The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga) Read online

  “What happens if you connect too deeply, stay too long?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’ve not done it myself. I’ve only healed people of minor illnesses, injuries, only brushing the surface of their souls. But from what Wrynn has explained to me in the past, it can go one of two ways.” She looked at him, her eyes boring deep into his. “If both are willing to let the connection run deep, then it can be beautiful, like making love, but with your souls rather than your bodies.”

  Stone tried to imagine it, couldn’t, then Lanah’s tone grew serious, her eyes downcast, not looking into his now.

  “But if one side doesn’t want it, if, say, a shaman forces their mind into someone, then it’s ugly, painful. Their soul stripped bare of their memories, their hopes and dreams stolen and scrutinised.” She shivered. “Mind raped.”

  Stone shivered with her, before changing the subject to a lighter topic.

  “So… how do I compare to people you’ve healed before?” he asked, with a grin.

  She looked at him, head tilted slightly, before replying.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  He nodded. She began slowly.

  “To begin with, you seem the same as anyone else.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  She smiled and continued.

  “You have your personality on the surface, like lilies floating on a pond, there for me to see easily. But underneath, where the true core of a person lies, it is hard to make you out; it’s like a haze and, without going too far in, I struggled to make sense of it. To see who you really are beneath your exterior is difficult, like trying to grasp smoke with your hands.”

  He nodded, sombrely.

  “That’s because I don’t know who I am, myself.”

  She nodded before finishing.

  “But running underneath it all, even from only scratching the surface, I could sense a power, something I’ve never felt before in anyone, not even Master Wrynn. I believe it is this that lets you tap into the spirits so readily, harness them to your will with seemingly no training. I believe it’s this that causes you to heal so fast.”

  His ears pricked at this, pulling him out of his contemplation at this examination of his soul.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk about that. Are you saying that my healing isn’t part of being a shaman?”

  Her eyes widened, laughing a little as she replied.

  “Bruises and cuts disappearing overnight? Surviving a Nagah-Bite? No, Stone, these are not things that either I, or even Wrynn, have ever come across before. It mystifies us as much as you.”

  “So you didn’t heal me of the fever?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. I was going to try – I owed you my life – but Wrynn stopped me. He said that the Nagah-Bite was lethal and that if I were to try to drain it from you, channel it into the earth, all I’d succeed in doing is killing myself into the bargain…”

  Stone was silent, pondering this new information. Since arriving at the village, he’d thought that the path of the shaman held all his answers, that all his abilities stemmed from his talent at spirit-craft. Now, it was beginning to seem, his ability to control the spirits was merely one of many innate and unusual gifts he possessed…

  Her soft voice broke his contemplation.

  “How do you feel now? Sickness-wise?”

  His muscles were a hundred percent, his head much better, only a slight, dull ache betraying his previous episode, like the last dregs of a mug that had been all but drained.

  “Better.”

  “Shall we go outside for a walk?”

  The covers were warm, the bed soft, softer than the one in his hut. He looked over at the beautiful girl by his side, her face full of strength and kindness, her youthful eyes full of wisdom beyond her years. Her body, lithe, young, athletic.

  No, he told himself. Too soon. Too soon.

  “Sure,” he replied. “A walk sounds great. I could do with some fresh air.”

  ***

  For hours the pair walked along the length of the quietly babbling river, their conversations the long, meandering ones that cover a vast range of random topics, typical of a young couple, each desperate to know everything about the other. Lanah told Stone of her life growing up with the Plains-People, of her siblings, of her travels with her father to see the Chiefs of other villages on the plains.

  He, in turn, regaled her with yet more stories of his time in the wilds, of the animals that lived in the mountains, of the savage barbarians he’d fought off in the night. She was quiet as she listened, content to hear his voice and not interject, but soon he ran out of tales to tell as his history in this land was but short. And so, their attention turned to the now, and the future.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, out of the blue.

  “For what?”

  “For this welcome you’ve had to our village. The last couple of weeks have been tough for you, so much hostility. We’re not like that, usually. I fear you’ve not seen the best of us.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, a wry smile.

  “I’m sure I have.”

  She might have blushed, but the red glow of the setting sun made it hard to tell as they walked back through the long grass of the plains towards the village.

  Abruptly, Stone’s stomach rumbled and, looking up at the three moons looming high in the early evening sky, he realised that they’d been gone the entire afternoon. Normally Stone ate with Lanah and her family in the Chief’s hut, but they would have sat down and eaten some time ago.

  “We’ve missed the evening meal,” he stated. “Cold leftovers for us tonight!”

  “Then we catch something to take home with us,” she replied, matter of factly.

  He looked about, scanning the empty plains, all the animals gone to bed for the night.

  “Am I missing something? There’s nothing for us to catch.”

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “O ye of little faith,” she said, crouching down to the earth. “Watch and learn, o master shaman.”

  She closed her eyes, face serene and, as she did, Stone could feel her presence seeping into the earth, calling on the spirits that dwelt therein; not with the same kind of power and force that he had done, but in subtle, teasing ways that he couldn’t yet begin to fathom. Moments passed, then she opened her eyes again, looking at him before nodding in a direction over his shoulder.

  He turned to look and, as he did, he could see the tell-tale black tips of a hare’s ears sticking out of a hole in the ground. It ventured out further, sniffing the air tentatively and, as Stone watched on incredulously, the little critter hopped right up to them, showing no fear, before nibbling at his toe.

  “Ow! What…?”

  Lanah laughed at his confusion.

  “It thinks we’re the biggest, juiciest vegetables it’s ever seen.

  Another nibble at his toe, he reached down, killed the unwary beast quickly and mercifully, before picking it up by the ears.

  “Well, this vegetable’s hungry, so lettuce go home and eat.”

  Chapter Eight

  He awoke hours later in the dark of his hut to the sound of screams. He dashed out of the hide door to see what the commotion was all about.

  The village centre was illuminated by torches held high in villagers’ hands, the folk gathered about one screaming woman, her hands cradling a blood-stained bed-cloth. He recognised her as the goat-herd who lived on the outskirts of the village with her young son, her husband long since passed due to an illness that Wrynn had been unable to cure. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, her body wracked with anguished sobs as Farr pushed his way through the crowd, kneeling down before her, hands on her shoulders and concern in his eyes. Lanah followed him, with Wrynn. Neroo appeared from another direction, shortly after. Stone nodded to all three as Farr questioned the woman.

  “What is the meaning of this, Andra? Where is your son?”

  Her reply came in staggered bursts as she struggl
ed for breath.

  “It… it… took him! It took… my… Laree.”

  The name struck a chord with Stone; Lanah had pointed the lad out before, a cheeky young boy of no more than seven summers. He had been one of the group of children following him the day he had first left the hut. An excited murmur went around the crowd, fear mingled with curiosity. Farr pressed further.

  “What took him, woman? Did you see the beast?”

  She shook her head, whether to say no or simply out of grief, it was unclear, before descending into incoherent sobbing once more.

  Farr stood, turning to Wrynn, as the woman was gently led away by Rala.

  “What do you make of this, Shaman?”

  Wrynn narrowed his eyes as he thought quickly.

  “This bodes ill, my Chief. Wild dogs rarely attack this late in the spring, and they certainly don’t venture into the village proper. This cannot be the work of a plains beast.”

  The Chief nodded, then beckoned Neroo and Stone.

  “You two, with me. We check her home for clues of this attacker.”

  It took them only a minute to reach the woman’s hut, just on the outskirts where the village proper ended and the small amount of common farmland began. Upon reaching the abode, it was clear that something powerful had indeed attacked the place.

  “Look at this,” exclaimed Neroo, mouth agape with shock as he pointed to the wood and hide wall that had been torn asunder like so much paper. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  Wrynn ran his hands over the ragged edges of broken wood frame.

  “This is the work of a mighty beast, to be sure.” He shared a worried look with his Chief, as they made their way inside.

  The interior of the home was in no better state, what little furniture there was smashed unto splinters. Two bedrooms off the main living area, separated off by thick hide curtains, the young lad’s room self-evident by virtue of the partition being ripped to shreds. Speckles of blood, here and there, betrayed the murderous intent of the beast, but of the child’s body, no sign.

  “Smell that?” asked Neroo.

  Stone drew in a deep breath through his nose, discerning immediately the scent about which his friend was talking, a foul, musky smell of wet fur. It was strangely familiar, ringing faint alarm bells in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

  The Chief gathered them about him and spoke.

  “This is grave, my friends, but there is little we can do tonight. Come first light, the Youngbloods hunt.” He turned to Neroo. “As eldest now of the troupe, you have the honour of leading this hunt.”

  None of the swollen chest and visible pride that overtook Arnoon upon the same proclamation was apparent on Neroo, instead he replied:

  “My Chief, with respect, I believe Stone should have that honour. He may be new to the village, but his skill at tracking and his capability as a warrior are unmatched.”

  His leader, far from angry at being questioned, nodded, impressed at the Youngblood’s humility.

  “What say you, Nagah-Slayer?”

  Stone eyed the bloodied floor of the hut where a young boy should be safe and sound asleep. He looked at Neroo, who nodded with confidence. He turned to the Chief.

  “First light, we find the beast responsible. And we kill it.”

  ***

  At dawn, the oldest of the Youngbloods assembled, painted for the hunt, before the villagers in readiness for the expedition, the mood sombre, for word had spread that this was no boar they were hunting, instead something far more dangerous. There was every chance than some of the youths wouldn’t return.

  In the pale morning sun, Yalen handed Stone the white arrow, his wizened face smiling but his tone betraying the seriousness of his mood.

  “Stay safe, Nagah-Slayer.”

  Stone nodded.

  “I’ll be back – you owe me a fishing lesson.”

  As the troupe turned to make their way out of the village, Lanah stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, I’ve remembered it this time,” he quipped with a smile, patting the bow on his back.

  “I made you this.”

  She handed him a carved wooden amulet, inscribed with the form of a tree, the shamanic symbol for the earth element.

  Looping it over his neck, she said: “This will keep you safe from harm.”

  “It’s for luck?”

  Her face was serious.

  “No, more than that. It is tied to the spirits of the earth, a bargain struck that will work only once.”

  “Sort of a one-time deal, eh?”

  “Exactly. Try not to get in a position where you need it, okay?”

  He didn’t reply, instead, grasping her, pulling her close, his lips meeting hers with a long, lingering kiss, before parting. A chorus of whistles and cheers from the departing Youngbloods who’d turned to watch helped lighten the mood and they both smiled.

  Farr coughed and Stone turned expecting a face of thunder, only to be greeted with an extended hand. They shook in a warriors handshake, palms grasped about each other’s forearms. He handed Stone a dagger, ornately shaped from ivory, pointed but with a serrated edge.

  “Good hunting, Nagah-Slayer. Bring them home safe.”

  Stone nodded and tucked the gift into his leather belt, before striding to meet his troupe, eyes blazing green in the steadily growing sunlight to match his war-paint as they made their way to Andra’s house to follow the trail of the beast.

  ***

  For the entire day they had followed the trail north from the village towards the foothills, the tracks easy to see for the creature obviously possessed great bulk, the splayed claws of the beast clearly visible in the grass and soil. The mood began quiet, serious, but the youths soon began to chat amongst themselves, as though each mile they trekked took them steadily further from the scary events of the previous night. Before long, evening was drawing in, the sun setting, so the Youngbloods made camp on the plains.

  Stone was torn from his contemplation of the campfire by Neroo, his voice ever upbeat. He liked that about Neroo; so different from some of the others in the village, his cheerful demeanour made him easy to like.

  “How’s your arm, Stone?” He gestured to the bandage about Stone’s left arm.

  He’d completely forgotten about the wound himself. He untied the bloodied linen, pulling it down to reveal the wound, scarring over, almost gone after a single night’s rest.

  Neroo raised his eyebrows, impressed.

  “Spirit-craft?”

  “Something like that,” smiled Stone.

  Neroo changed the topic of conversation.

  “So what do you think it is, Stone, the beast we hunt? It’s not wolves; they don’t come this far south. And it’s certainly not the plains dogs.” A plaintive howl in the distance served to punctuate his statement, as though the roaming packs had been listening intently for someone to mention them. “The damage at the hut, no dog could have done that, no chance.”

  Stone nodded, but didn’t reply just yet.

  “You must have seen something on your travels, some manner of beast large enough to do that?” His tone was light, but an undercurrent of nervousness ran beneath it. The other youths were quiet, listening too.

  Stone thought for a second, brief flashes of memory flicking in front of his eyes, but nothing too coherent. So much time seemed to have passed.

  “I… think so. I may have done. I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I want to remember.”

  Neroo’s turn to nod.

  “I wouldn’t want to, either, if I had faced such a monster. Might not have the choice soon, I suppose.” He was quiet for a moment, then continued. “But still, you’re the Nagah-Slayer! You wrestle snakes and knock boars out cold with one punch, I’m sure nothing we come across will be as bad as that.”

  Stone smiled, fiddling with the amulet about his neck.

  “I sure hope not.”

  “But what I don’t understand,” Neroo went on
, “is why a beast would travel so far just to take one person! The plains are obviously not its normal hunting ground, so why roam so far from home? It’s the kind of distance you travel for a raid, for war. It’s like it has a grudge against us, against someone in the village” he laughed, humourlessly.

  Stone said nothing as he stared into the fire. Finally, as the youths began talking quietly amongst themselves, he turned on his side and willed himself to sleep, his dreams haunted by the smell of decay and the bestial roars of raging, black beasts.

  ***

  By mid-morning the following day, they had made good progress and were far into the foothills, the weather cooler, the ground crisper underfoot. The Youngbloods were chilly, wrapping themselves in furs to shield from the wind, but Stone barely noticed the cold, his skin long-since seasoned to it.

  The trail led them up into the beginnings of the forest, far from the Youngblood’s usual hunting grounds at the base of the foothills. The track was easier still to follow here than it had been on the plains and they knew they were drawing close, the terrain rocky, full of crevices and caves for a beast to hide in as it rose in steps, cliff after steep, perilous cliff.

  Stone stopped, the troupe spread out in scout formation around him, and drew deep sniffs of air into his nose; there it was, the unmistakable smell he’d picked up at the village, like wet dog, urine, decay. He could feel himself grow cold as realisation finally sank in.

  He knew this foe.

  “You okay? You’ve gone pale. You look like you’ve seen death himself.”

  “I have. And we’re about to see him again.”

  Just then, a scream pierced the forest, echoing off the trees and causing them to spin on the spot, trying to track who’d called out.

  One of the younger hunters walked backwards away from a hollow at the foot of a cliff, horrified eyes never leaving an object in front of him, before falling backwards over a branch on the floor. As one, the troupe looked over to where he stared, gasping as recognition sank in.

  The severed head of a small child stared back at them with lifeless eyes, lying blue and bloody in a pile of leaves, mouth open in a silent scream that would never end.