The Executioner's Cane (40 page)

He pulls the knife from the wolf, as a
soldier never abandons a weapon, come what may, and the villager
helps him to his feet, tearing off a strip of the cloak and binding
it in rough fashion around Ralph’s bloodied leg. He is proud of the
fact he only winces once.

“Take me to where our men have gone,” Ralph
pants when the man is done. “Help me there.”

It is then he hears the screaming, and the
howling of another wolf. He has been wrong and this new threat is
surely the first one’s mate. His injuries be damned, Ralph begins
to run.

Jemelda

She punched the wolf’s eye one more time,
hardly believing the animal had even allowed her the chance to do
it. Perhaps she might get away, she dared to think so. Then the
wolf twisted away from her and sunk its teeth into her right arm.
The pain snapped through her and she screamed. Even so, she became
aware in the shadows of her vision that her people were running
towards her, trying to help, putting themselves in danger.

“Keep back, keep away!” she screamed but she
didn’t know whether the words made any sense. She didn’t know
whether she could be heard at all.

The wolf released its hold upon her, rough
paws scrabbling over her body, and went for her chest.

It never got there, because something tall
and heavy landed across her, making her cry out again. Whoever it
was grabbed the animal by the neck and rolled away, landing heavily
with the wolf onto the ground next to her. She gulped in pure air,
the chill of it making her wince, and scrambled sideways, grabbing
the beast by the tail and trying to ignore the shaft of pain in her
arm as she did so.

Just as she thought the wolf would never stop
struggling and it might even overpower two people rather than
simply one, she heard the shouts of the villagers louder than she
had expected to hear them and she was dragged off her quarry.
Jemelda blinked at the scene of near-devastation as a group of men
and women, some her own and some of those who had refused to follow
her, finished off the beast with rocks and branches. Soon it was
nothing more than a bloodied mass of fur stretched across the
ground and its eyes were lifeless.

Panting she struggled up to a sitting
position. Her unexpected source of help rose to his knees and she
already knew by his cloak and the tilt of his chin it was Lord
Tregannon who had saved her. Behind him, Thomas took a step back,
clutching a rock he had used to destroy the wolf. She saw his
fingers twist and by the way he glanced at her and then down at
Tregannon she knew his intent.

If her former Lord and master were dead,
would the murderous scribe then be easier to kill? But her former
master, whatever his faults, had saved her life. Without him, she
would have had little chance, even with the power of the unknown
Iffenia within her. She could not deny it. So for that reason alone
Jemelda shook her head, and Thomas dropped the rock safely to the
earth, although his brow darkened and she knew there would be
answers to give the man. She rose to her feet as Tregannon’s men
moved to surround her, pushing her people aside.

It would not end like this, no matter the
gods and stars. She would not allow it.

“Don’t touch me,” she said to them, her voice
hoarse but the meaning entirely clear. “Or it will be the worse for
you.”

The men around her muttered and Thomas bent
down to reclaim the rock he’d released only a few moments before.
This time she let him do it.

“Leave her be,” Tregannon said as he stood
upright, swaying so one of his men rushed to his side to support
him. His command still had enough power for the crowd around her to
fall back. How she hated him for it.

“You have no right to be here, Tregannon,”
she spoke first, causing a ripple of surprise to flow through the
people. Any conversation with the Overlords had to be started by
them and those who came to them had to do nothing more strenuous
than respond. Well, she had no patience with that, not any more.
“You should be protecting your people and land, not destroying it.
You should be joining with us, not pursuing us. Or perhaps that is
what you have come to do, since you have saved me from the wolf? If
that is so, I thank you for it, and rejoice in our combined efforts
to drive the murderer out.”

Tregannon took a step forward, his face pale,
and he almost buckled in spite of leaning on the shoulder of one of
his men. But somehow he kept his footing. He grimaced as he
spoke.

“Simon the Scribe is no murderer,” he said.
“And if you are to accuse him, then you must also accuse me.
Believe me, the pain of what I have done will live burning in my
blood for the rest of the life, but Simon is not here to kill but
to save us. If you join with us, Jemelda, with your people, then
our redemption and the land’s regrowth will come the faster. The
gods and stars do not wish for there to be war between us.”

“You have no right to tell us what the gods
and stars may think,” she spat back at him. “Not since you chose to
disregard them, you and your minion, in order to kill and wound the
people who have served you so well for generation-cycles. We hold
no loyalty to you now.”

“Yes, that much is obvious and that much is
true,” Tregannon replied, the line of his jaw set, but whether in
fury at her rudeness or determination to get his way, she did not
know. “But I speak to you as a fellow-Lammasser and in that role I
appeal to your good will. Jemelda, return to your home and mine,
and let us together do what we cannot do alone.”

With his final words, Tregannon reached out
his hand to her as if he would pluck her back from her chosen path
and align her for all time-cycles to his. She could see, even
without being a mind-fool, how much such a plea had cost him and
his pride. She could see it but she did not care. Because with the
arrival of the murderer in the land, all decency and concept of
working together had been lost, from the very beginning.

“No,” she said clearly so he could ever
afterwards never say he had misunderstood her. Then she nodded at
Thomas. This was his time, his moment. It was why she had saved
him.

He leapt silently at the Lammas Lord, rock in
his hand flailing in a determined arc downwards. There was no time
for any of his men to cry out a warning but, at the last moment,
Tregannon must have sensed something as he turned and lifted his
arms against the blow. Still the edge of the rock caught him on the
head and he went down. Thomas went with him. The next moment chaos
erupted amongst them. Jemelda set her pain to one side and jumped
on the back of the nearest Tregannon man. That was the signal for
the two groups to enter the fray. Shouts, screams, punches and a
scattering of blood fell amongst them. Jemelda encouraged her
people in their efforts but in the end she and they were no match
for the Lammas Lord’s skills and those of his men.

So it wasn’t long before she and her people
had no choice but to yield. She spat out blood from her mouth, its
iron taste almost making her gag, and glared at Tregannon. It
pleased her to see his head was bleeding and she couldn’t help but
wish Thomas’s attack had succeeded to the full.

Her former Lord staggered and wiped the blood
from his eyes. Something flickered across his face and, for a
moment or two, Jemelda wondered if he had heard a voice she had
somehow missed, but then his brow cleared. He shook his head.

“Take them to the village,” he said, the
distinct tones of command causing a frenzy of activity amongst his
people. “There we will settle this once and for all.”

For a heartbeat, Jemelda bit back the anger
that rose in her heart at how her mission had been defeated, but
then she thought again. If they were returned to the village, then
other chances to rid themselves of their enemy would no doubt
occur. She would make sure she and her people were prepared to take
them.

Ralph

As his men and his captives turn at his
command and begin the journey home, Ralph puzzles over the sudden
sense of whiteness in his mind. For a moment the flash of black and
silver, the mark of Simon’s mind-cane, had overwhelmed him, and
then the blank emptiness flooded in. Now he wonders whether what he
sensed is true. Still, the urge to take the captive party and
return to the village is a powerful one, and he has always been a
man who follows his instinct. The best of soldiery lies in
believing this and, on the field of battle, it has never let him
down.

He stations his men on the outside of the
group, putting the strongest of them at the back and taking the
position at the front himself. Bearing in mind his injuries, he is
surprised he can stand and indeed he has to blink several times
before he can focus on the earth and trees around him. He turns to
the nearest man and gestures him forward so he may lean on the
villager’s shoulder in order to walk. It is important to show as
little weakness as possible but he cannot afford to fall. Jemelda
and the power driving her might well make full use of that
opportunity and he is determined, for his own sake and the sake of
them all, to stay alive. By the gods and stars that it has come to
this.

At the first step he realises he has been
overconfident. Pain shoots upwards from his leg to his whole body,
a jagged series of blows which snatch the breath from his throat.
At the same time, his head begins to throb, a blinding dullness
that threatens his intention.

He will not get to his destination by
walking. So he must find another way.

Still gripping the shoulder of the man
supporting him, Ralph turns round. It takes him a moment more to
steady himself again and he prays no more wolves are within a
distance to scent their blood this day-cycle. Because if there are,
no power in Lammas could save them a third time.

He knows what he must do. Slowly, his fingers
reach into his belt-pouch under the cloak and wrap round the warmth
of the emeralds he keeps there. Their presence eases him. He takes
them out and at once there is a flash of white and green in his
mind. It makes him grimace but once more it is gone as soon as
noticed.

A few of the men around him stir and mutter
when they see what he is holding and the man next to him slips
away, but he pays them no heed. Sometimes when the fight is at its
harshest, it is better if the commander decides a strategy alone
and trusts for his army to follow. Today he will give them no
choice.

So, without a single word, Ralph steps
forward, staggering as the bright pain rips through his leg, all
but blinding him again, and throws the sparkling emeralds up into
the sky. A woman screams and he senses the terror running through
the group but it is too late. The green circle he has formed sweeps
them up within itself and then they are already deep within the
wild and frantic journey.

He only hopes the destination will be the one
he wishes for.

Simon

As the snow-raven swept through the outlying
homes of the village, the mind-cane all but leapt out of his hand
and as he lunged to tighten his hold, the great bird banked to the
right and he tumbled to the earth. So much for the dignity of his
position. He found himself amongst bracken and thick moss, and
thanked the stars and gods it had broken his fall. He did not wish
to gamble with death again.

The cane grew hot in his hand, almost too hot
to hold, but he would not let it go. Whatever it was warning him
about, he would listen. Simon rolled over and scrambled to his
feet, spitting out mud. He must find Annyeke. For one frantic
moment, he had no idea whether she and the people had managed to
outrun the strange emptiness, but then he sensed her presence, and
the mind-net she had woven. Two buildings down, in the
night-women’s hovel. He began to run towards it. Glancing up, he
saw the whiteness come swooping in, an echo of it rising up within
his blood to meet its mirror in the air.

The silence is also mine.

Once more he swung the cane through the
enveloping mist and saw the path through towards what he hoped was
his destination. At the same time, he sensed the snow-raven’s
presence in the skies above him, and felt the softness of wings
brush through his hair as he kept on running. The bird flashed by
him and some of the whiteness dissipated in the beat of its wings.
He could see the hovel now. The roof was intact and most of the
walls still stood. Annyeke had chosen well.

All he had to do was get in.

The mind-net the First Elder had woven was a
strong one, though he could sense its structure weakening and knew
it would not last long. But it would be a matter of some vital
moments for him to find the core within to dismantle it. Quicker to
try the old-fashioned way.

So the Lost One leapt onto the door and
crashed the cane and his fists against it.

“Annyeke!” he yelled. “It’s me, Simon. Let me
in for the stars’ sake.”

Tendrils of whiteness, more than he could
fight back against, flowed into the edges of his mind and he flung
himself at the door more fiercely. The next heartbeat, the wood
gave way as the door was opened from inside and he tumbled onto the
floor, scattering the few people huddled within.

Annyeke

She’d hoped the Lost One would come to them
soon, but she hadn’t expected such an entry into their midst. As
the scribe fell headlong amongst them, her mind-net, already
fragile, bowed and buckled and threatened to vanish entirely.
Bearing in mind the tendrils of emptiness the Lost One had brought
with him which clung to his skin and thought like early mist, she
could well do without losing her only form of defence.

“Simon! Help me,” she panted as she flailed
about for some hook to hang her thought on.