Wrath of Madness: Chapter 1

THE MEN OF SKY COUNTRY

One Year After The Escape

---

Aaron the Marked crouched outside the village, his king chief Peter Redfist and his brother Jordai Stonefist beside him. Thousands of warriors bedecked in thick steel, bearing brutal weapons, stomped past them and headed into the heart of the town. They had come from distant peaks, leading their sons and daughters of war to this place to stand before the king of the Sky People, to hear him speak on these troubled times.

Here, in the extreme peaks of the mountains, the air was cold and constant. This was a country for hard men and women, a place where weakness broke itself on the stone ground. Every man and woman wore a mask of determination and grim purpose, for each had come to speak on war with the boy king.

Since leaving Kullet to Rextur’s Madmen, Peter led the refugees through the mountains on roads forgotten by their masters. These were roads untraveled for centuries, where no citizens of Kullet trod. These roads had been laid down by Clark the First King, a path through the hard country, cut off from the rest of the nation. But this land had a people. Long forgotten by the nation of Tienne, these folk made a home for themselves in this barren place. And Peter had led refugees right into their home.

Aaron watched the citizens make their way to a huge amphitheater in the back of the village. This was no drinking hall or throne room. This place was open to the air, a coliseum, an arena these people congregated in.

“Why there? Why do they have an arena instead of a proper drinking hall?” Jordai asked.

“These are men of the sky, Jordai. They build their hall out in the open air where the sky can bless them,” Peter said.

Aaron looked with wonder to the enormous statues that framed the village. The massive stone birds carried in their talons all manner of wildlife. Exaggerated birds bearing horses, bears, and rams in their claws littered the land they had come through. For days since they left the camp of refugees, they had seen these carvings.

“Bird worshippers, not unlike the Fury warriors of home. They will be a tumultuous people, quick to anger. The bird of prey shows no pity. It does not hesitate. These warriors will be the same,” Peter said.

The stands filled. Their cries boomed in the air, breaking across the wind and rattling to tatters on the distant peaks. A powerful man stood before them all, his arms wide to the assemblage, his voice dominating and relentless.

“They have come to the foot of our mountain, thousands of men bearing weapons and armor. Some boy king the skies speak of in hushed tones leads them here. Wild, intelligent, powerful, and humble, my shamans say. A boy to be feared. Well, I will not quake in fear before a boy. Will you?”

Weapons lifted into the sky. Oaths and screams of fury radiated from the arena, and Aaron’s chest tightened in fear. He gritted his teeth and growled. Peter laid a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Stay with me, Aaron.”

He pulled back on his fear, beating it mercilessly until he mastered it again. The wild mountain men and women howled in bloodlust, and Aaron felt the cold assuring handle of his dagger in hand. He bit the inside of his cheek and brought forth a searing pain in the scar that damned his face.

“We have never been bested in our lands! We have no equal in these parts! The mountains urge us forward to battle. My shamans, they hear the cry of the crarn screaming for war. I feel their wings beating the air in my heart. War has come for us, and we of the Sky will go to meet it!”

The stomping of boots and the pounding of weapons on shields lifted into the air. The cacophony of rage brought the trees they crouched in to trembling.

“I will lead you,” the man shouted. “My fathers commanded the Sky People for many generations. They touched the crarn and fed their young. They felt no fear in the screech of the crarn. My great-grandfather was carried away by the mighty crarn when he reached his elder years. Long has my family been blessed by the masters of the sky. I know no fear in their presence. I have ridden the crarn, held its young and fed them. Look no further for a master of war. Look no further for a commander to battle, for your victory over this boy king is assured under my direction.”

Aaron heard Jordai gasp, and Peter cursed. Aaron looked to the sky, seeing a gargantuan creature. Deep brown slashed over and again with gold, the beast seemed an eagle, but as it drew closer, its enormity showed itself. Aaron gripped tight to his dagger and shut his eyes. The sound of the wings grew closer, blotting out every other sound until the sky ripped open as the monster screamed.

Aaron thought he might lose his mind. Peter gripped his shoulder and shouted something as the beast screeched again. Peter shook him violently until Aaron opened his eyes.

The creature dwarfed everything. Its wings spread, it shadowed the arena. Peter was speaking in his ear, “Behold it. Master your fear. Your life depends on it.”

Aaron forced himself to stare at the beast. His heart threw itself wildly against his ribcage as if in attempt to break loose of his chest. The people cowered in the face of the monster, but the speaker stepped forward. The bird snapped at him with its enormous beak, but he kept going. He pulled his axes and laid them at the feet of the beast.

“I’ve seen enough,” Peter said. He stood.

Aaron realized his king had lost his mind. He was moving forward, stomping toward the beast, his face a mask of grim determination. Aaron looked to Jordai, who appeared about to faint from fear. Their eyes asked the same question. Could they follow? Did they possess the power to force themselves forward?

Aaron looked again at Peter, stepping away from their hiding place, out toward the amphitheater, and his spine went cold, his mind numb. All terror passed away like smoke in the wind. Where Peter led, Aaron would follow. He looked to Jordai and stood. Jordai allowed himself one more moment of fear before the two of them ran to catch up with their king chief.

The crowd dropped to their knees. The speaker stepped forward and laid hand to the beast. It threw its massive head to the sky and screamed again before lowering its gaze upon the three of them, now stepping the gap between risers where they could enter the arena. Its eyes filled with a primal urge so powerful the creature seemed insane. Its gaze devoured Peter before turning to Jordai, then to Aaron. It beat its wings furiously at Aaron but did not attack.

Peter, Aaron, and Jordai stood quietly in the center of the arena as the crowd muttered and cursed. They looked to the three interlopers and grumbled in unrest. The man before them turned, his eye landing upon Peter, then to the men beside him. His face spoke of pure shock. His eyes hinted at fear. He ripped his weapons from the ground and the beast lowered its head to scream violently in the man’s face. His hair blew back in the force of its fury, and he dropped the axes. In the face of the monster’s breath, the scent of blood and wrath played out on the air.

Aaron felt his blood go cold and nearly laughed. The hilarity of it all was beyond him. Here they stood before the insanity of nature. Aaron felt his need to kill it boiling in his gut. He knew Jordai was awed by the monster. And Peter, Peter was unreadable. What did he see when he looked into the huge, black eyes of this nightmare? The answer was something of myth, for only a Redfist could answer that question.

“You seek the boy king? He stands before you. I hear lists of your deeds. Your mighty lineage speaks of your bloodline and its power,” Peter said. “But what of the mind that wields the man? Your shamans speak of me. Your crarn screams my name. The very wind says Peter Redfist. Would you learn the mind you rage against?”

The man looked over his shoulder at the proud beast. He said nothing.

“We are men and women from Kullet, driven from its embrace by a war. War has come for you, Sky King, but it is not my army you need fight. Beyond your peaks rages another army, mighty and terrible. It will come to your villages. It will kill you and enslave you. It will fight these magnificent creatures and kill them all if they defend you. I am not your enemy, but I will fight you if I have to. If you fall upon my army, I will do you the honor of meeting you on the battlefield, and you can test the mettle of the Redfist clan.”

The enormous crarn lowered its head to Peter, peering into his ice blue eyes as if in search of something. For one horrible moment, Aaron was sure it would devour his king, and he stepped forward, his hand on his sword to strike it dead. It opened its beak and loosed a deafening scream that blew back the sling tied around Peter’s head. Redfist stared into its open beak without a flinch. When the scream shattered on the distant mountains, and the world fell silent again, Peter nodded in its face. He screamed out his war cry in response.

The wild cry of the Fury warrior lifted from Peter’s mouth. The distant Fury mimicked the cry of the mighty Matron Eagle when dashing into war, a sound so fearsome, hearts quaked and warriors quailed. The warriors of the Fury nation were women. To Aaron’s knowledge, there was but one man who could mimic the sound. Only one man could harness the primal rage needed to scream the Matron scream.

Peter’s war cry ripped out across the arena and into the face of the gargantuan bird. It bobbed its head twice before lifting its gaze to the sky.
Peter turned to the assembly. He looked the speaker in the face and loosed his cry again. It was answered in the silence that reigned after, answered by a distant call, then another. Two, then three birds appeared on the horizon. Three, then a fourth and fifth. They drew closer, screaming as they came. They spiraled the sky before descending to land beside Peter. They surrounded him, their eyes stabbing into the assembly.

“My land knows of a mighty creature. I know its voice. I speak its call. I am Peter Redfist. I stand before your crarn unafraid. I bring you the herald of my people to speak of my lineage. And I come before you now to speak of peace between our people and war upon our enemies. Do the Sky People possess the honor to meet with me, or have I misjudged you?”

The great man stood shocked and silent. Peter extended his arm. The warrior took it. “I am Celton Treegrip, and I will speak with the son of the Matron. I will drink with him and speak on this peace he seeks and the war he makes.”

The ale ran free on the peaks of the mountains, and Aaron drank as conservatively as possible. The ale turned to liquid fire in his gut, and he felt as if he could belch flame. His hands trembled slightly, and he pushed his mug away as much as he could, but serving girls kept bringing it back. Jordai put a hand on his shoulder an instant before Aaron screamed at one of them.

“Brother, do not pour your wrath on these waifs. They honor us with this drink. Imbibe as little as possible, but keep drinking. Our hold on these people is tentative.”

Peter sat among a gathering of chiefs, listening to everything said and speaking often. He looked at ease with these leaders of men, and Aaron knew Peter had found his peers.

A short, thin woman wearing scant leathers dropped on Aaron’s lap and grabbed his hair. She pulled his head back and made to kiss him before he threw her on the floor. Enraged, she snarled and ripped a dagger free.

“I have a woman. You’re not her,” Aaron spat.

She shook her head. “Where is this girl you have? This is a war moot, we are to find a warrior to fuck. It makes us stronger and faster when the battle comes.”

She was beautiful in a fierce way. Her hair close-cropped, her face painted a gleaming black. She wore little more than a strap across her chest and one around her waist covering her crotch. Her body was muscled and lean, her face sharp and keen. Aaron looked at her lips and felt sick to his stomach.
“Leave me be, warrior woman. Find another’s cock. Mine has a mistress.” But it didn’t. His love was long dead, and something inside Aaron’s body pulled in the direction of this violent woman. She would not be tender like his woman was. She was of knuckle and bone. She was teeth and scream. She was not what Aaron sought.

“You are naught but a child anyway.” She sneered. “A sprat with a sword, nothing more.”

“You cannot enrage me to passion, warrior. I am above you.” But he wasn’t, and he wondered what she would feel like. She stomped toward him again, and he ripped free his dagger. “I’m not for the having.”

She snarled one last time before turning to find another.

Celton stood. “We must feed the crarn that has blessed us with its presence.” The crowd shouted in glee and stomped their feet.

Aaron looked to Jordai, whose lap held a warrior woman fighting to take off his armor. He looked scared, and Aaron laughed.

“I call upon my son, Kelrosh, as my champion. He will stand for my honor and my tribe.”

Another chief stood, a smaller man but fearsome to behold. “I call forth Breeza the trollop.” A tall, lean woman stepped forward. She carried a spear with a wicked tip and rapped the shaft twice on the ground. She ripped her strap from her chest, exposing her small breasts. Aaron turned his head away. She pulled her cloth from her hips to stand naked before the man she fought. Aaron saw him disrobing, pulling free every scrap of metal he wore and every piece of clothing. They roared, and Kelrosh and Breeza burst into action.

Her spear was a flicking tongue of lightning. It bloodied Kelrosh over and over again. His sword could not strike her as she danced aside, scoring another hit upon him as he recovered. She stabbed him in the gut, and he gripped her spear. He brought his sword down hard on the shaft, splitting it. She yanked it back, nearly folded in half, and he stomped forward.

Breeza snapped the spear on her knee and stepped in. In her face, Aaron saw an etching of fear. The sword spun and fell, and she did her best to bat the weapon away, but Aaron could see the battle was all but over. In moments, the devastating blow fell, and Breeza hit her knee. Aaron waited, expecting the nod of defeat and the boasting of victory, then Kelrosh struck hard at the neck, slicing her head clean from her body.

Aaron gasped. He gripped his dagger as Kelrosh leapt away in time to escape the snapping beak of the crarn. It grabbed Breeza in one quick motion and tossed her into the air above its head. Her body snapped as it closed its beak around her, and with two smacks of its beak, she was gone. The crowd screamed in glee, and Celton stood again. He looked upon the bird and back to his people.

“Her hunger has not been satiated. I call for a Sky Chief to call forth a champion. And I demand the boy king call one, as well.”

Peter looked up, startled. His gaze fell to Jordai, then Aaron. His eyes registering fear. “I am not of your lands. It should not be to me to feed your crarn,” Peter said.

Aaron pulled off his shirt. He looked to Jordai, who threw the warrior from his lap and ripped his shirt off as well. His eyes locked onto Aaron’s, and he shook his head.

“We are guests at your village. This is not the action of a host,” Peter said.

“You wish to stand beside us in combat, but you will not join in our customs? You will not feed our mighty god?”

“This is mine, brother. Go back to scowling and pretending to drink,” Jordai said with a laugh. Aaron crossed the arena and was joined by Peter.

“Neither of you will do this. I will champion myself,” Peter said, but his face spoke another truth.

Aaron laughed. “You know you cannot. Allow me to fight for the Redfist clan,” Aaron said.

“No, Aaron fought for you once before, my king. In the streets of Madneen against the traitor Gret, he was your champion. Let the honor pass to me.”
Coldness passed over Aaron as he looked at his nation. “You need him,” Aaron said, pointing at Jordai.

“I need you both. I cannot do this without either of you,” Peter said. From the look on his king’s face, Aaron thought he believed it.

“Jordai is a counselor to you, my king. I am but a blade. He is a Stonefist. Back home, he is nobility. It is possible he is the last Stonefist. You need Jordai. None will mourn me should I fall. None will miss me back home.”

Jordai’s eyes filled with tears. “I will mourn you,” Jordai said, but Peter’s face was a stone.

“No, you will not, for he will not fall.” Peter turned to Aaron and gripped him by the sides of the face. “I command you to kill, Aaron the Marked. You will win this battle because it is my will. I will accept nothing less.”

Aaron nodded, kicked off his boots and ripped off his pants. A lean hungry-looking man stood, extending arms long and gangly. He wore a shirt stitched of bones and furs and carried a brace of fighting knives that swung from his hips. His outstretched arms seemed eager to embrace the whole of the sky.

His eyes rolled back in his skull with a wild gleam, and he leapt from his spot in the stands of the arena. One mighty bound left him standing near the center of the amphitheater, then he waved his arms menacingly to silence the crowd.

“I find this boy king and his inferior birds a curse to our proud people. I call for his head and the heads of his child hangers-on.”

Aaron snatched up his dagger and unsheathed it. The man stomped before Peter and spat the ground. Jordai looked to Aaron, who looked at Peter.

“Let me strike him dead, king,” Aaron snapped. He stepped before this man as a large group of warriors stood and joined him in the center of the arena. Aaron looked at the whole of them, feeling cold and deadly.

Peter turned to Celton, then back at the assembly. “Your man speaks of my fall. Will he pull his blades and see to it himself?” Peter stepped around Aaron and pulled his sword. The white blade of his weapon gleamed in the lurid light of the dancing fires. In its presence, Aaron always felt more dangerous, as if his master’s weapon called out for blood in a voice only Aaron could hear.

Celton jumped to his feet as the crarn broke loose with a mind-reeling scream of fury. “Chiefs do not draw blood in the presence of our god, Redfist. You will replace your weapon and retake your seat. Bruah Fire Tongue has done once again what he is known for. He has made a spectacle of himself before our people. Woe to the enemies of our folk if his blades possessed the power of his tongue,” Celton said.

Fire Tongue stepped forward. “His man will feed the crarn, or he will be set before me. I lower upon this boy the wrath of Battle Masters. He will face my blades unarmed when his champion fails to feed,” Fire Tongue said. His eyes gleamed orange in the firelight, his face glimmering with beading sweat. “I find him foul. I find his army foul, and his tales of darkness false. He would bring war down upon the face of our cliffs. He will fall by my blades when his tribe proves weak.”

“You’re a chief?” Peter asked.

“I am chief of the Black Clouds, the fiercest of fighting tribes. Our men stand as titans upon any field, and the flurry of my blades is the very essence of fear.”

“Call forth your titan and my man will send him along on a hero’s death. Should your man drop my champion, then I will meet you unarmed. I will stand before this flurry of fear. What becomes of you should my man stand victorious? Do your weapons fall at my feet?”

“Fancies and cloud gazing, your man will not defeat my Broan Breast Beat!” At this, Fire Tongue stepped aside with a wave of his hand and a beast came forward. He wore the stripes of a black tiger as his war paint and his face bore the markings of blood-red paint drooling down his maw. A being comprised of muscle and naught much else, he towered nearly seven feet tall. He slowly unsheathed two curved blades, black as pitch with serrated edges and a spiked crossbar. He smiled a toothless grin and stomped his foot.

“Gather your fear and fall to your knees, Redfist. Place your blade at my feet and I will be merciful.” Breast Beat punched his fists into his chest, bloodying his flesh with his spiked weapon and screaming in the glory of his pain.

Peter turned to Aaron. “Deliver that man,” Peter pointed to Fire Tongue, “on his knees before me, unarmed. This is the task I lay before you, Aaron. This is what your king requires. You killed Crumbler with a clenching of jaws. You crippled Flurryfist, escaping him unharmed. You fought their Ghost, and you, your brother, and I purged the Bloodblade church.”

Aaron felt his blood rushing in his ears, his vision pulsing out with the rage of his heart.

“I place you before another monster. Make it fast.” Peter turned to take his seat beside Celton Treegrip. He spoke a word, and Celton laughed. Peter’s face did not crease in a smile. His eyes fell upon Fire Tongue, lashing the man with anger and wrath. Fire Tongue turned to speak to his champion. The man’s eyes were only for Aaron, and Aaron smiled and winked at him. Breast Beat’s face boiled in rage, and he bellowed out a sound from the pits of hell.

Aaron looked at his sword and his dagger and turned away from the sword. He palmed the dagger Peter had given him the day of his manhood stand and flipped it in the air. Cold radiating from his heart, he ached for the sensation of blood on his fist. He needed the hot splash of his enemy’s blood on his face, and he threw his fist in the air and screamed.

“Redfist!” With the pronouncement of his warcry, Aaron leapt forward, rushing to meet Breast Beat. There was a spinning of blades before his face then Breast Beat was past him. A hot lance of pain raced up Aaron’s side, and he stumbled. He regained his footing and touched his side as the man before him rushed forward with a grunt. Blood hot and slick on his palm, Aaron retreated.

He moved too slowly, and his face caught the heel of Breast Beat’s foot. The world filled with light as Aaron fell back. He couldn’t focus. His breath was too shallow, too rushed. The sky opened up, cold and star-scarred. Aaron rolled away. His back opened under Breast Beat’s wicked sword, and Aaron hopped to his feet, his back screaming.

Their bestial faces wild with bloodlust, the screams of the crowd crashed upon Aaron like waves upon sharp stones. Breast Beat was coming. Impossibly fast and led by insanity, his enemy was coming. Aaron smiled, feeling the sting of his scar on his cheek.

He stepped to his side, putting his back to Fire Tongue and slowly retreating. He could feel the chief there, staring with dark eyes, mouth open and drooling for Aaron’s blood. Aaron stepped back quicker, bringing himself within a breath of Fire Tongue as Breast Beat came. He could hear the man snarling behind him and wondered how much control Breast Beat had over his weapon. In the last instant before his enemy’s blade took his life, Aaron spun aside, and Breast Beat stabbed out savagely, piercing his chief. Aaron moved around behind his enemy, watching his face warp in fear and regret. He plunged his dagger deep into Breast Beat’s back, severing his spine at the waist. The man slumped to the ground, and Aaron stared at Fire Tongue bleeding from the sword of his champion. The wound would not kill, but the message had been sent.

Aaron grabbed his enemy by the hair and threw him to his back. Breast Beat’s sword swung wildly at Aaron’s face, and he pulled back. The sword struck the ground, and Aaron stomped on the wrist, feeling it snap underfoot. The man screamed out in anger and wrath, and Aaron lifted his blade to the air and looked at Fire Tongue with wild eyes. He screamed again. “Redfist!” before ending the life of his opponent.

Something impossibly hard struck his back, and he was thrown forward. He flew into the air and collided with the crowd that caught him and held him up. He looked over his shoulder, the crarn ripping Breast Beat to pieces.

He looked to Jordai, whose smile beamed, and to Peter, who nodded solemnly. Aaron felt himself lifted by the People of the Sky and screamed in his bloody fury again.

With hot irons, they closed the wounds on Aaron’s back. As the fire seared, he knew he had earned himself another scar. He gripped tight to Jordai’s arm when iron touched his flesh, and Jordai laughed at Aaron’s scream. “A babe in the woods,” Jordai said.

“What?”

“You scream like a babe lost in the woods.”

Aaron punched Jordai in the face, breaking his lip. The two men laughed, and Peter joined them.

“He was for me, Aaron,” Peter said with stern countenance.

“Excuse me, my king?” Aaron asked.

“Fire Tongue was to be for me. Your attack of him was unwarranted and has displeased me.”

Aaron felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “I’m sorry, my king. I was fighting for our lives. I knew Breast Beat to be out of control and wished to take full advantage of—”

Peter made a chopping motion with his hand. Aaron felt as if he had been slapped.

“It has made a problem for me. It is over. I ask you to fight the enemies I put before you, Aaron. Them and none others.”

Aaron dropped to his knees. He felt as if he would cry as he looked up. He handed Peter his dagger. “Cut me,” Aaron said. “Mark me with your displeasure. I have dishonored myself.”

Peter handed the dagger back and shook his head. “That is not my way, Aaron. I do not punish with pain. It is beneath me. I am not your father.”
Aaron could not fight back his tears. He turned, his face unable to bear the look on Peter’s.

Peter turned to the crowd and Aaron fought his way to his feet. When Jordai could not look him in the eye, Aaron felt the desire to jump from the mountain’s peak.

Peter Redfist stood before a kneeling Fire Tongue. “You kneel before me unarmed because of your arrogance and your ignorance. You spat at my feet and called me foul, and it is mine to send you to hell for it.” Peter shook his head. “But that is not my way. I give your weapons to your king in hopes he can find worth in them. I grant you your life, as I desire no loss for your people. Your nation’s might is greater with you than without you, so I will let you live. I seek peace with you,” Peter said, extending his arm. Fire Tongue slapped it aside and stood, turning abruptly and storming away.

Aaron looked into his king chief’s face, seeking some modicum of approval, some shard of pride, but found only ice-chip eyes and a hard-set jaw. Shame crashed upon Aaron in a wave. He thought it might crush him.

---