The Executioner's Cane

by Anne Brooke

  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.

  She didn’t have to ask twice. He pulled himself to his feet, grasped her arm with his free hand and flung the mind-cane at the door with the other. An arc of dark fire leapt from its silver carving and the door, miraculously, slammed shut. As the cane fell, red flame seared the wood but did not destroy it.

  “Oh, good,” the Lost One muttered. “I hoped it would work.”

  Even as he spoke, his fingers were at her forehead and she was overcome by that well of undulating power within him, so much nearer the surface than before. It was almost as if his encounter with the emptiness had released something she had never sensed in him, or at least not to this depth. She did not know if she could contain such strength but then the mind-net he was seeking for leapt to find him, and became a circle of deepest red and green which wrapped itself around the walls, making the whiteness that clung to the Lost One vanish.

  He gasped as he let her go, and sat straight down on the floor again, brushing one hand through his hair. The mind-cane danced softly back to its master and settled like a faithful hound at his side. She wondered if it would ever leave him and then puzzled at the thought.

  “That worked too,” the scribe said, staring at the cane, his tone one of frank astonishment. “I was rather less confident about it. Thank you, Annyeke.”

  As the Lost One rose to his feet again, helped by the night-woman who kept as far away from the terrors of the mind-cane as she could, Annyeke hurried to the small window at the back of the hut and peered out. The whiteness was swooping in and she could barely see the trees or the damaged dwellings across the narrow street. She swung back round.

  “Lost One, Simon,” she said. “The danger is here. We must do something soon.”

  He responded at once, though she did not see the reason for his action.

  “Come, form your circle again,” he said and then gestured at her as the rest of the people began to obey. “You too, Annyeke. Please.”

  As Annyeke complied, she couldn’t help but question. “Why?”

  “Because,” he said, “if it is our stories which will fight the enemy who wishes to take them from us, then it is the stories of us all, not just my own, which will save us.”

  Then she saw it in truth.

  Simon

  He’d known the answer before Annyeke had asked it. Something had travelled from the mind-cane through his skin and directly to his mind before he could track its journey. A black and silver flash with an echo of green. The colours should not have blended, but they did. Amongst them, a wave of words and pictures tumbled and flowed across his inner vision and then were gone. He gained the impression of beginnings which could overcome all the emptiness in the vast skies if they came to their fullness.

  The moment they vanished, he understood they were not his, but the stories and the experiences of the people surrounding him. They had within themselves the ability to win. All he needed to do was channel it.

  Could he do it and, if so, for how long?

  Annyeke nodded as she took her place in the circle of people. The question she had asked him had focused his thought and he was glad of it. He ducked under her arm and entered the circle, causing a murmur to rise and fall at the proximity of the cane, though he tried to keep it close to his side. When he straightened, the first person he saw was his father.

  A jumble of words sprang up in Simon’s mind, nonsensical, strange, the wild colours of them making him blink. The voice he heard which accompanied them however was his father’s, but the old man himself gave no sign he was even aware of what was passing through his own thought. It was as if what had just occurred between the mind-cane and himself had heightened Simon’s senses so he had no need to delve for other men’s secrets. They were there within him, in black and purple and gold. From instinct and almost before he knew it, Simon was reaching out with the cane and touching his father’s hair with the top of the silver carving.

  “Please,” he whispered as the old man’s eyes widened and spittle gathered on his grey beard, “don’t be afraid.”

  He saw at once there was no chance of that; his father’s mind showed no fear of the cane nor of the situation they found themselves in. All Simon sensed was the jittering spikes of madness, like a discordant sound in the harmony the mind-cane brought him. Then, suddenly a light in the darkness shone through, and one word came into Simon’s thought: expanse.

  His father’s deepest word, he knew it, though its meaning escaped him. Immediately afterwards, he all but cried out as his father’s madness flooded in on him again. With an effort he pulled the mind-cane away and
broke the link. He was panting hard.

  “Lost One?”

  Annyeke’s voice tumbled in to his consciousness and grounded him. He turned to glance at her, nodded, and saw behind her the beginnings of whiteness pushing against the mind-net at the window.

  So little time.

  “I’m all right,” he said as the people again began to murmur their anxiety. He and Annyeke had to contain them as he understood none would survive losing their stories if they broke from the circle. Only the cane and the net protected them from the terror of the Book of Blood. “I’m all right, but I need to touch each person’s thought with the cane’s power. I swear to you, it will not harm you.”

  Simon did not know whether further links with this number of men and women in such quick succession would in fact harm him, but he chose to hide that fear, at least from Annyeke.

  It was she who spoke first. “Start with me then.”

  He shook his head, speaking as clearly and quickly as he could and determined not to let his eyes stray to the weakness of the window-space. “No, First Elder, I must end with you. Your skills will centre me again, but I must touch the minds of the people here.”

  A terrible silence. Too long, he thought. Then the night-woman standing at the right hand of Annyeke took a small step forward and looked up at him for a moment before breaking his gaze again.

  “I will do it,” she said so softly that each of them had to lean towards her to hear.

  “Thank you,” he said, his heart beating fast at such evidence of courage where he did not, fool that he was, expect it. Truly the women were the masters of them all.