Hallsfoot's Battle (32 page)

When he came to where Gelahn stood, the
executioner said nothing. Instead, he raised one eyebrow and
reached for the cane. From above, the snow-raven cried out, a
piercing note of warning that vanished into the breeze as Simon
continued to hesitate.

Gelahn’s lips tightened. Then he spoke.

“If you feel you have gift enough to hold the
mind-cane on your own,” he said, “then you are, of course, at
liberty to do so. You are not my prisoner. But if you are unsure,
then let one who has the experience of dealing with its wildness
take it.”

Another pause, when the scribe felt the beat
of his blood filling his head. He gripped the cane, determined to
fight if he had to, but Gelahn wrapped his fingers around its
carved top and snatched it from him. A few sparks of black fire
leapt into the air and the humming stopped. So much for
determination, he thought.

The mind-executioner smiled, gesturing
towards the dogs. “Indeed, you have never liked those beasts. But,
please, try not to injure them all; we are likely to need
them.”

Simon ignored him. “Show me the jewel.”

A heartbeat later, Gelahn placed the jewel
into his hand. Simon felt its warmth and colour spread through his
skin. Not in the way the cane did, but with gentleness. For a
moment or two, he forgot to breathe and when he looked up again, he
almost expected to see the Lammas Lord himself, not the
executioner.

“Ah, I see,” Gelahn said. “This belongs to
Ralph. That is helpful, thank you. Still, it is amusing you cleave
to him at your centre, even though he was willing to kill you for
what he wanted more truly.”

Cursing his own openness to this man, Simon
felt fire rising on his skin. He closed his fingers around the
green jewel and took a step back. “How is it you claim to know all
about me and yet you have not been able to understand that fact
until now? I cannot see you would have been holding back such
knowledge to spare my humiliation.”

“Perhaps you have only just recognised it
yourself, Simon. And why would I humiliate someone who is working
with me? Besides, when all is said, Lord Tregannon matters nothing
to either of us. When Gathandria is safe, we will have power and
friends enough to fulfil all our needs. And, believe me, the time
of fulfilment is sooner than even I anticipated.”

“Because of the dogs?” Simon asked and Gelahn
nodded.

“Yes. But not only them. Because of your bird
and this jewel, also.”

Annyeke

She had spent well over an hour-cycle picking
up what remains she could find of the great Library’s manuscripts,
with the women following on behind her. She could feel the hum of
their thoughts, a rainbow of colours. It seemed to mesh together in
the icy air that held within it the certainty of snow. Not that
this idea was easy work. Oh, no. Not that anything to do with
Gathandria was easy work these day-cycles. When had it stopped
being simple? Annyeke could no longer remember. So she carried on,
bending down, letting her fingers guide her to where their story
treasures lay hidden amongst the debris. Each time she found what
she searched for, a flash of deepest green would fly between her
hand and the damaged parchment. Heart beating fast, she would
retrieve what she could and then add it to the three stacks she and
the people were in the process of building up. This consisted of
the ancient stories, then those of more recent origin and, finally,
the stories some of the people had written in the last
generation-cycle. Annyeke had intended initially to separate them
into categories according to story contents, but something in her
blood had refused to make so arbitrary a division. Life in
Gathandria and its neighbours was made up of many parts and she was
determined not to be the first elder, acting or otherwise, who
declared that was not so. Once they had salvaged what they could,
they could begin to create their own defences and methods of
attack, using both the written tales and those living only in their
minds, for the mind-executioner was not the sole Gathandrian who
could face and manipulate the fighting of a battle.

Still, she wished Johan were here. He’d
started off following her lead but, in the end, the wild patterns
of his thoughts had given her no option but to stop and let him go
to the park land and his interrupted battle training where it was
obvious he would rather be. He wanted to try something different,
he’d told her, to work with the people to create weapons forged
from the mind that also existed in the physical realm. She hoped he
would be successful for all their sakes, although such a feat had
never been achieved in many generation-cycles, but was the stuff
only of legend. Nevertheless, she, like him, was determined to try
everything possible while they still lived. No doubt, very soon
they would need every iota of cunning and strength they could find.
Talus had gone with him without even a backward glance, but she
couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry at that. Gathandrian men
were, in her experience, usually better suited to active pursuits
than they were to the collation of their people’s stories.

She must stop thinking about Johan. She had
far more important things to do.

Standing up, she shaded her eyes against the
last rays of the sun and gazed at the clouds. There would be snow,
and soon. The puzzle of it filled her mouth with purple. Would that
fact work to their advantage or their disadvantage? Both they and
the mind-executioner were used to the extremes of their country’s
weather, but neither of them had fought such a battle as was to
come in the midst of the snows. However, Gelahn would surely bring
with him what he could find of the Lammas Lands’ soldiers and they
would struggle with the deep chill that could turn flesh black and
shatter bones. Set against that, of course, was the soldiers’
experience of hand-to-hand combat. She shook her head, the puzzle
remaining an uncertain purple.

No time for pondering, however. She and the
people had to work whilst light remained to them.

As she turned back to her task, a thought
flashed into her senses, an impression of tall purpose approaching.
She looked up to see one of the women into whose care she had given
the blinded First Elder. As Annyeke stepped forward to meet her,
she saw it was Iffenia, the Second Elder’s wife. Of course, she
should have remembered. Recent events were playing with her mind
and she would have to be careful. From now on, she could not afford
to make mistakes.

Iffenia smiled, hurrying to meet her and
shaking her head at Annyeke’s unspoken assumption.

“No, do not fear. The First Elder sleeps
only. I have given him winter raspberry for rest and cypress leaf
for healing. He is safe enough for the moment. I wrapped a mind-net
of my husband’s making ’round the workshop before I left. If there
is any danger, I will know it. It struck me I would be, for now,
more needed here, for surely it is up to the womenfolk to do what
we can for our lands.”

“Thank you,” Annyeke said, trying not to
smile at the exact sentiments she, too, held. “I’m grateful for all
the help we can give each other, indeed. We must do as much as we
can before night brings the first of the snows.”

Even as she spoke, however, Annyeke gained an
impression of shadows and darkness, and wasn’t entirely sure where
it had come from. It reminded her of the executioner and his
strange assault on their land. Why should she feel this in the
presence of Iffenia? Perhaps, indeed, she could trust no one. She
must be as wise as a rock snake and as calm as the summer clouds.
She shook her head. Her companion was at least right about the
snow. Already, it was beginning to fall. The first few flakes
brought a deeper silence to the scene. Still turning over the
sparks of suspicion in her mind, she stared upwards at the sky, as
if by looking she could hold back the inevitable. Small bursts of
ice broke against her skin, slid down her face.

“Will this prove our friend or our enemy, I
wonder,” Iffenia mused as she bent down to rescue another parchment
scrap from the rubble.

Annyeke did not answer, but the question made
her pause. She wondered if this uncertainty was what the elders had
experienced and what they did when it happened. Being a source of
inspiration and hope for the people was not, perhaps, as desirable,
or as straightforward, as she had first assumed. With a shake of
her head, she focused on the task in hand as the snows began to
fall in earnest.

Around her, Iffenia and the rest of her
fellow labourers followed suit, this time with a fresh urgency to
their actions and, for a while, the only sound was the rustle of
the parchment piles as they slowly grew and the only colour apart
from white was the faint flash of purple or green as fragments of
the tales were rescued. They would not have long, Annyeke realised,
before they would be forced to stop, not only for their own sakes
as the need for warmth and protection became paramount, but also to
safeguard the stories. Best to do so now while the decision
remained theirs and they were not, as had been their custom, simply
reacting to the demands of an outside force.

She stood up, gazed round, felt the ragged
beat of her heart echo her own confusion before drawing breath, and
forced herself to be calm.

It is enough, she said in thought only to the
people, the words carving their slow truth into her own mind. What
we have found now must prove to be sufficient and what we have not
found, we must abandon. Let us take what we have salvaged to the
old Council Buildings. It is there, in the hours to come, that we
must face our enemy and make our stand.

Then, in a way she couldn’t comprehend, time
itself stopped.

Duncan Gelahn

The pale light of the empty sky almost blinds
him, casting a clouded haze over this place of earth and mystery.
Behind him, the mind-executioner can hear the panting of the dogs
and Simon’s harsh breath. He can smell the scent of winter on the
air, even though he is situated in nothing more substantial than a
memory. He knows the emerald in his grasp gives him the power he
needs and he must use it quickly. The Lost One is wavering and
Duncan cannot afford any turning back from decisions already made.
The battle will begin soon and he senses the call of Gathandria in
his blood and whatever is destined to take place there.

First, however, he must return to Lammas and
there is the Lammas Lord to consider. Even though allowing
Hartstongue and Tregannon to meet is an act fraught with danger,
Gelahn understands he has no other choice. For a war, he needs
soldiers. He needs Ralph. Now he has ordered the dogs to terrify
the Overlord, the man will be more the more willing to obey
him.

With this in mind, and holding the emerald
high and feeling its unfathomable power flow through his skin,
Duncan swings round to face the mountain dogs that remain alive. At
once, they spring to their feet as if he has called them, but he
has not done so. At his side, Simon draws in a sharp breath and he
sees the emerald is pulsating. Just as the snow-raven beats his
great white flight to the earth, a shimmer of green flies out and
circles the dogs. They begin to howl. The snow-raven spreads his
wings once more and launches towards the circle. Acting on instinct
alone, Duncan grasps the Lost One by the arm and begins to run. The
circle hisses and flares. Simon cries out, but it’s too late for
objections.

The executioner imprisons his accomplice with
a mind-net as dark as winter and springs towards the strange green
fire. Simon has no choice but to obey him. Together, the two
Gathandrians fall into the sphere, loud now with singing, and
blackness swallows them both.

It is the worst journey Duncan has ever
experienced. The roaring in his ears all but deafens him. It is an
unstarlike mixture of the dogs’ howling, the emerald sphere’s own
unworldly voice, and the red terror coursing through both himself
and the Lost One, as if here there can be no deceit and no shadows.
Everything is open and everything is known, and all the time, the
wild plunging sensation drags them through the tunnel into another
realm. As he tumbles from side to side in the circle, the
mind-executioner sees first Simon, then the cane, the white wings
of the snow-raven, and always the mountain hounds. He is out of
breath, bloodied and torn. If this madness does not come to an end
soon, he doubts whether they will be in a fit state to command any
army from the Lammas Lands at all. They must find a way to control
the circle’s path.

As the deafening noise continues, Duncan
enfolds his mind with the best net he can furnish under such
circumstances. It’s ragged, barely functioning, but it’s better
than nothing. It allows him a small measure of freedom to act. The
next time he’s near enough to Simon, he grabs his arm, grits his
teeth against the almost unbearable wrenching of his fingers as he
tries to maintain hold and against the piercing pain-knife that
spins from the Lost One’s thoughts.

Be still.

Impossible to do any such thing, of course,
but these are the only words Duncan can muster to break through to
Simon’s consciousness. He frames them in blue, the scribe’s
mind-colour. He hopes it might be enough. It is.

In the sudden silence that settles throughout
the Lost One’s head, the mind-executioner seizes his chance. He
pushes his hand onto his companion’s forehead and sparks his
thoughts through his fingers and into Simon’s mind. The scribe
twists in his grip and struggles to be free. Duncan knows the pain
he is causing in the midst of such a terrible journey, but doesn’t
let go.

Work with me.

The half Gathandrian has no choice, but there
is so little time. In the moment before the stillness of the
scribe’s mind vanishes, Duncan links their thoughts together and
continues to hold on. While the howling and breathlessness of their
journey floods back in, he has a heartbeat’s space to store the
fact that Simon’s unfathomed mind is beyond the power of anything
he has experienced, and then he must complete the task.