The Descent to Madness by Gareth K Pengelly

cheer and gasp going up at once from his fellow Savaran, but Raga was ready, ducking down to the side and bringing his knee up into Zoltar’s midsection as he had trained countless times with his Clan’s blademasters. His leg jarred in pain as though he’d just kneed a tree, but it had the desired effect, the wind going out of Zoltar’s sails, doubling him up in pain. Spinning about, Raga brought his two hands down hard in a club-like motion on the back of his opponent’s neck, then again and again, until his hands felt like they would break. He took a step back to surmise the situation and , with begrudging admiration and not a little fear, he watched as Zoltar slowly straightened himself, unharmed, teeth bared in a feral and savage grin of enjoyment.
    Not allowing his foe time to recover, Raga launched a quick punch with his right hand, aimed at Zoltar’s ruddy nose. Zoltar’s hand shot up, catching Raga’s fist in his meaty palm. Features wrought with shock and pain, the Marzban cried out as his fist was slowly crushed like so much dry leaf in the vast hand of his traitorous soldier, joints cracking loudly one after another. Using his left hand he delivered a punch to the cheek of his foe in an effort to break his grip, then another, the second having as little effect as the first. With a bellow of laughter Zoltar brought his own right fist into play, smashing into Raga’s stomach and driving all wind from him in a surge of crippling pain. Stunned, Raga could do nothing as the bigger man lifted him clean off his feet and over his head in a tremendous show of physical power. With his wolf-pelt cloak flapping in the breeze and his vanquished foe lifted above him in his grip, the bigger man looked every inch a warrior giant of legend. Roaring his triumph to his cheering comrades, Zoltar slowly turned around in a circle for all to witness his commander held helpless above him. Then with a mighty heave he threw Raga ten feet to land in a heap on the floor.
    He rolled as best he could to reduce the impact, but still the cold, hard floor rattled his every bone. Wheezing, his vision swimming, he hauled himself to his knees. Behind him, he could hear the bellowing of his foe, the cheering of his once-loyal men. He could hear the creaking stretch of a bow-string growing taut.
    He threw himself sideways, the barbed arrow thudding into the ground exactly where his heart would have been a split-second before and, in one smooth motion, reached down to the strap around his ankle, grabbing the small, perfectly weighted bronze knife, nocking it expertly  in the palm of his hand and launching it through the air with one fluid swing of his arm. The dart flew straight, a blur of speeding metal, his arm strong and his aim perfect.
    The giant’s hands went to his throat, clutching in a futile gesture of survival, but the dark warmth that began to steadily trickle through his fingers betrayed the severity of the blow. He fell to his knees, eyes wide and boggling, unable to talk for the blood filling his throat.
    Raga picked himself up off the floor, unhurried, relaxed. He took his Clan Scimitars, drawing them out of their scabbards, the polished bronze gleaming in the orange glow of the sunset, and walked slowly towards his defeated rival. Silently, he looked down on Zoltar, his face betraying no emotion, no joyous victory or murderous bloodlust.
    Just pure, simple faith in his authority over this moment.
    “Times are changing, clansman” he quietly told the fallen giant. “The age of you old veterans is at an end. You need to move aside.” He raised his voice for all his men to hear. “The halls of the Barbarian King will soon be echoing to a new name, mark my words. The world will soon see an Empire the likes of which it has never known.”
    A flock of birds took off from the treetops in noisy flight, the sound of their flapping wings echoing throughout the evening air and lending a sense of omen to his words. Returning his eyes