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 th
e 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.
Away, away to live alone with his shame.
The crowd watched. Lanah watched. Stone watched. No-one said a word, the only noise that of the still gentle wind and the cawing of distant birds.
***
There had been no cheering following his victory, for the loss of Arnoon to the wilds was a loss to the whole village and no cheering matter.
They entered the Chief’s hut, the mood subdued. Farr sat down with a sigh on his chair, the others about the fire. Only Stone remained standing, his arm bandaged up where it had been impaled.
“So that’s it?” His voice was curiously weak in the silence. “He’s gone?”
Farr nodded, face grim.
“That’s it. Gone. Your first honour challenge won. Doesn’t feel as good as you hoped it would, does it?”
Stone slowly shook his head, the memories of Arnoon running, of the aghast looks of despair on the faces of his family still etched on his mind.
“No… it just feels… like a waste.”
He swayed slightly, the room spinning.
“I don’t… feel… good…”
Wrynn and Lanah leapt up just as the room went black.
***
“…what happened?”
He’d opened his eyes to find himself in a bed, not his own, Lanah crouched down beside him, eyes full of concern, Wrynn next to her, in a scene eerily reminiscent of only a week ago. His head throbbed, his muscles ached, but it made no sense – he’d lost some blood, sure, but nothing like enough to cause him to faint. And the arrow wouldn’t have been poisoned, the Elders had checked the weapons beforehand to make sure nothing untoward had been done to them.
“Spirit-sickness,” said Lanah, her voice full of relief at hearing his voice. He frowned, confused, before Wrynn explained.
“When you release your grip on the spirits after calling on then, they always take a little something with them as they leave.” His eyes were serious. “A piece of your life-essence, your soul, if you will.”
Stone’s eyes widened in horror, but Wrynn went on.
“The longer the spirits do your bidding, or the more spirits you bind to your call, the more of a toll they exact at the end. Normally they take a small enough part of your essence that you barely notice, your body regenerating it quickly enough, but you, my young apprentice, you put on quite a display and, for that, they took a hefty price. I’m surprised you’re not dead, to be honest.”
“Dead? You mean, using your powers can kill you?”
The old Shaman nodded.
“In extreme circumstances, yes. It all depends on the exact spirits upon which you call. The spirits of earth are gentle, life-giving, they won’t feed from you, that’s not their way. But the spirits of air are mischievous. And the spirits of fire…” he looked at Stone, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, “are especially greedy. They think nothing of stripping you bare. Tell me, young Nagah-Slayer, how long have you been able to summon fire?”
Stone rubbed his head, trying to think.
“I don’t know. I didn’t know I could. I just remember hearing a song in my head and – whoomph! – fire. Once it happened, that was it, I knew how to do it.”
Lanah and Wrynn shared a look, before Wrynn continued.
“I’m on the verge of no longer being surprised by anything you say, Stone. Your talent is beyond reproach, I just ask you this; be wary of which elements you call upon. There is a saying amongst the Plains-People; play with fire and you will get burned.”
He placed a hand on Lanah’s shoulder.
“I now leave you in young Lanah’s capable, healing hands. Recover your strength, for you have training to come. You have power, but it needs to be tempered with knowledge and wisdom. I aim to impart that.”
With that, he turned and left the two alone.
***
Stone looked about in the silence of the room, taking in the flowers on the table, the rail with clothes hung on it. It was pretty bare.
“So this is your bedroom, eh?” She nodded. “Not how I imagined it, what, with you being the chief’s daughter and all.”
Lanah laughed, gently, as she made her way over to close the hide door.
“Life’s about more than possessions, Stone, you of all people should know that. I sleep here, I get changed here, but apart from that, I spend almost no time here. I’m off cultivating my spirit-craft, training the skills Wrynn has taught me.”
“Where do you train? I’ve not seen you at Wrynn’s the last few days.”
She smiled as she moved back round to the side of the bed.
“Oh, I have a place. A picturesque copse of trees, not too far from the village, but far enough that I don’t get disturbed. It’s nice, peaceful; a place I can really connect with the earth. Some of us don’t have such a built-in connection, we have to work at it.” She laughed again, robbing the comment of any imagined malice.
Stone sat himself up in the bed, head still pounding from the backlash of the spirits.
“I remember Wrynn telling me that you’re a healer.”
The girl nodded.
“Yes. I parlay with the spirits of earth, though to very different effect to you…”
“How does it work?”
She knelt down, close beside him, so near he could smell the scented oils, his heart skipping a beat at her closeness.
“Let me show you…”
She placed her hand on his forehead, soft and warm and closed her eyes, the silence between them comfortable, natural, and he found himself closing his eyes too. As he did, he could feel a spreading warmth emanating from her hand, seeping into his head, seeking out the throbbing pain.
Lanah gave a quiet gasp and he opened her eyes to see her wince in discomfort, but no sooner did he than her expression relaxed, becoming calm once more. Slowly, she removed her hand from his forehead, the contact of minds gently fading, before opening her eyes.
“And that is how a shaman heals.”
Stone said nothing for a time, merely looking into her eyes and her, his, before he broke the silence.
“You didn’t just relieve the pain, did you? I could feel you take it from me…”
She nodded.
“That’s right. I took your pain into me, then gave it, in turn, to the earth to take from me.”
“That’s amazing.”
She smiled.
“It’s something that took me a while to learn. To learn how to give the pain to the earth, without giving too much of yourself, is tricky.”
He was quiet as he thought about that, then spoke again.
“When your hand was on me, I could feel… you. Feel your personality.”
She smiled warmly, her eyes on his as she explained.
“Yes. Every time you use spirit-craft, you open a two-way connection, between yourself and whatever you’re channelling. Surely you’ve felt it, the connection with the earth, the tastes, the feelings. Your essences merge to a greater or lesser degree, depending on how deep you allow the connection to become. Use your craft on another person, you bare your soul to them and vice-versa.”
Stone thought back to the night at Wrynn’s hut after his first day of training, to the singed clothes and cremated chicken after his spirit-walk through the molten rock of the earth’s blood.
The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 12