Hallsfoot's Battle (34 page)

“Be careful,” Johan said, connecting to Talus
with his thoughts and understanding with such gentleness that
Annyeke almost forgot to breathe.

The gap in the colours of the air and snow
confused her. What was the Spirit trying to show her, and was she
wise enough to understand even a glimmer of it? She knew it should
not be there and indeed its shifting nature meant Johan and the boy
also could hardly grasp it, at least not for any length of time.
She could not tell whether it was something real or simply an
absence. A scar in the air of the land. Or an opening. Leading
to…what exactly?

As the question rose in her thoughts, the
strange vision blinked into nothing and was gone, but she could
feel its importance in her skin, pressing down on her form,
demanding attention in the same way that her responsibilities as
Acting Elder demanded her full heart. As she breathed in, the
colours surrounding her vanished, taking the voice of the Spirit
with them, and that was the greatest absence of all. She was back
at the Library, the stories and the needs of the people whispering
their presence to her.

She would remember, she swore it by all the
gods and stars, by the Spirit itself. She would remember, and keep
the place of silence always in her mind. Because, somehow, she
understood that, whatever was about to happen, the meaning and
resolution of it would be up to her, in a way she couldn’t yet
comprehend.

Eighth Lammas Lands
Chronicle

Duncan Gelahn

He lands next to the Tregannon villagers’
well. Some of the houses he sees lie in ruins and it is snowing.
The small flakes press against his skin as the dogs tumble after
him onto the damp earth. The bright jewel carves a green arc
through the winter air but, even as he lunges for it, he knows it
is already gone to its owner.

Of course, he sees at once how it is with the
Lost One and the Lammas Lord. The bond between them is stronger
than the earth and darker than fire, bearing as it does all the
faults and pains of both men. As Duncan rises, he sees they are
staring at each other as if all their recent history of lies,
deception, betrayal and attempted murder has been a mere nothing.
It is only for a beat of his heart, however. The next moment, the
memory for both comes flooding in and he sees the shadow of pain
etch itself deeper across the Scribe’s face. As for Ralph
Tregannon, he takes a step back, drops the emerald into a black
velvet bag and turns away. His expression is as distant as a
mountain not yet attempted. Duncan can sense the raging sea behind
it as easily as if the Lammasser had spoken his guilt and shame out
loud.

He smiles. Confusion is something he can use.
It may be the battle will be easier than he has imagined.

In the meantime, the dogs are on their feet
and howling at the shimmer of green light slowly fading in the sun.
Two or three of them scrabble forwards, jaws tearing at the circle
but, each time, it sparks more brightly at their violence and
forces them back.

The mind-executioner decides it’s time the
mountain beasts paid attention to him, not to whatever strangeness
is drawing them on. While the Lost One struggles to get to his
feet, Duncan snatches at the mind-cane where it lies in Simon’s
grasp. It jitters away, so Simon lets it slip from his fingers as
it sparks its own white flame, a reflection of the green circle’s
anger. Duncan swears softly to himself, the echo of his curses
filling his mind. They give him strength and purpose. It has always
been that way with him, ever since his meeting with the Gathandrian
Spirit.

He concentrates, pushing aside the Scribe’s
feeble attempts at questioning him, bears down in his mind on the
cane, steps forward once more, and then he has it. It prickles
against his skin like a field nettle before settling against his
palm. Immediately, the dogs are quiet. He is glad of that. He will
have need of their threat and the danger and knowledge of death
that they carry within. Still, he feels the cane’s gentle pull in
the direction of the Lost One and wonders how the other man cannot
sense this. Nonetheless, it is satisfying that he cannot and Duncan
intends to keep it that way. If Simon discovered even a quarter of
the power he and the mind-cane possessed joined together, then he
would be all but impossible to overcome. His very weakness and
despair keep Duncan in control and, thus far, that despair is not
enough to drive him to the reckless acts of courage he’d shown
spasmodically throughout the wild journey to Gathandria. This also
pleases the mind-executioner. And, Spirit willing, they will claim
Gathandria tonight, since the journey to his homeland is now
supremely possible with the emeralds. In the meantime, there is
much to be done, and an army, albeit a strange one, to be gathered.
He needs to focus his two companions on something else than each
other in order to do it.

“Tregannon,” he commands, dropping Ralph’s
title and knowing the lack of it will only shame the other man
further. “We must bring the army together and prepare your men for
battle. The time for war is almost upon us.”

The Lammas Lord frowns and glances at the
cane in Duncan’s hand. It is pointless for him to protest and he
knows it. His glance slides to the Lost One and then just as
quickly skitters away. Behind him stand two women framed in a
doorway. Next to them, and slightly in front, is a small rounded
woman with silvered hair. Jemelda, the mind-executioner thinks and
wonders why he notices her when the other women are more beautiful.
Then he understands the reason and smiles.

“I do not have the soldiers,” Ralph replies
at last. “As I have told you, they have been scattered across the
lands. Only a few remain at the castle and those are not the
best.”

Duncan blinks. Oh, how much his companions
have to learn. From the death of the mountain and the death of
Ralph’s soldiers something magnificent will be made. He will not
voice it yet, though, not even to himself. Let them see in full
when the time is right. He becomes aware of the Scribe at his side
as he runs his fingers down the cane. He enjoys the feeling of its
silky smoothness against his skin. If things had been different,
then perhaps…but no matter. They are not. The Spirit of Gathandria
has decreed it so and he will not fight such wisdom. He will only
do its bidding.

“Have you sent messengers?” he asks, keeping
his voice low so Ralph must lean forward to hear him. Even though
he knows the question is meaningless and he could give all his
bidding to the Lammas Lord in a heartbeat simply by ravishing his
mind, he forbears to do so for now. Such pleasures will happen
later, when the battle is won.

“No,” Ralph says simply. Of course, Duncan
has already found the answer lying open for all to see within the
man’s thoughts should they have the gift of it. He sees, too, how
Ralph has hoped to conceal the emeralds from him. Such a foolish
plan! How can he have thought to succeed in it? However, the
mind-executioner cannot help but admire the Lammas Lord’s courage.
Much good it does him.

With a jagged movement, he brings the
mind-cane up to his eye level and flicks some of its strength in
Ralph’s direction. At once, Tregannon falls to his knees, gasping
as the weight of history and ancient myth press him down. Simon
steps forward, a cry of protest forming in his mind, but Duncan
swings the simplest of mind-nets round his intention and the Lost
One is brought to an abrupt halt in whatever idiocy he might have
intended. Above them, the snow-raven circles, revived from its
journey and its bleak cry piercing the bitter air.

Spirit of Gathandria, what fools these men of
flesh are. When will they learn they can only do the Spirit’s
bidding and all else is worthless?

Ralph

He barely has time to take in Simon’s
presence and to explain the lack of soldiers to Gelahn before the
mind-executioner drives him to the ground. The solid earth forces
its harshness into his skin and he gasps. At the same time, the
scribe steps forward, a protesting cry splitting the air, but
Gelahn stops his purpose with another flick of the cane.

At his side, Ralph feels a sudden surge of
warmth from the emeralds and his fingers itch to touch them, but he
cannot move. Neither can he breathe. When he opens his mouth to
gasp, he gains no benefit from it. The mind-executioner strides
towards him, and the dark cane he holds spits bright flame. Orange
and purple, the colours of betrayal. His eyes are as black as a
winter night; the anger in them pierces through the falling snow.
His enemy raises the cane and a bone deep agony tears through him.
The Overlord collapses sideways, still gasping for breath. Grit
digs into his cheek and all he can see is the executioner’s feet
and the wild swirls of the cloak he wears. All he can hear above
him is the strange shrill call of the snow-raven.

You. Must. Not. Defy. Me. Again.

Each word is a universe unto itself.
Together, they subsume Ralph’s thoughts and memories until he is
nothing but a world of unremitting pain. Behind his eyes, wild
storms are born, rage and die, winters rise up and are swallowed by
more winters, and rivers burst their banks so that seething waters
sweep him away.

He cannot speak and, within his mind, he can
do nothing but plead. Gelahn has beaten him, taken him to a place
of humiliation far more devastating than anything the Lammas Place
of Execution can offer. All Ralph can do is yield. Over and over
again, the words that come to him are only these: Please. I will
not fight you. Please.

Finally, after year-cycles of time have
elapsed, or so it seems to him, the storms and flood begin to
abate. Air fills his lungs once more and he opens his eyes.

He is lying on the ground. He does not
remember how he got there or what he is doing. It takes a while for
the few poorly built hovels and a large white bird to meld together
within Ralph’s mind so he can recall what has happened. His body
feels sore, as if weary with fighting, or being beaten. He is
panting and coughing. In his throat, nausea rises and he spews out
dust and water.

“Get up.”

He blinks. The words of command are spoken in
a way that brooks no disagreement and he struggles to obey. It
takes a while. When, at last, Ralph is upright, he sees his clothes
are in tatters and the skin on his arms is bleeding. A man is
standing in front of him and in his demeanour dwell all Ralph’s
secret fears. When this man smiles, the expression brings him no
comfort. At his left, a pack of dogs lays waiting, crouched in
readiness for an order he cannot begin to imagine. They are not as
other dogs. They appear hewn from rock, their eyes glint with
crimson and blood lines their jaws. Something in them calls to him,
from a life he wonders if he once had. When he glances at the
slight, almost nondescript man with the haunted eyes who stands in
the falling snow, Ralph sees how beautiful he is, and everything he
knows about himself returns.

He is Ralph Tregannon, Overlord of the Lammas
Lands and betrayer of his people. The man who has all but murdered
him is the mind-executioner, Duncan Gelahn. And the man who stares
at Ralph, horror and relief etched into his face, is both nearer to
him than the pulse of his blood and further away than the
skies.

Now, he remembers. The only question is
whether he wants to. For the moment, Ralph stands swaying in front
of Gelahn. He can barely think, let alone talk. His enemy strolls
towards him as if he has all the time in the land, that twisted
smile still at his mouth. Ralph can’t help himself. He begins to
shake.

“Now you see how important it is to do my
bidding, Lammas Lord,” the mind-executioner whispers, and Ralph can
hear him as clearly as the morning river bird in full flight. “For
we must do what the Gathandrian Spirit requires of us and we must
do it quickly. But, see how I have spared your life and know my
mercy for what it is. It is good to be here. Come, let us return to
your castle and see the numbers of soldiers my powers can call to
our great mission, because, believe me, they will come soon, and
with more wonder than you can possibly understand. But first, you
must give me the emeralds you possess, because they are mine to use
now. Then the end of the battle will have begun.”

There is still something left within Ralph
that knows he should not allow this man to take so easily what is
his, but he has no choice. Slowly, his fingers reach down to where
the emeralds burn against his waist. It is as if Ralph’s hand has
its own purpose and he cannot gainsay it. In the snow, falling more
heavily now, he notices everything is silent, even the raven, even
the dogs.

He holds out the small velvet bag to the
mind-executioner. His enemy shakes his head.

“No,” he says, almost patient as if talking
to a child who cannot hope to understand him. “Take them out. Let
me see their number.”

Ralph’s eyes are hot with tears, but he does
not let them fall. Somewhere deep within, words flutter in his
blood and he can sense the faint shadow of their meaning: First of
all, be angry.

Somehow, the very fact of this helps him.
Gelahn waits as he rolls the shining green jewels out of their
pouch, one by one. It takes a while as his fingers are trembling.
When all seven of them are exposed, the executioner nods.

“Thank you. Put them back and give them to
me.”

Ralph does so. His mind is numb. When he has
done as bidden, the executioner secretes them within his cloak.
Afterwards, he brushes past Ralph, striding ahead on the path back
to the castle. The mind-cane fizzes and sings, but the executioner
himself doesn’t even look around at the scribe or Ralph. He knows
they will follow.

All the time, they stumble in the
mind-executioner’s wake, neither Simon nor Ralph look at each other
and they do not touch. There is so much Ralph wants—needs—to say to
this man, and he cannot even begin. The mountain dogs lollop
between Gelahn and them, sometimes stopping to snuffle or paw at
plants or small animals at the verge and, once or twice, they
snarl, but make no effort to attack. The snow-raven beats heavy
wings and floats above. He can sense Simon’s fear but has no
strength to offer help, though the scribe never asks for it.
Neither does he offer Ralph any comfort and the Lammas Lord is glad
of it. Some kindnesses only destroy.