The Descent to Madness (13 page)

             
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.

             
“You want to play? Fine. Let’s play.”

             
With a confident, albeit gormless, grin, his foe began to circle him once more, swirling his Hruti with seasoned grace that belied his Neanderthal appearance. The staff swung round in an arcing blur, a blow aimed at Stone’s temple. A blow that would never land.

             
Up till this point, Stone had been holding back deliberately, keen to learn the staff the hard way, to ingratiate himself. Well, fuck that, he thought, as with but a mental command he rendered Rico nought but a martial statue.

             
Falcon-Sight: he stepped aside, out of the path of the blow, bringing his own Hruti round in a swing aimed at his opponent’s mid-section.

             
Real-time: Rico doubled over in pain as the wind was driven from his body. Grunting in pain, he turned, whirling his staff about to sweep Stone’s leg once again.

             
Falcon-Sight: Stone casually stepped over the slowly swinging weapon, walking round his foe before jabbing his staff, end first, into the back of Rico’s right knee.

             
Real-time: The brutish Youngblood fell to his knees with a cry of despair, unable to comprehend how his opponent had circled him. Acting on instinct, he swung the Hruti downwards, tucking it underneath his right arm, thrusting backwards like a spear in an attempt to stab Stone’s stomach or groin.

             
Falcon-Sight: he watched as the staff lunged glacially towards him as though through treacle, before forgetting it and walking back around to his foe’s front. He brought his staff up over his head, and brought it down, bending with speed, over Rico’s forehead.

             
Real-time: the Hruti snapped clean in two, the part he wasn’t holding sent flying off into the air. A small trickle of blood began to slowly work its way down Rico’s forehead, to his nose, his mouth. He tasted it, reaching up with tentative fingers to touch it. He looked at the crimson liquid dripping from his fingers. His eyes crossed and he tumbled sideways, unconscious.

             
Stone stood victorious over his opponent, his knuckles bruised and raw, chin red from the blood leaking out of his lip, one eye already beginning to swell shut. Neroo stuck his staff in the soft grass, end first, then slowly began to clap, the applause spreading to become whooping and laughter as two of Arnoon’s lackeys dragged Rico off into the shade.

             
The leader himself stared daggers at Stone, and he knew that he was devising yet more cunning and painful methods of ‘teaching’ him their ways. Tomorrow, he knew, would be a difficult day again. But he didn’t care.

             
He merely met his gaze. And nodded.

***

Warm, juicy, delicious, the roasted chicken went down a treat. He’d been eating cooked food for a couple of days now, but still the novelty hadn’t worn off and already he could feel reserves of energy being replenished as his stomach worked overtime to extract the nutrients and goodness. He even fancied he could feel his wounds knitting while he ate.

             
“You certainly know how to make an impression,” chuckled the Shaman, his normally dour demeanour creased with laughter after Stone’s recounting of the day’s events. “You split the Elders, you nearly kill one of the Youngbloods. What tomorrow? Set fire to the Chief’s Hut?” He guffawed again and took a long drag on his pipe as Stone retorted through mouthfuls of meat.

             
“Arnoon has it in for me. He thinks it something personal, he was going out of his way to make today as miserable for me as he could, despite everything you told him!”

             
“But of course.”

             
Stone frowned as he chewed and Wrynn continued.

             
“Arnoon is a proud youth, he brooks no authority. He was bound to do the opposite of whatever I told him.”

             
Stone stopped eating and stared incredulously, chicken leg in hand, at the smiling Shaman.

             
“So… you
knew
he was going to give me this beasting?”

             
“Aye, but it’s all for a good cause.”

             
“A good cause?” Stone spat. “That’s all well and good, when you’re not the one with the black eye!”  He jabbed the chicken leg towards his face, as though the shaman didn’t know what a black eye was.

             
Wrynn dismissed his protestations with a wave of his hand.

             
“Shush, boy. You don’t look far enough into the future, something you’ll have to change if you wish to exploit your full potential.” He paused for a second to take a puff on his pipe, savouring the sweet flavour of this particular blend, before carrying on. “Arnoon is less popular than you think in the village, regardless of the peacocking he inherits from his father. By standing up to him – as I knew you would – you make more friends than you know.”

             
“Great, well let’s hope those friends don’t mind lifting logs for me tomorrow. I’m in agony.”

             
Cue more laughter from the shaman.

             
“Well luckily for you, your first night’s training in Spirit-Craft involves no lifting.”

             
Rapt attention now, his pains and the events of the day forgotten in anticipation of this, yearning to know more about the talents he possessed, the talents which saved his hide on many an occasion and saved his pride today.

             
“Where do we start?”

             
“Where does one always start? At the beginning.”

             
The shaman took a big, long draught on his pipe, leaving the stem in his lips as he exhaled, so twin clouds of blue smoke left his mouth and the bowl, twisting and twirling before being caught in the updraft of the fire, racing upwards to leave the hut via the chimney hole in the roof. Presently he removed the pipe and began to speak, slowly, quietly, deliberately.

             
“Do you remember me telling you that this world is full of spirits?”

             
“Yes. You said that even the stones have their own spirits.”

             
Wrynn nodded. “This is true. The stones are part of the Earth element. Every element has its own spirits, many and varied, weak and strong. This fire,” he gestured to the small cooking fire between them, “has its own spirit that you can call upon, with practice and the right teaching. This is what forms the basis of Spirit-Craft, what gives the shaman his power.”

             
“So every time I use a power, I’m calling on the spirits of one element or another to help me?”

             
The shaman nodded again. Stone thought for a second.

             
“So, the Falcon-Sight. What element is that?”

             
“The flow of time is the domain of the spirits of air. When you use that power, you call upon them. The reason you feel a strain as you call upon the power is that the spirits of air are capricious and flighty, always seeking to escape your grasp.” He took a puff on his pipe, his fingers held over the end to choke the tobacco, for it had nearly gone out whilst he was talking. “Probably a good thing, to be honest. As you’ve no doubt found, the ability to move at speed is thrilling, empowering. Addictive. If one could live at that speed permanently, then who could stop them?”

             
Stone thought about that, picturing himself with limitless access to the Falcon-Sight. Imagining the things he could get up to, moving so fast that no-one could see him. Who
could
stop him?

“Another shaman?”

              Wrynn shook his head.

             
“Though we live all over the world, some of us here with the Plains-People, others with the Hill-People, others still…” he shuddered, as if repressing some terrible memory, “choosing to live in the south, with the folk of the Steppes, we are all one order. We do not fight amongst ourselves. For many reasons. To fight amongst ourselves with our powers is to force the spirits to fight amongst themselves too. This disturbs the natural order of things and angers the spirits. If you’re lucky, then they may refuse to treaty with you.”

             
Stone frowned.

             
“That’s if you’re
lucky
?”

             
“Indeed.”

             
“And if you’re not?”

             
“Put it this way; any spirit which will willingly fight for you against its own kind is probably not one you wish to call upon too often.” His face was stern, eyes holding warning of forbidden knowledge. “Many shaman fall into the trap of believing themselves master of the power, believing they own it rather than borrow it. Travel too far down that path, parlay with spirits too dark and some may find the opposite becomes true.”

             
He took a puff on his pipe, but no smoke came out; it had finally gone out. He reached for his tobacco pouch.

             
“But enough on that, such talk is heavy for a first night of training. Let us speak of lighter things, nicer memories. Remind me again of the time you called upon the Earth-Tap.”

             
Shaking further questions from his mind, Stone thought back to the time at the slaver camp, seeming so very long ago now, bringing to mind the memories of the earth, the sensing of the tin and stone, the flood of strength that had invigorated him. He told the shaman of all this, who nodded in silence as he listened.

             
“Again, I’m surprised that you can call upon this power at so few summers of age. The Earth-Tap is a mighty skill. At lower levels it can be used to sustain you in the wilderness, drawing fresh strength from the ground when there’s neither food nor water to be found.”

             
“Is that why I recover so quickly?”

             
Wrynn looked thoughtful.

             
“Perhaps, yes. It could be that you have a connection to the lesser spirits of the Earth at all times, keeping you refreshed. But what interests me more is the strength that you say you felt as you connected with the Earth. Are you sure of this?”

             
“Absolutely,” he replied, the memories still fresh in his mind. “I felt as though I could move a mountain.”

             
Just the turn of phrase was enough to convince Wrynn of his sincerity.

             
“Intriguing. To call upon the strength of the Earth requires parlay with some formidable spirits. Have you repeated this since?”

             
Stone shook his head.

             
“Nope. I don’t remember how I did it.” He touched the lump on his head where the log had knocked him out. “I sure could have used it today.”

             
Silence for a few moments, as Wrynn thought.

             
“Well, we know that you have this ability, you’ve used it before, even if you know not how. So I resolve that our first port of call be to harness this skill again. Close your eyes.”

             
The command took Stone by surprise, having just bitten off a huge chunk of chicken leg. He rested his hand on his knee, chicken leg still clutched, and chewed furiously, swallowing the mouthful down before obeying. Wrynn sighed. Sitting cross-legged, Stone tried to clear his thoughts and focus on his breathing as the shaman began to speak.

             
“What do you feel beneath you?”

             
Stone thought for a second.