Hallsfoot's Battle (14 page)

The rain causes the hair to stick to his face
and melds his tunic to his body, but Ralph resumes the search.
Checking that nobody else is around, it is a matter of moments to
reach through the winter jasmine bush and press his fingers onto
the fourth stone in height three stones from the corner. It gives
easily and the darkness within lurks like a warning. As if he has
not had enough of warnings already. He shuts his eyes and
concentrates, trying to ignore the rain, and always the sense of
time and power slipping through his grasp.

He imagines the narrow passageway ahead,
cobwebs hanging from dank corners and the feel of small cobbles
underfoot. He doesn’t enter it though—he is afraid that, if he
does, then Gelahn will sense Ralph’s arrival so near to where he
has demanded to stay. So he allows the half-skills of his mind to
float along the familiar route, alert for anything unfamiliar
there, anything living.

He senses nothing. The boy, Apolyon, is not
there. He must have fled to the bridge where Ralph had told him to
seek refuge. The Overlord does not have the heart to blame him,
though he wishes now that he’d told him to take the emeralds. If he
has obeyed his master’s foolishness and they are still in the
library, then they will have to be rescued at another time,
somehow. Or, perhaps, they are safer there after all? He cannot
tell and, in any case, it doesn’t matter. For now, Ralph must seek
the boy.

Pulling the stone door back into its wall,
the slight scrape seems to echo even in his thoughts and he scans
the courtyard again. No sign of life. He remains undiscovered yet.
Wishing he’d brought his cloak, he hunches down and limps as
quickly as possible in the rain along the yard and over the bridge.
His feet slip once on the mud, but he recovers himself before
falling. The guardhouse stands empty, as it has done since his
return. There is nothing left to guard against. The darkness and
death they fear lives in their midst.

In the fields beyond, he can see, or sense,
no movement though, of course, his mind-skills are worse than
useless in such an open environment. Ralph needs rooms and people
to use his understanding to its full capacity.

Keeping to the hedges, he makes his way
towards the woods, calling Apolyon’s name softly as he trudges
through mud and grass and corn stubble. It is suddenly vitally
important that the boy be safe; Ralph cannot rest until he knows
for sure that he is not in immediate danger. He is Ralph’s only
ally, and that reluctantly, but the Overlord hopes the heart of his
concern is more than mere self-interest. The boy is one of his
people and there is much he owes them all.

The woods are silent in the rain. No hunting
owl shrieks its cry of triumph to dark skies. He hurries along the
outskirts, heartbeat quickening. Where is the boy? Of course, he
may simply have fled and Ralph will not see him again. Strangely,
the thought of that draws sorrow to his throat and he blinks.

It is then that his foot hits something soft
on the earth and he falls to his knees in mud and bracken.

A small voice cries out and at once he knows
it is Apolyon.

“M-my lord,” he stutters, but Ralph hushes
him. Something in the Overlord’s mind has already felt a pain that
is not his own, but when he draws away that contact is lost.

“Are you injured?”

“No. I th-thought you were…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. His
fear of their unwelcome guest is obvious. “No matter. Did you hide
the emeralds?”

“Yes, my lord. I found the book. Then I was
frightened, so I ran.”

The simplicity of his reply cuts through
Ralph’s frisson of disappointment. The boy did only what he ordered
him to, after all.

“Well done,” he says and in the gloom Ralph
can see the glitter in his eyes at the words. He does not remember
thanking a servant before. The experience is not unpleasant. Such a
weakness would have earned Ralph the back of his father’s hand, if
he had been alive to show his displeasure. He is not though, is
he?

Shaking his head to clear it, Ralph gets to
his feet, wiping the mud from his breeches as best he can.

“I—We—must get out of this rain, and back to
the castle. My guest will be waiting.” It strikes him that it would
be nothing less than cruel not to see to Apolyon’s safety also, but
Ralph finds himself uncertain as to how begin such a conversation.
Generations of lordship in these lands lie weighty on his
shoulders. “Are...Are you fit to walk?”

Apolyon nods and struggles to his feet.
Again, Ralph should help him, but he doesn’t know how. Side by side
but not touching, they begin the journey back home. With the boy’s
limp and his own, they are like two wounded deer together, but
after two steps Ralph realises there is something more. Without
physical contact—an act that would be shameful to both of them—he
cannot tell what it is.

They take one further step together and the
boy breathes in sharply, as if the mud and the rain and the field
are beyond his ability to traverse. With a quick but heartfelt oath
in his mother’s tongue at what his father taught him, Ralph reaches
out his hand and brushes Apolyon’s shoulder briefly. The lad
flinches and cries out, but it is enough for Ralph to sense what he
needs to.

“The pain in your leg is more than you are
accustomed to? You fell?”

His hesitation is obvious, but he is honour
bound to answer. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Ralph has to lean forward to hear him, by
which time the decision is made. “Come then, we will travel to
shelter more quickly if I carry you.”

Without waiting for any kind of response,
though Ralph already knows what that will be, he grasps the boy’s
shoulders and knees and swings him up into the air so his thin face
is level with his master’s chest. The boy is as light as if he were
carrying air.

“No, my lord, no, p-please, it is not…you
cannot…”

“I am the Lord of the Lammas Lands and
therefore may do as I will. So be quiet and we will be the sooner
at the castle.” Even as he speaks the words, the truth falls well
short of them, but it has the desired effect of stopping Apolyon’s
protest and they slowly travel the rest of the way in silence.

It is only as they cross the sodden bridge
into the courtyard again that Ralph realises he does not know where
to take him. By the gods and stars, he has come this far in his
casual flinging-off of Lammas convention, and he cannot bring
himself to ask his servant such a question. It would be too great
an intimacy and his feet slow, almost stumbling once more.

But Apolyon has already anticipated the
need.

“M-my lord, the cooking area is the driest
place in the castle,” he whispers, his face turned away from
Ralph’s as if this terrible, unthinkable journey is not happening
at all, or at least that he is far from its repercussions. “Do you
not think so?”

Ralph quells the bubble of laughter that
rises to his throat and lies with the aplomb of a true Tregannon
and Overlord. “Indeed. My thoughts precisely.”

Turning left and following the thick outer
wall of his home, it takes a few moments only to reach the simple
entrance to the cooking area. When Ralph enters, pushing aside the
torn curtain that hangs down in what he imagines is a vain attempt
to keep out the wind, he expects the room to be empty. It is some
hours before supper will be required, but the air is thick with the
aroma of bread and spices. At once, he senses the presence of two
minds other than the boy’s and his own, although, of course, he
cannot read them.

As he blinks to adjust to the darkness, the
boy squirms slightly in his arms and Ralph sets him down. The
sensation of repressed pain slides away. Apolyon limps two steps
from him, but continues to stand a little on the alert as if
awaiting orders. Ralph has none to give.

One of the two unknown people in the darkness
steps forward and bows. The man before him is as old and gnarled as
the oak tree in the farthest reaches of the courtyard. Greying hair
hangs down to thin, stooping shoulders. It might be of necessity as
his head brushes the ceiling which is lower where he is standing,
even then. Ralph has never seen him before.

“M-my lord,” he stammers, his voice
high-pitched like a whistle. “My-my lord.”

It is evident that the man has no idea what
to do with Ralph in his domain or what to think. The Overlord
smiles at him as if his presence here is natural.

“My steward was slightly injured in the
fields and I have returned him to the castle,” he says. “I
understand his dwelling place is here.”

The old man opens his mouth to answer but,
before he can, the words are spoken by someone else, someone
female, angry and despairing, someone, also, who is not afraid to
state her case in front of her master.

“What have you done with him?” she demands.
“Why send him out in such weather when the lad can barely walk from
here to the stables? Don’t you think you have done enough to your
people?”

By the time the woman comes to the end of her
accusations, she is standing right in front of Ralph, glaring into
his face. She barely reaches his chest, her single-minded fury all
but defeating him. She is as short and round as the unknown man is
tall and thin. Ralph takes a step back.

The boy darts towards her, burrowing between
the two of them. “Please, the Overlord did nothing wrong, Jemelda.
It’s not his fault.”

“You accuse me for no purpose and, more than
that, you forget your place,” Ralph replies, stung into words by
Apolyon’s vain attempt to play reconciler. “Any more from you and
I’ll have you whipped in the public yard.”

The woman called Jemelda tilts her head up at
him and her eyes are fierce. “And who will do that for you now, my
lord? There is hardly a serving man left with strength in his arm
after you have brought the mind-executioner’s wrath down upon us,
and certainly none minded to do so.”

“Jemelda.” The old man speaks, voice shaking,
but whether with anger or fear Ralph cannot tell. “Please, that is
enough. Forgive my wife’s outburst, please, my lord. I swear she
means no harm.”

Neither Jemelda nor Ralph pay any heed to the
old man’s words. Instead they glare at each other until Apolyon
finally grabs her arm and pulls her away. She allows him to do so
but her anger remains sharp in the air between them.

With as much dignity as he can muster and
with all his blood stirring to be gone from this place of servants,
Ralph gestures at the boy.

“Your charge has done good work today,” he
says. “You have the right to be proud of him. Because of his
courage and swift obedience to me, and because of that alone, I
shall not demand the rightful punishment for your misdemeanours,
woman. But be warned that I shall not be so merciful again and,
even though I have few men—or women—who follow me now, there are
still some who are loyal to the Tregannon name. You would do well
to heed this warning.”

With that, he turns on his heel and hobbles
out into the drizzle and damp of the day. He would have preferred
to have exited with more dignity, but it is not possible. The smell
of bread and spices, and the bitterness in the cook’s words, clings
to his skin for many hour-cycles after.

The first open sign of disaffection with him
and all he stands for, then. Ralph has that to add to the wrongs he
has caused to happen, and the problem of the emeralds still to
consider. It will be a long day ahead.

Chapter Five:
Mind-training and war

Simon

Outside Annyeke’s small kitchen area window,
the clouds were darkening to night, and perhaps bringing snow,
although, in a strange land, the scribe couldn’t be sure of the
signs. Behind him, he could hear the sound of his landlady
preparing the evening meal. He’d asked earlier if he could help,
but she’d simply shaken her head and smiled. Even beyond the
defences she’d raised so her mind could not be read, he’d
understood her preoccupation with what had happened in her
Sub-Council rooms. The Sub-Council of Meditation—even the name made
him smile. He’d grown so used to hiding his mind-skills amongst his
father’s people that the thought of official recognition, even
encouragement, still seemed strange. The act of cooking appeared to
focus his companion, and he found that watching her made him feel
calmer. A good place for them both.

Or it would have been, if both the raven and
the mind-cane had not been with them. And, yes, he understood that
he and Annyeke should be grateful that both the bird and the cane
had helped them in the crisis that had followed the telling of the
first Gathandrian legend. Simon wondered how his companion thought
the Spirit of Gathandria could help them now. Was he supposed to
contact it in some way? Was that what the snow-raven and the
mind-cane were for? And, if that were the case, how could he do it
before Gelahn mounted his attack upon them?

Another question played in his mind, too, one
that he had not fully acknowledged until now. When the
mind-executioner arrived, Ralph might well be with him. What would
the scribe do then?

A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he
looked up, startled to see Annyeke so close when he’d been lost in
his thoughts.

“Try not to worry so much,” she said with a
half smile. “We can only do our best in the time given to us.
Anything else is up to the gods and stars.”

He swallowed and glanced away, glad she’d
spoken rather than connected directly with his mind. Some things
were better kept private. Though, weren’t she and he both in the
same position when it came to matters of the heart? Annyeke’s
deep-seated feelings for Johan were obvious, at least to him, and
Simon had no idea why his friend did not seem to realise this or
return her affection. He must try to find out from Johan one day,
subtly, of course. And, as for himself, well, Ralph was a riddle
and should remain so for the time being. Still, Annyeke’s words had
made him smile.