Free The Descent to Madness by Gareth K Pengelly

scattering hot logs and ash all over.
                  His scream shattered the quiet of the night and all the hitherto sleeping barbarians awoke at the racket, flying out of tents half asleep, fumbling for weapons. Two of the guards who were already awake ran over to their leader, tossing weapons aside in readiness to aid him as he rolled on the floor, hands clutched to his face in agony, the other two running over, weapons drawn, to avenge him on Stone.
                  Stone ripped the corded leather of the bola, limbs still suffused with strength, and leapt to his feet. Men closed in on him, but he was fresh and, with a now-practiced thought, he seized the moment, the warriors slowing as they charged, no threat for now.
                  Looking across the camp, Stone regarded his assailant, now on his back, a man at either side attempting to help him to his feet. His face was pockmarked with burns, wisps of smoke rising from the still glowing embers embedded in his skin, the ends of his long droopy moustache singed and curling. He stared back at Stone, his eyes a battleground of emotion, confusion and fear warring with rage and hatred. His mouth opened, whether to issue orders or curses, Stone couldn’t tell and didn’t wait to find out.
                  He ducked a sword that swung at him as though through treacle, turned on the spot and ran, the strength of the earth lending his legs the ability to move in the moment with a speed he’d never known before, entering the forest and leaving the camp, and its guards, in his dust. Eventually the moment tore itself free from his mind, as it always did, but by then he was hundreds of yards into the night and not stopping for any man…
     
    ***
     
    Raga sat in the saddle of his gelding, the morning wind gently tousling the topknot of his hair, the coolness welcome on the still raw burns the bedecked his cheeks. Haresh was of Clan Blood-Serpent, renowned for their skill in the healing arts, and his soothing ointments had helped take away the worst of the pain, but Raga knew the scars would never fade.
                  As the convoy moved off behind him, he thought back again to the altercation, replaying in his mind – as was his wont – the fight, scene by scene, blow by blow. The man’s speed had defied belief, his form blurring as he’d dodged attack after attack. Then, just as he’d seemed defeated, he’d summoned a hideous strength from nowhere and thrown him. He shuddered as he remembered feeling the terrible power suffusing his foe’s limbs. It had reminded him of being a small child, wrestling his older brothers as they had toyed with him. Only one manner of creature could summon forth such unnatural powers.
                  Shamans.
                  Raga had ambitions to lead, to rule. He had confidence that he could best any man, whether through might or subterfuge, but last night he’d come across something he’d never factored into his plans. Shamans. He’d never again let them surprise him like that, he’d learn their ways and how to defeat them. He had learned a valuable lesson last night. He reached up and touched the stinging pockmarks on his cheeks.
                  The scars would forever remind him of that lesson.
                  With a tug on the reins, he span his horse about and trotted after the rest of his Savaran, in the direction of the Barbarian City.
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    The sun was warm on his back and the breeze cool and refreshing. The ground underfoot was green with grass, rich and loamy as it made its way down the length of the river. The river was wider now, the waters calmer and more peaceful than up in the foothills, the land flatter, the trees growing further apart, with bright leaves and low branches taking over from the tall needled evergreens.
                  The land in general was less hostile, more