeing it, before leaping over with inches to spare. A sickening crack told him that his pursuer hadn’t seen it till too late.

  The victory was heartening but howls of rage from either side told him that he wasn’t out of danger yet. The beasts still had eyes for his flesh. Stone tried to summon on extra reserves of energy but he was running dry, his hunger betraying him. We have nothing, his flagging muscles said. His pace began to slow and the pack of wolves began to howl in triumph as they closed in.

  Mind racing even as his legs pounded the ground, up ahead he saw another spiny tree amongst its many smooth cousins that flashed by. A desperate ploy in his mind, he raced towards it. The warm breath of his pursuers tickled the back of his neck and with a last surge of effort, he made the base of the tree and leapt with all his might. Scrabbling up the sharp thorns, his skin protesting but withstanding nonetheless, he didn’t stop till he’d passed not one, not two, but three thick branches, finally swinging himself up, full length onto a thick bough.

  Chest heaving and heart racing, he looked down…

  …and was shocked to see the frustrated wolves prowling around the base of the tree, some thirty feet below. He looked at his hands and feet in disbelief, the smooth skin unmarked; he’d just climbed the height of a house, with nothing to grip on to but razor-sharp thorns and managed it with nary a scratch. He gave out a nervous laugh, as the adrenaline from his sprint slowly drained away. One of the wolves below tried to leap up the tree itself, in emulation of his feat, pricking its paws on the bark and whining in pain. Stone laughed. The lead wolf walked up to the base of the tree, blue eyes shining with rage, and let loose a howl of challenge.

  “Aaaawwooooooo, yourself!” Stone howled in reply, before cracking up into tears of laughter. He was still laughing five minutes later as the wolves slowly began to slink away, defeated, their tails, quite literally, between their legs.

  Stone lay back on the spiny branch, as the sun slowly set, turning the mountain sky a radiant orange. The spines no longer troubled his skin, in fact, they seemed almost comfortable, pricking him in all the right places to relieve the tension in his muscles. From his vantage point in the tree he could see the trees sloping off down into the greener foothills beyond. Even from this distance the land looked more lush, less wild, welcoming. He resolved to journey downhill tomorrow. Perhaps, finally, he’d be able to appease his growling stomach.

  And with that, Graeme Stone fell asleep, firmly wedged in the y-shaped join between two

  sturdy branches. He dreamt of sitting in front of a roaring fire, feasting on warm, roasted meats and chunky vegetables. He had a loyal dog sat at his feet, gazing up with soulful eyes for a scrap of food.

  He gave it not a sausage.

  ***

  He woke some time later, unsure whether he had dreamt the noise. The forest was dark and the stars were twinkling in the sky. The three moons shone brightly, each in a slightly different phase. Three moons. Hmm. He hadn’t noticed that before.

  There was the noise again; a subtle crunching, rustling noise from below. Curious, he carefully turned himself over, peering down into the gloom and that was when he saw it. Holding in his gasp, he watched the rabbit as it munched on the grass, confident that no predators were abroad.

  It was oblivious to his presence.

  The butterflies of nervous anticipation warred with the hunger in his belly as he braced his feet against the trunk of the tree and, his right hand grabbing firmly onto his branch, he held himself out, suspended in mid-air above his prey. His supporting arm shook a little, but held. His left arm he positioned above the rabbit, hand flared in a grasping posture. Giving no thought to the craziness of what he was about to do, he let go and plummeted out of the tree, leaving his stomach thirty feet up. He landed heavily in the thick snow, the impact driving the breath from his body but paying no heed to the pain. His attention, instead, focused entirely on the squirming, squealing ball of fluff caught firmly in the palm of his left hand.

  Picking himself up onto his knees, he reached over with his right hand and, with a sharp tug, snapped the neck of the rabbit. It kicked briefly, then died, its spasmodic twitching slowly fading. Like a madman he began ripping away at the white fur, revealing the soft, pink flesh underneath. Baring his teeth he clamped down on the still warm meat, chewing and tearing to break the skin, his teeth obviously not designed for the task. Finally, he managed to rip a chunk from the carcass, the blood and juices dribbling down his chin and staining the ground around him a bright crimson. Even as the meat slid down his throat he could feel his body absorbing the goodness, nutrients replenishing, systems which had slowed down to preserve energy springing into renewed life. A spreading warmth filled his mid-section as his stomach processed the meal with a speed and completeness beyond its original design, rendering the meal the equal of a three course feast.

  In the clearing, between the harsh and prickly trees, the winter of the hills found a man on his knees. His form ravaged and filthy. His hands clasping the last remnants of a ruined beast. His face, unshaven, covered in grime, bore testament to the struggle of days in the wild. Tears flowed freely from tired eyes.

  Tears of joy.

  Chapter Four

  The water was crystal clear and cold as ice and the fact that it ran at all was testament to how far down the mountains Graeme Stone had come in the last week. The trees were greener here, by far, and less prickly too - more conducive to a good night’s sleep away from the nocturnal predations of the wolves. Here the wolves were found in greater numbers, the ones he’d faced before having wandered high up in the mountains in search of uncontested territory. But the wolves no longer scared him; he was growing more confident in his new and improved body. However, all the speed in the world didn’t help if you were asleep…

  Another salmon leapt clear of the water before landing in a splash, striving upstream in its quest to spawn. The fish here were strange; transparent like glass, rendering them almost invisible in the clear water. See-through Salmon, he’d named them in his head, two feet long, powerful and he longed to taste one, hence he was knelt at the side of the fast-flowing river by a little fall up which the fish had to leap.

  His keen eyes picked out the tell-tale surge in the water as another shoal of fish came swimming upriver towards him and Stone readied himself. The last few days of hunting had taught him much about his new speed and he knew what to do.

  With a mighty splash the salmon flicked their tails as one and began leaping up the fall, soaring through the air in a blur of wriggling motion. Stone narrowed his eyes and, as he concentrated, he felt a tug in the back of his mind, like the jerk of a locomotive as it made to move away with a train of heavy wagons. The fish, at first streaking past in a frenzy of foam began to slow, until they slowly wriggled past in a languid arc, as though swimming through invisible syrup rather than flying through the air. One of the fish came floating slowly past, closer than the rest and Stone reached out to grab it, his arm feeling heavy, leaden but practiced now at moving in this state. His fingers closed about the transparent, slimy scales of the salmon and he could feel the weight and momentum as though it were actually moving fast rather than slow. Because of course, it was.

  A ripping, tearing feeling at the back of his mind signalled that he was losing grip on this moment, and with a great wave of relief as though dropping a heavy bag that he’d been carrying for a distance, he let the moment pass.

  The momentum of the fish he’d caught bowled him clean over, its slippery form wriggling and writhing in his grasp, even as its brothers and sisters resumed their dazzling leaps in the background. Rolling around on the floor, arms wrapped around the fish in a desperate bid to prevent its escape, Stone pinned his prize to the ground with one strong, sinewy hand and, curling the other into a hard fist, halted its struggles with a single b
low. He held the limp fish out in front of him, his hands clearly visible through the see-through flesh and eyed it greedily, a big grin splitting his features. He’d eaten many a beasty these last few days; rabbits, pigeons, even a snake that he’d found sunning itself on a rock, finding it easier every day to catch prey as his body seemingly adapted to its task. But this would be the first fish. Licking his lips he opened his mouth, revealing canine teeth long and sharp, perfectly suited to tearing at flesh…

  With a grimace of disgust he spat the transparent flesh from his mouth and flung the rest of the carcass away. Though his See-Through-Salmon was the size and shape of the fish from his patchy memory, the taste was vile, the texture rubbery and greasy at once. He rushed to the bank of the river and plunged his head into the flow, the icy chill of the water refreshing and exhilarating, but more importantly washing the bitter tang from his mouth. Lifting his head from the water, he sat back on his haunches and shook his long, unkempt hair dry, freezing droplets spraying the ground about him.

  With nothing better to do and, in the hope of perhaps finding something tastier to eat, Stone stood up and loped downstream from where the salmon had come, his hard legs and calloused feet making short work of the ever thawing terrain.

  ***

  The horses were nervous, stamping their feet and shying away from every noise that rustled from the undergrowth. Raga didn’t blame them, he hated the foothills of these mountains; he was a horseman by nature and his heart cried out for the sight of the wide-open steppes surrounding the Barbarian City, the feel of galloping steed beneath him, his long, brown top-knot streaming in the wind. That was horse country. This; this land was wild, untamed, fit only for the beasts.

  No civilised man lived here.

  He reined his pale mount to a halt and surveyed the clearing, stroking his long, brown moustache. This would do for now; the evening was drawing in already, the sky beginning to darken into an orange haze and it would not do the horses to be making their way through this forest at night, not with the wolves ready to pounce at every turn. It had been a long ride, first across the foothills to pick up their cargo, now homeward bound and they were still at least another week from home.

  “Halt!” he shouted. He turned his brown, almond shaped eyes to the men following him. Twenty Savaran, light cavalrymen, all clad in fur and leathers, with a caravan of four covered wagons behind. Their cargo, bound for the Barbarian City. “We camp here tonight. Haresh, Janibek – see to the horses. The rest of you, make camp.”

  His men fell about setting up camp with practiced ease, the wagons forming a circular perimeter within which sat first the men’s tents, then the horses, finally the campfire being built in the very centre about which the grateful men sat down to rest their weary backs. Large curved swords, bows and quivers were all scattered about them but within easy reach if needs be.

  The wolves were always around once they caught the scent of horse...

  Raga dismounted, stretching his tired legs, patting the muzzle of his steed as Haresh led it away to be tied up with the others. He laid his pair of curved scimitars to the ground near where his tent was being pitched, gently and reverently, admiring the ivory handles carved with the shapes of rearing horses and the long, thin blades ideal for striking from a mounted position. The swords were ancestral, part of his clan’s heritage and he looked after them jealously as a mother might a newborn baby. Alongside them he set his trusty bow, the signature weapon of all Savaran horsemen. His throwing knife, however, remained as always in the leather strap about his ankle.

  Raga accepted the gourd handed him by one of his men and took a big gulp, the Vorda burning his throat as it went down, then, handing the drink back he looked across the camp, fixing his eyes on a large figure with a wolf-pelt drooped over one shoulder. The boisterous man was guffawing loudly with his fellows as he struggled with his tent, obviously already intoxicated from drinking on the ride. Raga’s eyes narrowed and he stalked over, the more sensible of his men backing away to clear a path as they saw him coming.

  “Zoltar!” he growled, in a low and menacing voice that meant business.

  The bigger man turned slowly from his efforts, his previous humour forgotten, his moustachioed face now an impassive mask, eyes a well of barely disguised disdain. Raga was no small man, his youthful twenty-year old frame well-muscled with the rigours of training and well-nourished by the wealth of his clan, but even he had to look up to the gargantuan bulk of Zoltar. It was said that he went through a horse a season, their backs inevitably giving out under his barrel chested, forty-year old mass. Raga could well believe it.

  But it intimidated him not in the slightest.

  “Yes, Marzban?” the larger warrior slurred, the honorific dripping with sarcasm. The stench of alcohol washed over Raga’s face, almost causing his eyes to water. The tension between the two men veritably crackled the air like the static build-up before a thunderstorm, speaking of past arguments unresolved.

  “Enough with your attitude, clansman,” the leader snarled. “I am Marzban and you will respect me. Your breath reeks enough to attract every beast within a day’s ride and you make enough noise to raise the dead from their barrows! This may have been how Adilah used to run things, but no longer; these Savaran are mine now and we do things my way. So forget about that old man and learn to show some respect to me.”

  “RESPECT?” Zoltar roared.

  A crowd of the men had gathered loosely now, sensing the unfolding confrontation, like animals sense an earthquake moments before it happens.

  “Respect?” he repeated and gave a great, booming laugh that carried only a faint trace of mirth. “What does anyone from the mighty Clan of the Two Scimitars know of respect?”

  Raga balled his fists, trying to quell the rage within him at this blatant insubordination.

  “You overstep the mark, clansman…”

  “NO!” spat Zoltar, “YOU overstepped it when you took command of this unit with your subterfuge and your politics, clansman.” He took a step forward towards his leader, looming over him, his lined face red behind his grey moustache, his traditional topknot flicking about with every word. “Adilah, ancestors rest him, was a true Marzban, a man who had earned his command by right of countless blood-victories, who had personally saved the lives of each of us here in a hundred raids. I have put up with your naivety until now, Marzban, but you disrespect Adilah and you disrespect every man here. You are unfit to lead us.”

  Raga glanced about at the men gathered around the pair, noting the veteran warriors nodding and murmuring to each other. He had felt events leading to this over the weeks since being appointed this command. The political influence of his Clan had gotten him into this position far earlier than most and that was bound to earn him some enmity from the old guard.

  This was his chance to end it.

  “So that’s what it’s about, is it?” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his face despite the proximity and simmering anger of the huge warrior. “Petty jealousy? You want that you should be Marzban instead? I had you pegged as a man of honour and duty, Zoltar. It seems I was very wrong.”

  The giant veteran roared and flung himself at his superior, a cheer and gasp going up at once from his fellow Savaran, but Raga was ready, ducking down to the side and bringing his knee up into Zoltar’s midsection as he had trained countless times with his Clan’s blademasters. His leg jarred in pain as though he’d just kneed a tree, but it had the desired effect, the wind going out of Zoltar’s sails, doubling him up in pain. Spinning about, Raga brought his two hands down hard in a club-like motion on the back of his opponent’s neck, then again and again, until his hands felt like they would break. He took a step back to surmise the situation and, with begrudging admiration and not a little fear, he watched as Zoltar slowly straightened himself, unharmed, teeth bared in a feral and savage grin of enjoyment.

  Not allowing his foe time to recover, Raga launched a quick punch with his right hand, aimed at Zoltar’s ruddy nose. Zo
ltar’s hand shot up, catching Raga’s fist in his meaty palm. Features wrought with shock and pain, the Marzban cried out as his fist was slowly crushed like so much dry leaf in the vast hand of his traitorous soldier, joints cracking loudly one after another. Using his left hand he delivered a punch to the cheek of his foe in an effort to break his grip, then another, the second having as little effect as the first. With a bellow of laughter Zoltar brought his own right fist into play, smashing into Raga’s stomach and driving all wind from him in a surge of crippling pain. Stunned, Raga could do nothing as the bigger man lifted him clean off his feet and over his head in a tremendous show of physical power. With his wolf-pelt cloak flapping in the breeze and his vanquished foe lifted above him in his grip, the bigger man looked every inch a warrior giant of legend. Roaring his triumph to his cheering comrades, Zoltar slowly turned around in a circle for all to witness his commander held helpless above him. Then with a mighty heave he threw Raga ten feet to land in a heap on the floor.

  He rolled as best he could to reduce the impact, but still the cold, hard floor rattled his every bone. Wheezing, his vision swimming, he hauled himself to his knees. Behind him, he could hear the bellowing of his foe, the cheering of his once-loyal men. He could hear the creaking stretch of a bow-string growing taut.

  He threw himself sideways, the barbed arrow thudding into the ground exactly where his heart would have been a split-second before and, in one smooth motion, reached down to the strap around his ankle, grabbing the small, perfectly weighted bronze knife, nocking it expertly in the palm of his hand and launching it through the air with one fluid swing of his arm. The dart flew straight, a blur of speeding metal, his arm strong and his aim perfect.

  The giant’s hands went to his throat, clutching in a futile gesture of survival, but the dark warmth that began to steadily trickle through his fingers betrayed the severity of the blow. He fell to his knees, eyes wide and boggling, unable to talk for the blood filling his throat.