“Something like that, yes. But he is arrogant, so sure of himself, happy to be the big man in the village. He wants the big hut,” she thumbed behind her, “the fine clothes, the many sons and the respect of his men. He’s no different from any of the other men in this place.”
“So, you’re not into that then?”
She laughed.
“No, I’m a shaman. I want something different; excitement, adventure. I want to see what’s out there.”
He watched her as she absent-mindedly braided her hair, eyes half closed in the warm sunlight. He didn’t see Arnoon stopped a hundred yards away, watching, face impassive but fists clenched white.
***
The shaman didn’t even look up from his meditations, his eyes closed as Stone entered his hut, closing the hide door behind him to shut out the cold wind and rain of the night.
“You’ve had a difficult first day, I take it?”
Stone slowly, painfully crouched down across from him, the small fire in between them. After long moments, Wrynn opened his eyes. Stone’s face was a mess of bruises and cuts; his lip split, one eye black and swollen. The knuckles on both hands raw and bruised. He looked up at the shaman with his one good eye, hair dripping rainwater down his face.
“You could say that, yeah…”
***
It was one of the other Youngbloods that awoke him early that morning for his first day of training, a tall, gangly youth who didn’t offer his name, and, together, they walked in the cold light of the dawn to the Proving Grounds a short way from the village. The training area was a small, flat-topped hill, accessible by one winding path, ringed with cloth flags and containing all the equipment they needed for the day’s training; weapons, targets, as well as stones and logs of various sizes for testing ones strength.
The other Youngbloods were already there, waiting, between fifteen and twenty of them, a lot more than Stone had been expecting. War-paint was daubed carefully across their chests and faces, each youth having a design unique to himself. He noticed that none wore the headdresses the Elders sported. They walked closer, he could see that they varied in age, the youngest no younger than fourteen, the oldest no more than eighteen or nineteen.
Arnoon was at the older end of the spectrum, and he stood in front of the troupe that milled and chatted, arms folded in front of him, an unsettling grin on his face as Stone and his escort filed into place with the other youths.
Slowly the hubbub began to die away until, at last, the only sound was the whispering of the wind across the plateau as the rising sun began to beat down.
“Good morning,” Arnoon greeted them, his voice loud and strong.
“Arnoon! Arnoon!”
The youths shouted in unison, pumping their arms and causing Stone to jump with the unexpectedness of the reply. Arnoon looked about, seemingly satisfied with the response.
“Today,” he began, “we have an honoured guest with us.” He performed a slow and elaborate bow in the direction of Stone. “The great and mighty Nagah-Slayer.”
The gathered Youngbloods grinned, quietly laughing together as though in remembrance of some shared joke. Arnoon continued.
“The Elders have asked us to ease our guest into the art of Bush-Craft, and that we shall. This morning, we run the Trial.”
Their leader turned to look out on the Proving Ground. It was laid out akin to an obstacle course, with stones, logs, sacks of grain, hurdles and a myriad other ingenious tests of speed, skill and strength. The mirth of before evaporated, replaced with groans of dread, only Arnoon and his closest friends retaining their sly grins.
“Line up!” he roared and the assembled Youngbloods gathered about a starting line, where several such courses started, running parallel to each other as they traversed the plateau. The smaller, younger lads convened at one end, where the course was easier, the larger youths beginning further and further up the line, with the course getting progressively harder looking, with bigger stones, taller hurdles. Stone found a place about halfway down the line, in the middle of the group. He looked at the course in front of him, sizing up the obstacles ahead.
Daunting, he thought. But not impossible. I can do this. He could feel his adrenaline beginning to flow, his heart beginning to pump.
A tap on his shoulder made him turn, and another lad pointed him up the line where Arnoon was waiting, arms folded and a grin playing his face. He shook his head and beckoned with a finger. With a sigh, Stone walked over.
“Oh mighty Nagah-Slayer,” Arnoon began, “no need for false modesty here, we’re all brothers.”
Stone raised an eyebrow, quizzically, unsure of his meaning. Arnoon swept his arm towards a group of Youngbloods standing at the hardest end of the course.
“Please, take your rightful place amongst the elite…”
The eyes of the troupe were all on him now. He looked over the small group, the elite; each and every youth, tall, strong, well-nourished and smiling as they regarded him in return. He looked at the course as it started from this section of the line; the logs bigger, the stones heavier, the hurdles taller. Fresh from his week-long fever, he knew he didn’t have the strength for this. But he wouldn’t back down. He didn’t want to look a fool. Didn’t want to give Arnoon the satisfaction. It was a petty and foolish pride, he knew, but give a bully an inch and they take a mile. Start as you mean to go on, and all that…
With a nod to Arnoon, he took his place amongst the Youngblood elite.
“Begin!”
Youngbloods shot forwards onto their respective courses, to the first obstacle; a set of logs, bound with ropes, lying horizontal on the floor. Stone watched with interest and apprehension as the first of his group met the obstacle. He reached down, grabbed the log by the ropes and, in an impressive show of strength, he hoisted the log onto his chest, resting it for a second, before pressing it high overhead, lean arms taut with tension, seasoned triceps bulging. He dropped the log behind him to land where it lay initially, then moved onto the next log, repeating the motion. Again and again, he hoisted and pressed the logs, till at last the final log was lifted and he ran onto the next obstacle.
“Nagah-Slayer!”
He’d been so focussed on watching the lad in front, that he hadn’t noticed the rest his group sidling their way behind him. He was now at the front of the queue.
“Your turn,” grinned the youth, motioning him to start.
Stone turned back to face the course. Gulped. And ran forwards to meet his first humiliation. The log was bigger up close, gnarled and thick, a formidable hunk of tree. He reached down, grabbing the rope that looped it, rough and harsh but no trouble to his hardened skin, then heaved upwards with all his might. The weight didn’t move. He tried again, grunting with exertion, the second attempt just as futile as the first. Laughter from behind him. He turned, giving a big, faux smile.
“Hey – just warming up.” He winked, then looked back down at the log, smile gone in an instant as he sized up his opponent once more.
A voice called out from behind him from amongst the laughter.
“Stone! Pull it faster.”
He turned, it was a tall youth, with red war-paint and hair in three long braids. “Strain all day and it won’t move, you need to pull it fast, whip it up.” The youth was pushed roughly by another frowning Youngblood.
Stone nodded in thanks. Faster, he thought. He looked back down at the log, a small smile threatening to break out on his lips. I can do faster.
With a thought, the frenzied activity of the Proving Grounds slowed to a crawl. Youths moved from obstacle to obstacle with languid lack of pace and Arnoon’s bellowed commands slurred into deep and meaningless underwater syllables.
Stone reached down, hands trailing ripples of air visible only to him, then grabbed the ropes once more and heaved backwards. For a horrifying instant it seemed that, once again, it wouldn’t move, but, after a hesitant start, the log began to rise from the ground, rolling slowly as it did. He leant backwards,
pulling the log in towards him as he’d seen the other youths do, till it rested, heavy and rough again his chest.
Reality snapped back as he allowed himself a moment’s rest. The weight was supported, for now, on the slope of his chest, but now he still had to press it overhead. It was heavy; he was not sure he could. The laughter still rang out behind him, but with a little less gusto now.
The voice called out again. “Use your legs!”
He bent at the knees, like a coiled spring, then leapt upwards, simultaneously forcing his arms up with all his might. By some miracle, the log went up, held, quivering but defiant above his head. Behind him, the comforting sound of silence. He dropped the log backwards and moved onto the next. Time slowed, he heaved, up onto his chest, then up, up into the air. Second log done. His arms burned. Three more logs to go. He pushed on. Third done, tough, but his technique was down now. Onto the fourth, this one a real struggle, his arms like jelly now. It took three attempts to get the log high overhead, and even then he locked it out only for a moment before dropping it back down.
He stood before the fifth log, his vision swimming and chest heaving with exertion. His body had become accustomed to pulling his own weight in the wilds, but this was something else. His heightened metabolism was trying its best, but there was no precedent and it could only adapt so quick. There was no reason to these efforts, no impetus. He wasn’t being chased, hounded. He wasn’t hunting food. This was simply exercise for exercise’ sake. He eyed the last part of this first obstacle and took a deep breath. He slowed the moment, the back of his brain aching with the repeated strain, and grabbed the log, heaving it upwards. He struggled to pull it high enough, catching it on his thighs, dragging it up his front, the roughness of the bark threatening even his toughened skin. At last it rested on his chest. He staggered slightly under the weight, left, then right, but kept himself upright. With a roar, he bent at the knees and thrust upwards with all his might.
The log went up, but his arms, weakened, wobbled and stopped halfway, the weight not quite locked out. He struggled, willing his muscles, but they had nothing left and the log came plummeting back down.
Blinding white light and stars engulfed him, and, as they began to clear, he saw a circle of concerned faces looking down at him, silhouetted in the morning sun. He was lying on his back. He reached up to touch his pounding forehead with on shaking hand, his fingers coming away with a smattering of blood.
Red-Paint leant over.
“You okay?”
Stone rose, supporting himself as he sat upright with one wobbling arm, the other hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Been better.”
“You’re supposed to lift with your arms, not your face.”
Stone grinned as the surrounding youths all laughed with good humour and relief. Arnoon appeared in the circle of faces, frowning at the sprawled heap before him.
“Resting already, Nagah-Slayer? Still tired from your travels?”
“What can I say? The sun’s nice, thought I’d catch some rays, I look a bit pasty compared to you folk.”
The circle laughed once more, but were silenced at a thunderous look from their leader.
“If you wish to… ‘catch some rays,’ then feel free to join the other stragglers.” He pointed over to a group of youths sat, defeated, at the edge of the Proving Grounds.
Stone struggled to his feet, dizzy and off-balance following his blow to the head, before looking over at the next obstacle; a huge sack of grain to be dragged from one post to the next and back again. The next after that; stones to be lifted up onto barrels. After that, fifty yards of hurdles to be leapt over and climbed under.
His ragged breathing slowed, becoming stronger, more regular. He could feel the familiar tingling warmth of the energy stores in his limbs quickly replenishing themselves. He unbuttoned his leather jacket and threw it to the floor, before turning to Arnoon.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll get some sun while I’m at it.”
***
He leapt the last hurdle and collapsed to the ground with joyous relief, the grass soft and cooling on his flushed skin. The other Youngbloods followed shortly, each and every one of them sore, aching and out of breath, sprawled out on the grass, but none in as much pain as he.
Red-Paint came walking over, beads of sweat on his brow, struggling for breath.
“That was a good come-back, Nagah-Slayer. You have heart.” He offered his hand. Stone took it about the wrist. “Neroo.”
“Pleased to meet you, Neroo.”
***
The afternoon passed in a haze of weapons practice. The Bush-Craft of the Plains People, Neroo explained, wasn’t just about hunting, but also about honing the skills of war, in readiness to defend themselves should the need ever arise.
The first weapon he learned to use was the traditional hunting bow, or Yaht, the same long, curved instrument that Stone had seen the old man, Yalen, making arrows for. The arrows today weren’t the looped fishing arrows he’d seen before, though the same length, with the same sharp, bronze tip.
“The Yaht,” shouted Arnoon, as he paced in front of the group, “is as much a part of a Plainsman as his own heart.” He beat his free hand against his chest, the other holding a bow. “Any Plainsman worth his salt can hit a moving bird from a hundred paces, or a deer from two hundred.” He snatched an arrow from the dirt and, in one smooth motion, span and fired it down the range to thud into the dead centre of a sack tied to a post a hundred yards away. Even Stone was impressed. Arnoon turned back, allowing himself a slight, sneering grin of satisfaction, before announcing:
“Begin.”
As before, they lined up in groups, the Youngbloods of fewer summers shooting at targets much closer, with the older youths attempting to hit targets further and further away. Despite never having picked up a bow in all his living memory, Stone knew that he was expected in the hard group. Luckily, Neroo was with him once again.
“Elbow up, bring it to you ear,” he advised from behind, as the youth in front passed Stone the bow. It felt long, unwieldy in his hands, the motion of nocking the arrow anything but natural. He raised it, drawing the string, positioning himself as his new friend told him, trying to sight down the range to the cloth sack that rocked gently on its post in the breeze. His eyesight was good and he could throw a stone, but the entire act was foreign, unfamiliar and his aim unsteady.
His shot went far wide, to the left. With a snort of disappointment, he handed the bow to Neroo behind him and retreated to the back of the line, watching with interest and not a little envy as Neroo shot a smooth, sure arrow that pierced the sack mere inches from the middle. The next youth did the same, and the next, Stone watching every one of them with rapt fascination.
He could feel his subconscious working overtime, as he did, tracking angles, plotting corrections, taking in factors such as the breeze, the slope of the ground, the sun, the temperature, a raft of things that his conscious mind didn’t even realise affected the flight of an arrow. He could feel his arms twitching, as new muscle-memories were subconsciously implanted. How he knew all this, he didn’t know.
Before long, it was his turn again. He took the bow, his fingers instinctively grasping it in the right position, taking an arrow, expertly nocking it, raising and firing in a heartbeat. He turned to hand the bow to Neroo before the arrow had even found its mark.
He knew it was a bull’s-eye.
Even as the small group of Youngblood elite stood and stared at him, surprise warring with slowly growing admiration, Arnoon’s voice called out yet again.
“Enough archery! Hruti training!”
***
The Hruti, as the traditional staff was called, was a long weapon of slender, springy wood, meaning that it could deliver a satisfyingly potent crack, yet was light enough to whirl around in an impressive flurry of offensive and defensive strikes, as Arnoon, ever eager to show his martial prowess, was only too keen to demonstrate in front of his troupe.
They began this exercise as whole group, a few older Youngbloods at the front, facing the group, demonstrating basic movements that the younger ones, and Stone, copied in turn, before splitting off into pairs to practice sparring. Stone wasn’t fortunate enough to get Neroo this time, instead being paired with a youth named Rico, a hulking brute with a surly face and mono-brow, who Stone had never seen venture too far from Arnoon.
They started slowly, with the basic strikes and counters practiced as a group, and Stone soon began to feel his way, getting the hang of the timing, the clatter of wood on wood picking up pace as the two sparred quicker and quicker.
Noticing his opponent glancing over his shoulder, Stone turned slightly, just in time to see Arnoon nod. All of a sudden, his world turned upside down as his foot was swept clean out from under him, landing hard on his back, his own Hruti bouncing off. Winded, he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck, looking up to see his opponent laughing, the slow, simple-minded laugh of the petty and easily amused.
Stone got up, determined not to show himself rattled. He retrieved the staff and they started again, his partner striking at him faster now. Whack! A stinging blow across his knuckles caused him to drop his staff. He picked it back up, continued sparring. Whack! Another, the other hand this time, the skin on his fingers, tough as it was, peeled and bleeding under the force of the blow. Another blow clipped his face, splitting his lip and watering his eye. He was just about to think ‘that’s a black eye,’ when, before he knew it, once more the end of his foe’s Hruti lashed out, catching the back of his foot and throwing him sprawling, again, to the floor.
A smattering of other Youngbloods had stopped their sparring, watching the scene. To their credit, few of them found it amusing. Rico however, guffawed like a donkey.
Enough was enough. Something inside Stone snapped. If they didn’t want to play fair, then so be it…
He rose to his feet, slowly and purposefully, retrieving his staff for the last time.
The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 9