The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Several of the Youngbloods gave low moans, one retching into a bush as he struggled to hold his stomach in the face of this horror.

  Just as Neroo made his way towards the diminutive head, fingers outstretched to close its eyes in respect, an earth shattering roar erupted from the dim hollow, blasting him backwards in fright, fumbling for his bow.

  Like a nightmare given muscled form and clad in fur, the beast strode from its lair, brazen and supremely confident into the daylight to confront its pursuers. Cries for mercy came from the mouths of the Youngbloods, the insides of even the most hardened of them turning to ice at the sheer size and fearsome aspect of the monstrosity.

  As it turned, huge horns whistling in the air, it fixed its one good eye on Stone, snarling in bestial recognition. Stone, in turn, regarded the beast, the events of that horrifying first day in this land coming back to him in a storm of long-repressed images, blood, snow, savage teeth and claws.

  As it paced, unhurriedly, towards the troupe, Stone could feel, by virtue of his new gifts, the sheer evil presence of this creature; it was no ordinary beast of the wilds, this. The horned bear was an ancient and remorseless predator, the bane of all life that dared enter its realm. In its primitive mind he felt a deep-rooted malice and thirst for vengeance, a slow burning wrath that had never forgotten the scars of that fateful day and, with insides of cold dread, he realised that the beast had been tracking him, all this time, following him slowly, as he’d made his way to the lands of men.

  Somehow, some glimmer of intelligence within the creature had known to lure him from the village, away from the scores of villagers that might have helped, alone but for ten of the oldest Youngbloods, for all their sticks and arrows might be worth. He could feel the years of carnage and slaughter this creature had wrought. Decades, centuries of killing; men, women, children, as well as other beasts, all fair game to this living engine of destruction. Remorseless. Unstoppable. And he knew, knew that if it wasn’t stopped this day, then it would return to the village he had grown to know and love, to kill and kill and kill again.

  Purpose drove out the fear that threatened to clutch his heart and Stone narrowed his eyes.

  “Youngbloods, steady yourselves. Today, we kill this beast, once and for all.”

  “Stone! Stone!” the troupe called out as they scattered into positions, drawing bows and readying arrows.

  “End this creature.”

  The twang of nearly a dozen bows coincided with the deafening bellow of the beast as it charged straight for Stone, its eye shining with hate and its huge, jagged teeth bared for the kill. Arrows thudded into its side, some deflected by the thick fur and curved flanks, but others luckier, stabbing into the dense flesh but whether it noticed the injuries at all one couldn’t tell. The ground shook, literally, under the beast’s tremendous mass, the dry leaves in the trees rustling in tune to its gait. Stone recalled the first encounter, the devastating charge that smashed his ribs like matchsticks, and snarled.

  Not this time.

  The impact bowled him over, the sheer momentum of the creature’s charge completely unstoppable, but the blow caused no harm to Stone, nourished and strengthened by his connection to the earth. The beast was on him, roaring, pinning him with its unbelievable weight whilst slashing with its titanic claws in an effort to disembowel him, but the lethal talons barely scored his skin, turned aside by already toughened flesh, reinforced by a steady stream of elemental power. It tried to gore him with its vicious teeth, but with all his strength Stone held onto the horns that sprouted from each side of its head, forcing the snapping muzzle away.

  In frustration, the bear reared up to come crashing down on him with its entire mass, claws

  aimed to impale.

  Subconscious calculations flared in Stone’s head, as they had on the archery range; speed, mass, the tensile strength of his supernaturally augmented skin. Somehow, he knew that he had to move, that his toughness was not enough to withstand this fresh onslaught, so, with a thought he accelerated into a realm of speed beyond the monster’s normal prey. In a flurry of leaves and dirt, he rolled out of the way, drawing an ivory dagger from his belt, spinning about the bear in a blur of motion, hacking and stabbing as he did, all the while avoiding the shots that came streaking in from the still attacking Youngbloods.

  The bear span, confused, raging, but still huge and virtually untouched, snapping and swiping with its claws to rid itself of irritating arrows as one might swat at gnats.

  Stone backed away until he was alongside Neroo, his green war-paint smeared with dirt, thin rivulets of blood trickling down from a dozen razor thin cuts on his chest and arms.

  “Any ideas?”

  The Youngblood narrowed his eyes, thinking quickly, then grinned.

  “Flame me!”

  “What?”

  Neroo held up three arrows, in front of Stone, eyes gleaming with fear and excitement. The penny dropped. With a thought from Stone, the arrow heads gleamed red hot, almost burning Neroo’s fingers. The bear smelt the warning signs of burning wood, just as the Youngblood turned and aimed.

  “Burn, you bastard!”

  The arrows thudded into the monsters fur beneath its throat, the smell of acrid, burning hair filling the forest in an instant. The creature bellowed and thrashed and cloying, black smoke began to billow out.

  “It’s working!” Neroo cried, incredulously, as though he could hardly believe his own luck.

  Stone smiled and called out.

  “Youngbloods! Aim!”

  The troupe nocked arrows and aimed at the frantically rolling bear. It was in danger of putting out the smouldering fur. Not for long.

  With a mighty effort of concentration, Stone focussed on the heat, spreading it through sheer willpower throughout the clearing, till at last ten arrows were held, quivering, glowing with incandescent heat that threatened to melt the very bronze from which they were forged.

  “Fire!”

  A bellowing roar of pain and rage, like the screams of a murdered god, as the arrows all hit home, burning through tough flesh with ease, setting alight the fur until the bear was nothing more than a giant fireball, frantically, futilely rolling in its hollow in an effort to extinguish its pain.

  Finally, after long moments, the struggles ceased.

  The smoke eased off, the rancid smell of burning fat and singed hair filled the forest air.

  The beast was still.

  A mighty cheer rose up from the group of youths, hugging each other, clapping each other on the back in triumph, in relief that they were all still alive.

  Stone breathed a sigh of relief, turning to Neroo, who jumped back, startled.

  “Your eyes… I see flames in them…”

  Stone blinked a few times, clearing the thoughts of heat and fire from his mind, feeling the connection to the elements draining away to be replaced with a slight, dull ache. By all rights he should be spirit-sick now, as he was yesterday, this feat of spirit-craft sure to exact a heavy toll. Obviously, his ever-adapting physiology had other ideas…

  “Better?”

  Neroo nodded.

  “Better. You look less of a demon now.”

  The pair chuckled, before looking over at the gently smoking corpse.

  “What do we do with this?” Stone asked.

  “It’s custom to take the head as proof. The rest; leave for the crows.”

  Stone handed him the ivory knife

  “Do the honours.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Neroo strode over to the fallen beast, raising his arms in a victory salute to the cheers of his brother Youngbloods. He stood over the creature’s head, the gargantuan bulk of the beast still dwarfing him in death, before closing his eyes.

  “O beast of the forest, you proved a worthy hunt. Let your spirit rest in –“

  A mighty roar erupted from the bears mouth and its one eye snapped open as rapidly, impossibly, it rose upwards, charred skin cracking and flaking as it raised one fearsom
e, clawed paw to end Neroo’s life in a single cruel blow.

  Sheer shock and terror stopped Stone from reacting as he should, not even thinking to engage Falcon-Sight, watching instead in pure horror as the beast, thought dead, readied to end his friend’s life. But, just as the blow was set to land, a flash of colour descended from the cliff above, landing on the monsters head and knocking it off balance.

  The bear thrashed and writhed, attempting to dislodge its new attacker, roaming blindly towards the edge of the cliff they were already on, before tumbling down the steep slope and crashing to a halt amongst the trees. The figure that had caused the fall jumped off, rolling expertly to a halt, not far from the beast.

  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.