Hallsfoot's Battle (6 page)

“My lord?”

The voice makes him jump and Ralph curses, in
his mother’s tongue. A heartbeat later, he wishes the words
unspoken; he has staked his reputation on his father’s blood.

“Who is that?” he asks again, this time in
the language of the castle.

“A-Apolyon, my lord.”

The name means nothing and still Ralph cannot
make him out. His mind is too much occupied to try to sense
anything outside its own dread. The one thing he understands is
this unknown voice bears no threat towards him.

“Apolyon?”

“Your new s-steward, my lord.”

Of course. Now that he’s given Ralph his
name, it is as if he’s known it all along. After all, it was he who
gave it to the boy many year-cycles ago when he first came to the
castle. The lad was too poor to carry his own. Not that it is a
real name, given through the formal naming ceremony. No need for
that for one who will own nothing when he dies.

“Why haven’t you fled like the others?” Ralph
says. “There is no safety here.”

“I cannot, sir.”

No. Of course he cannot. His limp is too
pronounced and, besides, he has no home but here.

The sound of distant howling breaks into
Ralph’s thoughts—Gelahn’s mountain-dogs. The noise of them is
carved onto his skin. They almost killed Simon once. He is glad
they did not.

So little time.

“Come here,” he says roughly. There’s no room
for courtesy now.

A scraping over the floor, and then the boy’s
hand is on Ralph’s unwounded leg, withdrawn just as quickly. He
pays the insult no heed. Instead, crouching down, Ralph takes the
seven emeralds in their silk pouch and pushes the small bundle into
Apolyon’s fingers. Then he half leads, half drags the boy to the
wall behind his bed.

Opening the trapdoor to the secret library,
and fumbling with the lock mechanism, Ralph is talking all the
time.

“Go. Take what I’ve given you and go. A few
paces along this passageway, you’ll find a collection of books. You
won’t see it as it’s dark, but they’ll be there. When the air
begins to smell of calfskin, put your hand out—your left hand. The
third book that you touch will be the one. Take it from the shelf,
open it and put the bundle I’ve given you inside. Stay there. If I
don’t come or if danger falls upon us, then the other side of the
library leads to another passage. That will take you to the fields
beyond the bridge, a chance for escape if you need it.
Understand?”

“Yes, m-my lord.”

Then he’s gone. Ralph hopes the boy has the
courage to do what he tells him. He hopes the emeralds will be
safe. A glance down at his hands tells him that his fingers carry a
soft green aura even in the gloom, but he doesn’t know what it
means. After that, there’s no chance to hope or fret about anything
else. He just has time to secure the trapdoor, take a few paces
into the middle of the bed area and draw in a deep breath, but not
deep enough to find any courage from it, when Gelahn is there.

A deeper darkness in the gloom around him, a
flash of fire, and the mind-executioner is present. Strange how the
power that once drew Ralph to him repels him now. Strange, too, how
in the darkness he can still see. What he sees is this—a Lone Man,
born under the auspices of that distant star, a star whose course
never meets with another. Naturally, the mind-executioner has never
told him that. He says nothing that is not to the point. Neither is
he what one might expect. A head shorter than Ralph is, shorter
even than Simon, he is not physically strong and the only
distinguishing feature he possesses is the mystery of his eyes.
They hold you, so it is impossible to get away. It is his eyes that
make him beautiful. Beauty is power and Ralph knows the executioner
uses this. As always, he wears round his neck the pendant in the
shape of a small silver circle. It’s a light even in the darkness.
By it, Ralph sees the executioner is dressed simply, in a dark
tunic with his cloak layered across one arm, ready for action.

Of course, now he does not carry the
mind-cane. Simon and the Gathandrians have that, and Ralph wonders
if they will use it. If they even know how.

He wonders, too, how much of his mind Gelahn
has already plundered and how long it will be before he understands
all of Ralph’s secrets. Each of his defences must surely be useless
against the executioner. What will he do with that knowledge?

Gelahn smiles, but Ralph does not respond.
Something in him is proud of that moment. When the other man
speaks, his voice is as cold as winter.

“It is good to see you again, Lord
Tregannon,” he says. “I trust you have prepared for my
arrival?”

All this, of course, is a lie, and they both
know it. As he speaks, the darkness that has consumed the land
begins to lift and Ralph hears the sound of Gelahn’s mountain-dogs.
Perhaps it is they who have helped cause the darkness. It would not
surprise him.

“It is hard to prepare for anyone’s arrival
in a land that has been so devastated,” Ralph says. “Now we have
little to offer any guest who may chance upon us and many of our
neighbours are keeping to themselves.”

For fear of being tainted or made vulnerable
by the curse of the Lammas Lands and what has happened to us is the
natural end of the sentence, but Ralph does not say it.

This does not matter. For the next moment,
before even a story’s first breath can be felt, Gelahn has lifted
his free hand in a small and casual gesture, and Ralph’s mind
explodes.

He finds himself scrabbling for relief,
gasping for air, and with his back slammed against the bedroom wall
behind him. Gelahn’s darkness fills Ralph’s head and it is as if
the executioner’s power alone obliterates every thought he has ever
had, every hope and every dream. Ralph has no history—no past and
no future. This is the worst it has ever been when Gelahn reads
him, moulds Ralph’s will to his. All the Overlord can do is wait
for the mind-executioner to discover everything that has happened
since Ralph returned here without him. Discover it and punish
him.

This time, however, something is
different.

In the darkness, and even in the pain which
tracks through his body as the wolfhounds track young wolves,
something remains untouched. Something green and glowing, like the
colour around his hand just before Gelahn arrived. And even as
Ralph thinks this thought, the green glow surrounds it. Within its
faint circle, there is no darkness.

Safe.

The word floats, a deeper green framing it.
Safe. Ralph reaches for it. Not with his hand, but with his
thought. Somehow it captures him and for a long, long moment, all
the life he has led since this morning, all the memories he has of
this one day—the horse ride, the steward, the hidden library—are
bound within its strength.

The emeralds, he thinks, this must be to do
with the emeralds.

Then Gelahn lets go.

The darkness draws itself together and seeps
away. Ralph knows it can’t be real and it’s simply his imagination,
but he almost believes he can see it creeping home into Duncan
Gelahn’s eyes. Odd how when he’s able to breathe again the day
outside is as it should be. The winter sun is shining and there’s a
crisp edge to the air in the room.

Gelahn speaks. “You have found it hard to
hold your lands together then.”

This is not of course a question, but Ralph
answers as if it is.

“The wars with Gathandria have all but
destroyed us,” he says, knowing the wars are not the worst of it.
“Each battle fought in the mind on our journey there and back has
carved out its mirror image in blood and death and grief here. And
when our defeat came …”

The executioner holds up his hand. Fearful of
what his enemy might still discover in him, even now, Ralph falls
silent. Gelahn leans forward, and the Overlord can see strange grey
lights in his eyes.

“It is not a defeat,” he whispers, but there
is no gentleness in his tone. “It is not a defeat when the battle
has not yet truly begun. It is a setback only, no more.”

Ralph cannot help himself. He laughs. “A
setback that has torn down so many of our buildings that there is
barely an untouched one left, set our fields on fire so our
planting is lost and we face starvation, scattered the Lammas
people to the lands around us and incited the desire to rebel in
those who remain. Forgive me, but, for me, that is far more than a
setback. I …”

Even while he’s speaking, the
mind-executioner knocks him to his knees, and Ralph feels the
constriction in his throat. Gelahn hasn’t moved. The lack of the
mind-cane has not drained his power in personal combat. That much
is obvious.

This time when Gelahn speaks, it is directly
to Ralph’s mind, and the Overlord closes his eyes and tries to
breathe through the pain.

Do not insult me again, or what you think of
now as disaster will be as nothing compared to what will happen to
you and to your people. Do you understand?

Beyond speech, all Ralph can do is nod. When
Gelahn lets go, he turns his back to the Overlord as if he is
nothing and strolls over to the window. Ralph clambers to his feet,
rubs the soreness at his throat and wishes for wine.

In the silence, he waits for his conqueror to
speak first. He does not trust his voice not to shake. He can still
hear Gelahn’s dogs. Outside, thank the gods and stars. Ralph hopes
they are harming nobody, but understands that if he makes any more
mistakes then deaths will occur.

What the executioner says is not what Ralph
expects.

“You still have your fighting troops
then.”

Ralph blinks. “Yes. Some of them.”

Gelahn turns then and fixes him with his
gaze. The Overlord is unable to look away.

“That wasn’t a question, Lord Tregannon,” he
says. “I had already gleaned that from your mind. You have always
been so open to me. I trust that good wisdom you show will
continue, now that we are more in need of each other.”

Ralph longs to ask how he can possibly need
Gelahn when all he has caused is disaster and pain. He expects him
to pick up on those thoughts, but the green glow that lurks in the
corner of Ralph’s mind is still there and swallows them up. His
heart beats faster.

Gelahn does not react, but simply pauses for
a moment and then continues speaking. “Yes, you are in need of me
as, without me, your power and command over your people will be
nothing. And I …”

“Yes, Lord Gelahn?”

“I am in need of you for the men you possess,
however few. And most of all for the military skills you have.”

Ralph laughs and the mind-executioner cocks
his head. After a moment or so, when the Overlord is silent, Gelahn
inspects his fingernails, waiting for him to speak.

“I cannot believe that to be true,” Ralph
says at last. “You have power enough, even without the mind-cane.
You can destroy us all.”

The mind-executioner’s answer makes Ralph’s
thoughts grow as dark as his arrival made the sky outside.

“That is correct,” he says in a way that
makes Ralph shiver. “And, again, you are wise to note it. But this
time, Tregannon, the battle will be fought not only in the realm of
the mind, but also in the physical realm. This time, the blood that
we shed will be first and foremost in the flesh and the death we
deal our enemies will be permanent.”

Chapter Three:
A new companion

Annyeke

In the small home of the Acting Elder of
Gathandria, surrounded by the remains of bread and with two worried
men to soothe, Annyeke was about to say something inspirational if
she only knew what that might be.

But the sound of shouting from the street
outside stopped her, then the noise of wood scraping on stone. The
next moment, her front door was slammed open, the entrance curtain
torn down, and a vast mass of wild white terror launched itself
through the room towards the table. Blood poured from its frame,
and she and Talus and the two men flung themselves out of the way
as the beast skittered across the floor and skidded to a halt.

In the shocking silence following this
onslaught, as Talus clung to her, the mind-cane began to hum.

Annyeke had always hated birds and, by the
gods and stars, especially legendary ones. So she stared at the
great white snow-raven from the Kingdom of the Air now sprawled on
the stone floor against her eating table and shuddered. The beast
was almost the size of a grown man, with the span of its wings
nearly doubling that length. It brought with it a strange smell of
cinnamon and lime which turned her stomach. She could feel the
swift tumbling of Talus’ mind against hers and fought for balance
for them both.

Simon was backed up against the wall, the
mind-cane abandoned at his side and his hand touching his cheek.
No, more than touching it. For a reason she couldn’t fathom he
looked as if he was protecting it. Why would he wish to do that?
The bird, whatever it might be in reality, was at the moment no
danger. In fact, it looked as if it might even be dead, which would
be a good thing. There was certainly enough blood for that to be
true. The stonework must have somehow torn through its
feathers.

Johan was already there, his hands touching
the fallen bird, firm but gentle. Annyeke sighed, then shook her
head to dispel the thought.

“Is it dead?” she asked, easing Talus away
from her but keeping her hand on his arm.

“I don’t think so.” Johan frowned but didn’t
look up, continuing his examination of the bird.

“Am I right? It looks like a…”

“…a snow-raven.” Simon confirmed it, his
voice low, and Annyeke blinked.

She’d been right, although she couldn’t
understand why it should be here at all. She herself had never seen
such a bird directly, though many of her fellows had. They were the
stuff of Gathandrian legend, talked about in all the ancient tales
and many of the modern ones. She’d glimpsed them with the Elders by
means of the mind-circle’s power when she was watching Johan take
his long, hard journey home with Simon but, because of the light
that emanated from them, Annyeke had never seen one in any detail.
It had been an impression of whiteness and song.