The Executioner's Cane (27 page)

There is fire in the Lammas Lands, she said.
Because of our link with the Lost One, its power has come to us
also, but the fire is real. We must face the battle for the sake of
the lands we dwell in, both our neighbours’ and our own. We thought
we were building peace but peace comes through battle and must
always be fought for. This is something we should have learnt by
now and we must carry it always in the day-cycles ahead. I will
speak with the elders and, if the power we have permits it, I will
speak with the Lost One also. The fire-link which has come to us
will help me. Then I will come back to you and give you the choice
of what you wish our city to do. For now, we must continue to work
and pray and build our futures together.

When she finished speaking, Annyeke glanced
at the elders. She understood their surprise and dismay at her
words because she had already told the people more than they would
have admitted. Well, she had no patience for men who pretended to
know everything. She had explained to them how things were very
different under her leadership and they would have to grow used to
the experience. That was all there was to it.

Before any of this, however, she would need
to speak to the Chair Maker about his wife and, more importantly,
about the Book. She needed to find out what, if anything, he really
knew.

Chapter Eleven: Fire

Ralph

Heat tracks through him and his dreams are
nothing but flame. He understands it isn’t real but he is unable to
wake and return to the world he knows, or doesn’t know. Damn the
scribe for undoing him, but if Simon had died how much worse would
it have been. The man is impossible in all his ways.

In his dream, he sees a figure in front of
him. A tall man, facing away, and his cloak is jewelled with
emeralds, the same that have proved so powerful and strange in
recent days. The man is bearded, a fashion which Ralph despises,
but he knows if he turns back to look at him, it would be like
gazing in mirrored glass. This man has never turned to him in his
dream, not even so much as a glance, and Ralph has always been
running to catch him. Odd how in life, when his father was alive,
Ralph took pains to ensure their paths rarely crossed, but in his
dreams he experiences the opposite need. Simon had something to say
about this, once, but Ralph had brushed his words away with a
cutting response about the scribe’s own father. That was the
trouble with being linked with the mind of another, however poorly:
Simon and he understood more about each other than someone not
gifted with mind-skills. Ah but it could be a joy too, how he knew
it.

In his sleep, Ralph thinks he cries out and
his father begins to disappear, heading off into the distance where
the woods and mountain lurk, as if pursuing a path only he can see.
Because there is no path, or not one Ralph can ever distinguish,
not in all his year-cycles of this dream. As if constrained by the
vision itself, he begins to follow his father who makes his way
with ease through bracken and gnarled branches that seem to reach
for Ralph and hold him back. He is struggling for breath. Always
the dream is like this, and always he fails to overtake his
quarry.

This time he sees something different in the
dream, and the fact of it gives Ralph a greater determination to
win. The sky over the trees is neither black nor the darkest of
blues, but a deep and fiery red. Strangely it feels hot though the
colours are a long way distant. His father is framed by them. He
doesn’t know what it means in relation to the dream but he has to
draw closer to it in order to follow his father.

It’s hopeless. Already his father is gaining
ground on him, and Ralph knows the chance to confront him even in
this world of fantasy will soon be gone, again. Another flash of
red in the sky draws his glance and he sees a spark of fire falling
down upon him. Memories of the flames he’d endured on the
mind-executioner’s journey jolt him backwards but in the depths of
his thought he hears his father’s voice: stand firm when danger
strikes. And he does, the warm feeling of loss surprising him. He
never liked his father, but he can’t stop thinking about those
words, said so often. The words of a soldier.

So when the fire falls, Ralph reaches upwards
to grasp it, experiencing the sensation of dream-heat on his skin,
and the sudden knowledge his father is close by, after all, and has
never perhaps been far. He opens his mouth to talk to the man,
though he can’t yet see him, but the noise he brings forth, half
groan and half shout, wakes him and he opens his eyes, gasping and
coughing, to see the unfamiliar grey shape of one of his
guest-rooms shimmer into place around him.

The lack of his father is the first thing to
pierce him and he curses his own foolishness. The man is dead and
vanished from the land, by the stars’ sakes, and there can be no
reconciliation until his own time has come, and perhaps even not
then depending on which legend he chooses to follow. The second
sensation to burst upon him is the fact that the crimson heat
remains. It is in his head and on his skin, an echo of ruby where
his gaze meets the night. He stumbles upwards, ignoring the
now-familiar pain which shoots through his leg, and the window
seems a long way distant.

When he reaches it, he blinks. He sees
nothing obviously wrong outside; the night is cold but no more so
than he expected, and the courtyard is empty. All he can hear is
the occasional wood-owl and, further away but not far enough for
his liking, the long cry of a wolf on the hunt. He waits a while
longer but then decides he is nothing but a mind-fool driven by
childish dreams, and he is about to return to bed and, gods and
stars willing, sleep when something deeper snags at the edges of
his thought. It is the crimson sky he dreamed of.

Ralph takes a chill breath and stares into
the distance. There is a glowing over the fields beyond the
village. His fingers grip the jagged stone at the window frame and
he draws in a breath again, sniffing the air like a hound about to
be loosed onto a valley-fox. He can smell smoke and knows at once
what he is seeing is real, not just an echo of his dream. Though
his mind too is fiery-hot and it is as if there is a greater power
etching the knowledge of flame into his consciousness.

He curses and half-runs half-limps to the
corridor outside. The fields are burning and he must rouse what
people he has left in order to tackle the destruction. This must be
Jemelda’s doing and it almost makes him break his stride to imagine
what rivers of hatred towards himself and the Lammassers must flow
through her blood to bring her to this act of terror.

By now, the Lammas Lord is clattering down
the stairs, hearing the faint woof of his remaining house-dog as it
stirs itself in the empty hall. He gathers the cloaks and cloths
from the broken table and runs outside. He cannot afford to give in
to pain now. He must fight for survival. In the courtyard he yells
for Frankel, stumbles across the stonework towards the kitchen
where the servant must surely be and pulls aside the curtain.

The cook’s husband is already standing and
clutching a fire-torch in hands which tremble. He is dressed in a
thin woollen tunic, and Ralph thrusts one of his own cloaks at
him.

“Come, we must go to the fields. The seeds
will be burning,” he snaps but if he thought Frankel would show
surprise, he sees none. The servant merely nods and follows him. He
will not keep Ralph’s pace, no matter the injured leg, but he will
come after him. That much the Lammas Lord does understand.

Outside, Ralph sees his steward. He has
almost forgotten Apolyon and curses himself for his lack of wit.
The boy will be useful.

“The fields are burning,” he says. “We must
rouse the village and those few dwelling in the woods beyond to
help us if any are left who are minded to do so. Bring the drums
with you. You know where they are.”

He doesn’t wait for any response but makes
his way through the water and runs to the village. He ignores the
pain. May the stars give him the strength he needs to fulfil this
task.

The path to the village contrives to slow him
down, but the sense of urgency drives him on. Behind him, he can
hear the boy begin to beat the drum even as he must be running to
catch his master, and this obedience is a further encouragement to
his speed. Finally he arrives at the old well and yells out his
message to any remaining few who might be minded to hear him.

“Fire in the fields, come out, my people, if
any of you remain here, and let us fight it!”

Above him he glimpses a cloud of whiteness
floating over the ruined houses and it takes him a heartbeat or so
to understand it is Simon’s snow-raven. The great bird plunges
towards the earth and Ralph raises his arms to avoid the attack,
but he is not the raven’s quarry. The bird flies past him and he
catches the soft warmth of feathers on his fingertips. To his
surprise, it carries the colours of Simon’s mind, blue and a hint
of gold, and he wonders how much the scribe realises this. No time
to ponder the meaning, as the raven attacks the house nearest the
well, destroying part of the standing wall and bringing the fragile
stones tumbling to the earth. The noise brings out a meagre
scattering of figures from the shadows, just as Ralph understands
the bird is drawing the villagers’ attention more effectively than
any of his shouted commands.

He doesn’t waste time but begins to run
towards the fields still yelling his warning whilst the great white
bird continues to rouse what people there might be who take shelter
here at night from the terrors of the wood. With the noise of the
drum swiftly nearing them adding to the fracas, there is no room
for anyone to sleep.

He is ready for it. Because, throughout it
all, the wild race to the village and now to the burning fields
which are thick with smoke and acrid smells, the Lammas Lord’s
blood is up and his heart is racing, his injured leg merely an
irritation to be dealt with later. This is battle indeed, of a
sort, the fire an enemy to strive against, a physical act he can
grasp, not the mind-wars which have left him so foolish and weak.
He is a soldier, despite or perhaps because of his father’s best
efforts, and he delights in the role.

At the field, he takes stock of how much
damage has already been done and the direction the flames,
wind-driven, are sweeping in. Jemelda has started the fire at the
south end where the soil is driest but she must have taken fire-oil
from the castle or village supplies as flames are even now licking
across the field. She has been cunning and he cannot help but
admire her. It is not the open plains of battle, no, but it is a
good strike at their walls of survival.

Not only that but the fire is no ordinary
fire, even though he cannot understand it. The flames are singing.
All the while Ralph has been running here, he has been aware of the
faint humming accompanying him and getting ever louder but he
imagined it was the wind or his own blood pulsing through his body.
He had no idea it was this.

The boy, Apolyon, reaches him first. The drum
he continues to beat draws the villagers after them as, by the
stars, the instrument always has the power to move or terrify any
Lammasser. Ralph is sorry he has had to use it, but this is
war.

“Do you hear it?” he asks the boy, signalling
him to cease the noise he makes with a click of his fingers.

Apolyon stops at once. “What, my lord?”

“The fire’s music.”

Ralph doesn’t wait for an answer. This close
to his one remaining personal servant, he can sense his confusion
already. The song must be for him alone then but he cannot
interpret it. Besides his small band of villagers is coming close
behind and he must show them how to act, by deeds not words.

He darts forward, sweeping the heaviest part
of the cloak he carries across the burning soil. The song rises but
he shakes it out of his head, quickly building a make-shift wall in
his mind as Simon taught him. His skills are lesser than the
scribe’s so it will not last long against such an attack, but it
will have to suffice. Thick cloth deadens the fiery soil and
swallows up the flame. Smoke flares from where Ralph has begun but
it will not reignite without more fire-oil to enrage it.

He takes another step and repeats the action,
just as the sparse number of people, only a handful of men and
women, join him and begin to do the same. Together they form a thin
line of slow-marching defence against the fire’s harsh teeth and
together they advance. The flames bite and snatch at their skin and
always the Lammas Lord can hear their song and the strange cry of
the fire’s dying but it seems to disturb no-one else amongst them
that he can tell, and so he makes no question of it. Enough for the
soil to cease its burning so some of their seed and grain may be
saved.

A few moments later and he gestures for one
or two of the men to tackle the fire on the far side of the field
where it threatens the grasses. There is less grain there as it’s
closer to the woods and the foxes, but fire-oil and grasses do not
mix happily, and they must prevent their conjoining. The earth has
been their friend up until now and Ralph does not want it to turn
enemy. Not if he can help it. He has heard the legends of fire and
earth in these lands, lived them in some fashion also, and he does
not want to see their like again. Overhead the night-owls screech a
warning and at the edge of his vision something lopes in from the
direction of the woods, towards the furthest of the men doing his
bidding.

“Wolf!” he yells and he is already running,
brandishing his cloak and making as much noise as he can in order
to disorientate the animal. The two men swing round and one of them
cries out when he sees the wolf. Ralph can hear the noise of it
even above the song of the flame. The man who has cried out starts
to run back across the field towards the main group of Lammassers,
and Ralph shouts again.