The Descent to Madness (24 page)

             
The noise came again and this time, finally, he could make sense of it.

Through the tumultuous rumble there was a voice.

Deep, bassy, these were not words that even came close to describing such a voice. Each syllable was the explosion of a volcano. Each inflection, the grating of continent on continent. The words were slow, glacial, thunderous, eternal and once they’d been spoken, they had always been spoken, having never
not
existed. It was the voice of the infinite and everlasting. It was the voice of the very earth itself.

             
Who
, it boomed, each word jarring him to his core, threatening to liquefy his organs and turn him into a human shaped gourd of soup,
are you that dare harm my children
?

             
Long moments passed before the ripples faded from Stone’s vision. He looked out into the gloom before him and his mouth hung open in unashamed terror and awe; his stone cage was suspended on the end of a vast, sturdy bridge that arched off to the side of a mountain, but even as he thought the words he knew that his description was all wrong; for his prison was no cage, the bridge no bridge. And the mountain…

             
The Avatar of Earth loomed above him, stretching off in all directions to the edge of his vision. It was a mountain made manifest, a hodgepodge of different stones and minerals that shouldn’t even be together yet somehow blended seamlessly into a perfect whole that could really be no other way.

             
It had a face with a craggy brow – Stone laughed in his terror; perhaps the first time the term had ever been applied literally – with a nose the size of a village and, below, a mouth, jutting with teeth, diamonds the size of obelisks. Its eyes, beneath those jutting brows, deep and gleaming lumps of obsidian that Stone couldn’t gaze upon for long, lest the eternal darkness suck the very soul from him with a scream.

             
The universe shook once again as the Avatar repeated itself.

             
Who are you
, it rumbled,
that dare harm my children
?

             
Stone recovered quicker this time, his body determined to withstand every punishment better than the last, and finally replied.

             
“I’m Stone, of the Plains People. And I meant no harm; your child attacked me first.”

             
He knew his error immediately. The Avatar roared.

             
You presume to attack my children then dare call it self-defence
?

             
It gave a minute squeeze with its hand, possibly not even realising, just a subconscious act, but still Stone cried out in anguish at the incredible pressure on his body.

             
“Aaargh! It
was
self-defence! The Knocker tried to lure me to my death!”

             
Lies! And for that, you die.

             
It squeezed, on purpose now, and Stone’s world became an explosion of stars and pain as a quadrillion tons of pressure assailed him from every side in an effort to transform him into the world’s first human diamond.

             
A thousandth of a second of this torment passed, before the pressure subsided as fast as it had appeared, and, with a groaning rumble, the fingers of the giant’s curled fist parted, allowing Stone to plummet down into its palm to land with a flat and unceremonious splat.

             
He rolled about, clutching his sides in agony, blood trickling from his mouth, acutely aware of fractures in his every rib, even as they healed at accelerated pace, yet still dumbfounded as to how, and why, he’d survived.

             
A rush of hurricane force wind and he looked up to see the Avatar looking down at him, as though studying a curious insect, its face the size of a town suspended hundreds of feet above him but still filling his vision from periphery to periphery.

             
Struggling to his feet, wounded, but miraculously alive, Stone demanded of the giant through bloodied lips.

             
“…why did you let me live?”

             
The creature answered, its voice a lot quieter now, toned down till it was no more violent than the volcanic destruction of a tropical island.

             
I am curious. You withstood a pressure of three million bar for one point four nanoseconds.

             
None of the rumbling terms that rocked him meant anything to him, but his subconscious mind raced and calculated, letting him know that the creature was indeed correct. And also, that such a thing should not be possible. The Avatar appeared to agree.

             
No flesh-thing of my creation should be capable of this. Yet it happened. Even now, I can feel my nutrients within you, healing you, making you stronger. This intrigues me.

             
Once the shockwaves subsided once more, Stone opened his mouth to speak, to ask a question, to beg forgiveness, anything to get him away from this terrifying construct of primeval might. But he didn’t get the chance.

             
I must know what my siblings think of this.

             
In an instant, the floor beneath his feet became a wall behind him, but before he could even begin to fall, the wall slammed into his back, catapulting him forwards with an irresistible acceleration that he would never have believed possible, his mouth open to scream but the air standing no chance of escaping.

             
The living mountain receded behind him in a blur as he rushed through the subterranean depths before impacting like a human meteor on the surface of the underground river, bouncing and tumbling, before finally slowing to a halt and sinking, dazed and battered, down, down into the dark depths.

             
***              

The horses whinnied and stamped, breath misting out of their noses in the night air as the three Youngbloods sneaked by, crouched low in the dark to avoid detection by the sentries.

             
How the hell do I let Arnoon talk me into these things, thought Neroo, holding his breath as yet another fearsome barbarian guard sauntered past on patrol, wicked-looking scimitar at his hip.

             
The three of them, Arnoon, Neroo and the lumbering Rico had left the troupe far out, sneaking under cover of darkness to where the Steppes raiders kept the stores of grain for their precious steeds, Neroo and Arnoon with bows slung across their backs, Rico hefting a huge, bronze-bladed axe, its gleam dulled with soot.

             
Neroo looked down at the pouch of Venomberries attached to his belt; this had better work, he thought, or we’re dead.

             
The group, through stealth and luck, finally made it to the grain-store undetected, hiding behind a wagon of firewood, eyeing up the solitary guard that stood between them and the stocks of feed. Glancing left and right, Arnoon sized up the scene with a seasoned eye; this one barbarian stood guard next to the grain-carts, two more were on a looping patrol that took them past here every five minutes. The other barbarians were all either fast asleep or towards the centre of the camp, drinking and talking by the roaring fire. Making some quick calculations in his head, Arnoon held up his hand to tell his two companions to stay down and quiet.

             
Another guard walked into view right on cue, one of the patrollers, stopping and exchanging a few brief words with the grain-sentry, before pulling out a flask of vile smelling liquid and taking a swig, proffering the canteen to the other who gratefully accepted it. Arnoon wrinkled his nose at the acrid chemical smell; Vorda, he’d heard the shaman Wrynn mention before, a distilled concoction that rendered you pleasantly senseless, but you paid for it in the morning. I’ll stick to the pipe weed, thanks, he thought.

             
The patroller eventually left to continue his intoxicated meander about the camp perimeter. That left the Youngbloods with a little over two minutes to act.

             
With a smooth, easy action he brought his bow to bear, arrow nocked, picking his target with care before loosing. The arrow took the guard clean in the throat, rendering it impossible for him to scream in pain, falling on his knees before crumpling face first to the ground.

             
The three Youngbloods moved, time of the essence, over to the carts, each taking one, leaping on top to get access to the grain but low enough to stay out of the firelight.

             
Neroo took his pouch of Venomberries, squeezing it hard in his fist so that the lethal liquid oozed out the bottom of the linen, taking care to not get it on his skin; the stuff was potent, he’d seen a child die of eating them before, wracked with terrible pain, vomiting blood as his stomach ate itself from the inside out. Not even Shaman Wrynn had been able to help.

             
The juice had the consistency of water, spraying in droplets all over the grain and sinking in easily, soaking the feed right through to the bottom. Finally, his pouch of death was dry. He looked over to the other two, nodded and they began to slink away as fast as they could without risking detection.

             
The deed was done; upon daybreak, the horses would be fed and they would be dead before noon, rendering the barbarian raid impossible, for the supplies of an army could not be dragged without pack animals, nor could slaves be brought back to the Barbarian City.

             
Even as they fled, the three exchanged subtle glances of triumph, Rico in particular beaming his simpleton grin, not paying heed to the ground in front of him as the two wiser warriors did, not seeing the rock until too late. Balance lost, he sprawled out, catching a wagon as he did, his considerable bulk knocking barrels tumbling to the ground in a great, crashing crescendo of noise that echoed through the night.

             
“Shit!” hissed Arnoon, through gritted teeth, as cries in foreign tongue pierced the air about the camp. “Run!”

             
Neroo obeyed, darting off into the distance, back to the troupe, fear lending his feet wings, but Arnoon hesitated, for Rico was behind and struggling with a twisted ankle. In the firelight behind the slower, bigger Youngblood, figures could be seen speeding towards them, winding their way between carts and steeds in an effort to cut them off.

             
“Go, Arnoon! I will hold them off.”

             
Arnoon ran to him, quickly placing his hands on the shoulders of his big companion.

             
“Die with honour, friend.”

             
The bigger man nodded and, as Arnoon turned and fled, he span, taking up his huge war-axe and charging towards the approaching foe with a lop-sided gallop.

             
Arnoon flew away from the camp and into the safety of the darkness. He felt no pain or grief for the certain loss of his friend, not due to callousness – his friendship with Stone had knocked that out of him – but due to the fact that he was still a ruthless tactician and leader of men; in his heart, he knew that the loss of one to save many was an acceptable one, any day of the week.

             
At least this way, they still had a chance to live.

As Arnoon disappeared into the gloom, Rico met the first of his enemies, almost cleaving the barbarian clean in two with a mighty double-handed swing of his axe. Another dared come near,
attempting  to tackle him to the ground, the Steppes raiders always preferring to take living slaves where they could, especially burly, strong youths such as this. He lost an arm for his efforts, screaming as he was sent sprawling in a shower of blood and torn ligament.

             
Rico roared, swinging the axe this way and that with a skill that belied his brutish appearance, challenging his circling foes to charge him.

             
In an instant, his cries were silenced, a strangled choking coming from his mouth. Dropping the axe, he looked down to his bare chest, seeing a single, small, bronze throwing-knife embedded perfectly where his now-impaled heart was. In his chest, the wounded organ struggled to beat, despite the injury, flailing about like a fish out of water, before giving up and becoming still.

             
Rico’s face went cold as the blood stopped flowing. Like a fallen tree, he crashed down onto his knees with a thud, before finally collapsing on his side.

             
The last thing he saw was the approaching hide boots of a barbarian warrior who stooped down to look his vanquished foe in the eye, topknot trailing down, scarred, pock-marked face cruel and twisted in the flickering firelight.

***