Hallsfoot's Battle (13 page)

That will be Ralph Tregannon’s downfall,
because Gelahn has already decided that once the wretched scribe is
dead and Gathandria is his, then he has no more need of the
Overseer. Let the fool perish with his erstwhile lover. The two of
them deserve nothing less.

He smiles and gazes round the master bedroom
of Tregannon’s castle. He has taken it for his own and the choice
pleases him. Tregannon himself has had to move into a sparsely
furnished guest room. It is what he deserves.

Here, in the unaccustomed comfort of silks
and linens, he can think how best to fight his blood-enemies and
win. Without the mind-cane, the battle will be more tormented, but
Gelahn knows his mind-skills are still more powerful than many of
those he will face. After all, he is a mind-executioner, and a man
feared by all. Not only that, but he has the mountain dogs, their
abilities even more powerful now with the inclusion of the agony
he’d taken from the dying mountain—a small sacrifice for a greater
good. These truths are enough of an advantage for him even in
difficult circumstances. And, by the stars, he has experience of
difficult circumstances. Fighting without the cane will simply be
another obstacle to overcome. The temporary loss of his dignity on
the Gathandrian shores against the unfocused rage of the scribe and
the strange antics of the mind-cane has been nothing but a victory
delayed because the more the mind-executioner dwells on the
possibilities of physical battle with a city that has never fought
one, the more he finds he is smiling again. As he considers his
options, he spreads a mind-net over his thoughts so none but he can
access them. Doing so is almost second nature with him now.

If he can force Tregannon to bring together
the army he already has and to prepare them for war with his
mind-tricks, then the most pressing problem left to Gelahn is how
to transport them to the battle zone because the Gathandrians will
not fight such a battle on anything but their own territories. That
much is certain. Their ridiculous fear of damaging the people and
lands of those “under their care” will prevent them from coming to
him. He must go to them. Of course, in the city itself, their
mind-power is stronger, but they will not have the advantage of
trained fighting men.

Gelahn blinks. His smile deepens.

Why should the fighting men even need to be
alive? He raised the desert people from the dead once before. Many
in the Lammas Lands armies are dead also, but that is no reason why
they cannot be part of his victory along with living men. To do
that without the cane, however, he will need help, perhaps even
from Gathandria. For a moment, the mind-executioner licks his lips
and ponders. Then he remembers. Of course. Isabella was not the
only woman whose mind he had trammelled and brought under his
command in the great city. There is another, too, but it will be
difficult, and the Gathandrian elders and the woman called
Hallsfoot might not be slow in objecting if they find out. At the
moment, they do not know anything, and the fact of his strange ally
is something Gelahn is determined they will not discover.

Still, the Gathandrian Elders do know two
things. They know he will not accept defeat as the final answer,
and they know he must use means other than mind-powers to continue
the war. So. They will guess at some of his plans and will, in some
respects, be right. They, too, will be preparing for physical
onslaught. Therefore, Tregannon’s battle preparations must be
speedy and precise, as the greatest advantage and the greatest
demand of all will be time.

By the end of this week-cycle, they must be
on their way to Gathandria. But how to get them there? The Kingdoms
of Earth, Air, Fire and Water are not tackled lightly, no matter
how barren and weak the first of them is now. He must meditate on
the problem. Yes, that will be best. He needs to hone his
mind-skills in any case, keep them the sharpest they can be.
Without the mind-cane, he must take care of such things
himself.

He shuts his eyes and lets his mind stretch
out. It fills his very being until, with just one small pace, he
could almost be only thought itself. No flesh. It is the state he
strives for, the body bringing only pain. Gelahn’s mind is
different from all Gathandrians, the people he has disowned and who
have disowned him in return. It has always been so; if he believed
in legends other than the ones he himself creates, he would say
that it has been written that way. But that is not true, not for
him. The mind-executioner makes his own fate. He is master of his
days.

What he thinks is wrapped in darkness. From
earliest childhood, Gelahn has held no mind-space, no special place
as others have. The few times he tried to create a mind-world in
which he could be himself, it was quickly destroyed by his
discontent. It is this ability that sets him apart from others; it
gave him his vocation.

In the darkness, he is most truly himself and
most powerfully alone. The aloneness shifts around him like velvet
but remains as strong as the earth. It hides nothing, though within
it lie flashes of red and gold and another kind of brightness he
has never interpreted. He has no wish to. He has never needed it.
Indeed it is a truth known only to a few that, for power and
mind-knowledge to grow and mature, some mysteries must be left
untrammelled. For now, he relaxes, allowing himself to float free
in the emptiness and at the same time permitting it to consume
him.

He meditates on the dark for as long as he is
able to, though time-cycles are meaningless in the world he finds
himself in. Then, when he is ready, he begins to call back his mind
to its moorings, preparing himself for life in the body again. As
this returning takes place, the flashes in the darkness become more
frequent but, of course, he is used to that. Grateful to them also,
for allowing his physical form to reorientate itself.

This time, however, something is different.
Amongst the streaks of gold and red, the mysterious brightness is
stronger, like a door to another world beyond the dark he is
accustomed to. Strange how it almost calls to him. How real it
seems. How real and how close. Without knowing it, he reaches out
to the flashes of light and, for a moment, here in Tregannon’s
home, it is almost as if he has a choice and his heart beats faster
before the darkness plunges in to him once more.

No, he is being foolish. It is the
unfamiliarity of this room and his new mission that has unsteadied
him. And, of course, he forgets that there is no choice. There has
never been one. From the moment the elders (may they ever be
cursed) imprisoned him in the cage of terrors in Gathandria’s
hidden library so many year-cycles ago, Gelahn has sworn that he
will live by the dark, not by the light. The dark has been good to
him and he will not abandon it now. It is in the dark where
kindness and courage and justice are found—the light brings only
cruelty and weakness and anger. He will cleave to the dark still,
understanding that success comes only through pain and misery. When
he has won, that will be the time to begin healing the lands, to
bring them into harmony with his wishes and desires. Until then, he
will use what he can to achieve what he wants, no matter who else
will suffer. Set against the final vision, no other but himself has
meaning. That is the way of the dark. It is his way.

As these thoughts crowd his mind with orange
and red and black flames, it is then that the partial solution to
the problem of journeying to Gathandria leaps up at him.

Of course. The mountain-dogs. He cannot yet
see exactly how they can help him, but he knows they will. It will
be made clear when the time is right. For now, the fear of
unbalancing the already fragile mind-set of the Lammas Overlord has
persuaded Gelahn to keep them leashed and invisible since their
arrival at Tregannon’s castle. It had been enough to show them
briefly in the courtyard in order to terrify the people into
obedience. No need to overcook the field calf, indeed—a Lammas
saying, but one Gelahn enjoys. After all, if you plan to destroy a
people, why take the language with you?

The mind-executioner peels back his thoughts
to where the mountain dogs lurk. Stretching out his hand, he
focuses himself until green and black flashes leap from his
fingers. With each strange flash, a wild dog is set free and howls
its new-found liberty to the waiting air. Grey and sleek like the
mountain they came from, with fierce red eyes. Gelahn allows them
to come, faster and faster. It doesn’t matter if he lets them all
loose here in this room. They fade and vanish into the walls, the
bed, the chair, before shimmering into physical form again. From
the ruined mountain, he can conjure up a thousand if he so wishes.
The howling, wild sound of them is no barrier, his mind is
protected against their baying. It is the people beyond these thick
walls who will reap the pain and fear of their presence. He laughs
to imagine what Tregannon and his servants are thinking. Let them
tremble, let them sweat and cry to think he might release the
terror and death of the dogs onto these poor fools. It is best for
slaves and women to live in fear.

At the memory of women once more, he grimaces
but pulls the regret up sharply before it can interfere with his
mind-magic. Isabella. He is sorry she is truly dead. A part of him
enjoyed her company. If she had lived, she might have been his
match, with her wiles, her grief and her rage; nonetheless, the
other will have to suffice.

Simon the Scribe will pay for that deed, as
he must pay for so many.

A time and a time later, when the dogs are
quieter and are waiting for his command, Gelahn hunkers down and
reaches out to touch the nearest of them in his thoughts. It backs
away, snarling, bloodied teeth glowing crimson even in daylight and
dark eyes gleaming. But it doesn’t attack. They will never attack
the one who made them live.

“You are wild dogs of the mind,” he whispers.
“That is where you dwell. But be patient, for soon you will live in
the flesh more fully, also. Then your revenge and mine will be
complete.”

Ralph

The moment the mind-executioner has
commandeered Ralph’s room for his own personal use, the Overlord
hobbles down the passageways of his half destroyed home, determined
to reach Apolyon and the emeralds before Gelahn can discover him
first. He hopes the boy has obeyed his instructions about placing
them in the secret library for safety. He hopes, also, that he has
fled and is no longer hidden next to what is now the
mind-executioner’s bedroom, for surely Gelahn will read the boy’s
fears and discover him if he is there.

Ralph’s mind is still trembling at the fact
that Gelahn has not been able to uncover his thoughts. The
protection of the emeralds must be strong indeed, but already that
green glow he can sense but not hold onto is fading. Perhaps it
will prove enough to protect the boy, too? He cannot tell.

As he walks, the walls around him seem to
grow darker, something he has noticed in the presence of Gelahn
before. There is a dank smell from the stonework, and the remaining
tapestries not destroyed by the mind-battles appear thinner, less
vibrant. His footsteps echo in the sudden eerie silence. Even in
the main hallway, where the north wall is jagged and in places lets
through the sunlight, the one remaining tapestry—a depiction of
summer—hangs uneven today, the girl’s bright hair ripped across the
needlework.

The mind-executioner’s arrival still
continues to work its dark magic then. Unsurprising how none of
Ralph’s servants have returned and even the castle dogs are barely
whimpering, refusing to acknowledge him as he passes. Perhaps they
feel betrayed. And, so far, he has done nothing to defend against
that unspoken accusation.

He must find the boy.

Stumbling out into the deserted courtyard,
Ralph glances up at the window of the master bedroom, but sees
nothing untoward. For a heartbeat of time-cycle, he wonders if it
might be worth building a defence to his mind, just in case Gelahn
should think to plunder him, but he dismisses such a foolhardy
plan. Ralph cannot keep himself safe from him, not by his own
power. Foolish to even try, as such an act would only alert the
mind-executioner to a threat. The emeralds have somehow kept him
safe, thus far. He must rely on the gods and stars, and luck, for
the rest.

As he turns the corner towards the hidden
doorway that leads to the library, it begins to rain and the wounds
in Ralph’s leg throb harder. The onset of winter. If Gelahn wishes
to train the soldiers to fight, then he has chosen the worst season
for it. When the winds and storms attack from the mountains, what
little mountains there are left now, there is nothing the people
can do but shiver and try to stay indoors. Nevertheless, the
executioner has spoken and there is nothing for it but to obey.
Even without the mind-cane, his powers are far greater than
anything Ralph has ever known. Sometimes he wonders how his enemy
has honed them and what has happened to incite him to do so. Gelahn
never speaks of it, and Ralph is loath to raise the subject. He has
done enough meddling in men’s minds for one lifetime. He wishes no
more of it, no matter where his skills lie. It is already too much
of a challenge to control his own wants.

So, even in the bitterest season they have in
Lammas, Gelahn will see the army trained to fight the battle he
plans for. Ralph will do his best to see his people survive. After
all, there is little hope that they will reach Gathandria to fight;
even the mind-executioner’s powers cannot magic them there without
the cane. It is a hopeless mission.

Realising this, Ralph smiles before catching
the distant sound of the mountain dogs. Shaking, he swings round,
eyes darting left and right to ascertain the approach of danger
with his hands clasped into fists. While the howling continues, he
remains alert, ready to jump and run in any direction, though where
he might find any refuge from those murderous hounds he does not
know. Nothing happens, although the baying goes on, and he starts
to breathe more steadily again. Gelahn must have the dogs trapped
somewhere. He is using them as some kind of threat. No more—for
now.