by Anne Brooke
The boy reddened and pointed, dropping his gaze. Annyeke frowned but followed the line of his finger to a hovel which, though damaged, seemed slightly more sturdy than those around it. At least it had a roof and some semblance of a wall. She turned to head in that direction, sensing the churning mix of colours around the young boy. But, before she could take a single step, the boy had grabbed her.
“It is the night-women’s house,” he whispered.
His fear blended with the colours of the people near her and began to mix with black in her mind. Heart beating fast, Annyeke swung round.
“This is no time for your delicacy,” she said, fixing each one with her gaze as she spoke. “Here is where we will take refuge.”
She bundled them in. Yes, that was the only word for it as she didn’t think they had time for niceties. Inside a woman sprang up, gasping with fear, and Annyeke cursed her own stupidity for not taking a mind-view of the place before they entered. She hadn’t thought anyone would be present.
“I’m sorry,” she said, holding out her hand in a gesture of appeasement. “We need safety. Please can we stay? I swear none of us will harm you. But we need to fight our enemy.”
The woman – whose name, if indeed she had one, Annyeke could not sense – stared for precious moments at them all and then nodded. Without a word, the night-woman headed for the back where the shadows lurked and disappeared out of view for a heartbeat or two before reappearing with some threadbare blankets and pieces of wood. She held them out.
“If you promise me no harm, then you are welcome,” she said softly, not meeting Annyeke’s gaze. “This is all the comfort and weapons I have.”
“We will make it enough,” Annyeke replied.
By now the old man, the Lost One’s father, was trembling and muttering under his breath over and over again. Annyeke could feel the cut and thrust of ebony and green anguish in her thoughts from him but she tried to contain it and focus on the matter in hand.
“How will we fight?” the boy, Apolyon, asked her.
“With our minds and with our hearts,” Annyeke told him. How she hoped the Lost One would come soon. There was more happening here than she could comprehend or perhaps even defeat. Then it came to her what she must do. “Listen to me.”
As if she had given them a command it might be death to disobey, everyone at once stopped what they were engaged in and turned to her. Really, it was quite unnerving to see for herself how ingrained the instinct for obedience was in these people. Could they not think for themselves? On the other hand, wasn’t that obedience exactly what she most needed? Only Simon’s father continued to be lost in his world of madness and muttering.
She took a deep breath. She thought she might need it.
“This is a battle of the mind,” she said. “I know your people do not hold to matters of the mind and I understand how recently these gifts have brought you nothing but grief, through no fault of your own. But whatever is out there is pursuing us and it is an enemy which is more than physical even though we can see it with our eyes. So I’m asking you to trust me and let me link as far as is safe with your thoughts. I swear to you I will do you no harm, and you will lose nothing by it. But we must have all the advantages we can glean. What do you say?”
For a long moment, silence. Annyeke held her breath, and kept her senses back from exploring what their reactions might be. Although in this close proximity, some of the feelings were obvious, the greatest of these being, of all things, surprise.
It was Frankel, the cook’s husband, who finally answered her. When she thought it might have been the night-woman.
“We have always hated the mind-manipulators,” he said, “but nobody has ever asked us for our consent before.”
“I know.”
Another silence, then, “I will do it, First Elder.”
The others followed Frankel’s lead, and even Apolyon nodded.
“Thank you,” Annyeke said. “Sit down and take hold of each other’s hands. That will build up the strength you have between you. I think we will have need of it.”
Quickly, she spun a mind-net round the small hovel. She had no real idea if this would work against something which was in essence nothingness but there was no harm in trying. Then, she made her way around each person in the group, using her skills of touch and thought to link with them in her own mind. She found first of all despair mixed profoundly with anger, the red and the black drifting like smoke through her senses. She could almost smell the acrid darkness of it. Next, fear, distrust and last of all determination. With the latter she could use the rest. It might be enough.
When she’d finished, she saw the light in the room was brighter but it did not seem like the sun. Anxiety at this strange new development tugged at her thought, its thin strands threatening to break the veneer of control she clung to in the face of the unknown. By all the gods and stars, how she hated her own ignorance. She should be braver than this. And where, by the stars, was the Lost One?
Simon
The words are mine.
If that were true, he thought, then he would write them against the whiteness, push back its consuming horror until it could do no harm to him or those in his care. Those the Gathandrian Spirit had given to his protection. So Simon the Lost One took the mind-cane and spun it into shapes in the air before him. The sparks from the cane fired out gold and mauve and pink and silver. They were a counterpoint to the white even though they were not yet words that spoke but those that listened, to his blood, to his mind, to the snow-raven’s song.
The snow-raven: a whiteness behind this other deeper emptiness. Perhaps he could use it. As the fiery nonsensical words danced in the blank air, Simon gazed upwards and around him, searching for evidence of the great bird’s presence. Yes, he could hear the song but he could not see where the raven might be and, with all his soul, Simon knew he needed him.
“You saved me once,” he cried out, “when you looked to destroy me. Come now, when I need you again.”
At least that was what he wanted to say, his mind and his tongue combining, but the meaning was swallowed up by meaninglessness, and the dancing words of the mind-cane were not enough for him to be heard.
Please, please, the snow-raven, he begged no-one, nothing and himself.
Then, shockingly and suddenly, the bird was there, with him. Simon could feel warm wings against his skin and the whoosh of feather and flight rush past him. With his free hand, he grabbed for the raven, but the shape of it passed through his fingers like water. And still the cane-words sparked and shimmered their brief fire into the air. By the gods and stars, this was what he had come for and he would not be denied it.
Then from his mind, his heart-words sprang: I am the Lost One. Come to me.
The snow-raven dipped his wings and halted his flight at once. Simon could see the sudden banking in the bird’s wild course and then the raven was returning, responding to his thought-command. The next moment, the bird’s wings were sweeping over his head and he reached up with the cane and poured his energy, all he could give, into the artefact. It took it, willingly. Silver fire sprang from the carving, upwards into the raven as he flew and downwards into Simon, pouring like fiery honey into his mouth and through his skin and flesh.
He thought it might kill him. It did not. It could not, because he was the Lost One, he was the words and the silence behind them, he was the story. Now all he needed was the means to tell it. Part of that, he knew, would be found in the Lammas village, with the people he had sworn to protect. The other part of it was not for the telling, yet.
The urgency now lay in reaching Annyeke and all the others wherever they had hidden. Feeling the silence and the words both heavy within him, he began to walk. Ahead of him, he could see the white emptiness surge forward, outracing him utterly, although he did not think he could run. In spite of his foolish plans and pointless courage, such as it was, the vacancy had outmanoeuvred him, by the gods and stars. He spat a curse from under his tongue in t
he old Lammas language, as Ralph himself might have done, and quickened his pace. It did him no good and, besides, the sudden flow of memory linked to the Lammas Lord held him back, bright fire heating his blood and mixing too much with his onward purpose.
He needed something else, if he was to be in time for his people. He needed the snow-raven once more.
Even before he reached out, the bird was there, swooping across him at chest level and sparking again that strange silver fire which linked them. As the great feathers passed over, Simon could sense open skies and the smell of the trees, the rush of air beneath his feet and the golden song in his body. Before he knew it, the mind-cane leapt up, pulling him with it, and even though it was impossible because of the speed of the raven, Simon and the cane were on the bird’s back, flying as one through the silent whiteness.
Like this, they might yet outrun the terror, he might reach the village in time. By the gods and stars, he prayed so. And, still, underneath it all, the fierce knowledge of Ralph lay deep within him.
Ralph
The Lammas Lord keeps up a fast pace, the few men with him sometimes stumbling as he makes his way through the outer shades of the wood, but he cannot afford to wait for them too long. His pace is sure; he has known these woods so well all his life that his feet seem to find their own way. Perhaps he should have ridden his horse, for speed, but Nightcloud’s hooves are not made for snow and ice, and the winter clings to the land. But something is about to happen, he sees it as clearly as if Simon had linked their minds together in the way they had used to do. And damn him for a fool for thinking such things now. He must be a warrior, not a lover, although in truth he isn’t sure how far he has ever been able to take that title when it concerns the scribe. Had he ever been more than master to him? He cannot tell. And it is not important. What matters is to find Jemelda and to bring her threat to a stop, before the land itself rises up in anger against them all.
It must be peace, or death. There are no other options.
He wonders if he should have first searched the old caves, but that would be the most obvious hiding place for the rebels, and if he has learned one thing, it is that his cook is both brave and cunning in her revolt. If she has been there, then she will, since the destruction of the crops, have moved on by now. By the gods and stars, she thinks like a soldier and he cannot help but admire it. If only she can accept Simon and what his return will mean, then all will be well.
How he understands it will not be that simple. Nothing ever is. Which is why he is making his way, with his small band of troops, to beyond the woods. If it had been him instead of Jemelda in the position of would-be freedom fighter, this is where he would go. It is true what the old men used to whisper at the ends of stories, only half-joking: women are more dangerous than men.
Nevertheless he will find her and he will win. That is his role as the Lord of these people, it is at his deepest core. The realisation that something about himself he has thought lost has only been lying dormant, waiting to reawaken when the time-cycle is right, makes him set his feet even more firmly and fast in the direction he is going.
The resultant crunch of ice and the panting breath of the men who follow him all but drown out the sudden slither of shadow and snarl in the edge of the field beyond the wood.
They are being tracked and how long it will be before the wolf decides to attack he does not know. Ralph draws his hunting knife from his belt and urges his men onward. He doesn’t have to be a mind-sensitive to see the fear in their eyes, and know they must reach their destination soon or it will be the worse for them. If Jemelda and her group are there, all the better. When it comes to fighting wolves, even one wolf, there is safety in the greater number.
He grabs the nearest man, who has an air of gravitas about him, a faint echo of earthy brown in his mind which Ralph hopes he can trust.
“Lead the men to the place beyond the woods,” he says. “I will cover you.”
The man nods, a mere shadow of the kind of respect he is used to. Then the men are quickening their pace towards where the trees thin out and the wild regions begin. Ralph pushes through the layer of trees to his right, nearer to where he can see the wolf’s outline, and continues to match the speed of his men. He curses the fact none of the villagers carry knives, but it can’t be helped. He’s not sure but he thinks there’s only one wolf. Unusual in itself but he will not mock any advantage the gods may give him. If this beast’s mate is near at hand, then they will deal with it. They have to.
For a few moments, the wolf merely tracks them but then a sudden howl brings a sharp cry from one of Ralph’s people, and the animal darts to the left towards them.
Ralph lunges after, shouting and waving his knife, determined to distract the wolf. The fact he is separate, on his own, should be enough, and, as he hoped, the beast turns and snarls in his direction.
“Go,” he shouts, commanding his men as if in battle. “Find Jemelda! Restrain her till I come.”
Then he pulls off his cloak and, knife in one hand and cloak in the other, breaks through the lightest of the trees and runs towards the wolf. It snarls once more at him and he sees the glitter of teeth in the weak winter sunlight. Along its body the ribs stand out – by the stars it has been a hard winter – so he knows it will be hungrier and more deadly than the wolves he has encountered before. Whatever happens, he must survive. The wolf leaps towards him. He flings the cloak across its jaws and the beast howls, a muffled sound through the cloak’s fabric, and tumbles to the ground. Its claws slash into his arm as it falls and Ralph cries out at the pain, falls with it.
For one wild heartbeat, he remembers once more the dogs on the mountain and Simon’s terror, and then there is no time for memory as the beast is upon him, biting and scratching and snarling, its hot breath a foul gust against his face as the cloak drops away. Ralph grips the knife more tightly in his right hand as he struggles to keep clear of those deadly jaws with his left. A piercing stab to his shoulder tells him the wolf has hit home. Soon it will be at his throat and then his hopes and plans will be as dust in an autumn-season breeze. He twists again, brings the knife up but the animal’s fierce and frantic lunges slam his arm away and the weapon falls with a thud to the earth.
By the gods he is done for, but he will go down fighting. As the maddened wolf lets go of his shoulder and goes for his throat, Ralph manages to turn towards it and punches it right in the jaw so that the beast’s head ricochets back. There is a moment when the power balance between them is up for the taking and Ralph seizes it. He pushes himself away from the wolf and leaps towards the knife which lies tantalisingly just out of his reach. It’s not enough. As his fingertips touch the handle, excruciating pain plunges into his already damaged leg and upward through his whole body. Ralph screams, understanding the wolf has him in its jaws and will not now let go until he is fully finished.
The animal drags him backwards, releasing its grip on his leg for one blessed moment before burying its teeth in his flesh again. Ralph glances at the knife, even more distant than it was before and curses his own slowness as bright stars and blackness dance before his vision, a counterpoint to the pain which threatens to overcome him. Then, suddenly he hears a shout and the knife slides across the icy ground towards his outstretched grasp. He can scarcely believe it but has not time to ponder on such miracles. The handle fits in his hand perfectly, he pushes himself off in the direction the wolf is taking him and before the beast can even snarl in astonishment Ralph buries the blade deep within the animal’s chest.
Hot blood spills over his fingers, the wolf howls once and then falls away, silenced. Pain radiates across his leg and he glances down to see more blood, his own, flowing along his skin.
“My lord?”
He spins round, wiping the sweat from his eyes. In front of him stands a figure stooped over him, breathing harshly. For a moment or two, Ralph fails to recognise him but then reason once more rises within him. It is the man he ordered to take his people to the edg
e of the wood. He has come back. Disobedience indeed but this time he is grateful for it.
“Did-did you give me the knife?” he stammers out, ashamed of his weakness in front of this villager.
“Yes, my lord. You had need of it.”
That much is true, and Simon, if he were here, would appreciate such humour. Ralph nods. “Thank you.”
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.