Hallsfoot's Battle

by Anne Brooke

  Annyeke hadn’t seen Johan either, he realised. She was worried about that. Angry also, but it wasn’t her main concern. As the truth of the matter melded into the scribe’s consciousness, he found himself sitting up slowly and pulling the thin woollen blanket from his frame. The sunlight made him blink again and he shook his head to try to clear his thoughts. The main concern filling Annyeke’s mind at this moment was Simon himself.

  By staying here, he was letting her down. He was the problem when she’d hoped he would be the one to bring solutions. Well, he’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d used the mind-cane to banish the mind-executioner, and the effort involved had floored him. He wasn’t sure now what further use he could be. Johan had talked of another war to come, the dangers of the mind-executioner lurking like a shadow of a mountain over them all. Simon couldn’t even begin to comprehend what any of those words might mean. The Gathandrians were a curious people, their minds full of signs and symbols that had little to do with the truth as he understood it—had understood it, anyway. He allowed himself a small grin. After all, he was half-Gathandrian, too, which made him the most mysterious of them all.

  The mind-cane’s humming rose in intensity. The sound made him shiver, but this time it clarified something within him. He rolled out of bed and stood up slowly. He still refused to look at the cane. Against his skin, the air was colder than he’d expected. He looked out of the window, and the whiteness of the sky made him shake his head. Of course. It was winter here, as it would be back in the Lammas Lands. Best not to think of Ralph, however.

  He saw Annyeke’s garden was bleak, but there was something lovely about it. The lemon tree didn’t have many leaves, but they were lush and deep green. He imagined fruiting would be some way distant. When did the spring-cycle arrive here? Apart from the tree, he could see a few herb bushes, all of them resting on pale yellow grass. Where he’d come from, the grass was green, so he didn’t know whether this was a sign of the recent battles or not. Had the wars affected the country here so much? Johan had said it had, but hadn’t explained in any detail.

  In fact, Johan hadn’t explained very much at all since Simon had last seen him, two day-cycles ago. Where was he?

  The scribe closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wood of the window frame. Johan. His cousin, newly discovered, and a man whose friendship he had come to enjoy without the need for anything more demanding. He’d experienced neither kinship nor friendship for a while, if at all, and he didn’t want to lose something before it had barely begun.

  So. He would have to talk to Johan, and the people out there, Annyeke and the boy Talus. It was time to face the world.

  As he reached for his tunic and cloak, lying freshly washed and folded where Annyeke had left them, the mind-cane hummed more loudly, spun forward and touched him. Its ebony coolness seared his mind. He recoiled with a gasp, willing it away from him. The cane receded a few paces but remained on the alert, as if waiting for another gap in his defences. He could feel the slow crimson of it oozing away from his thoughts. Odd how he hadn’t been that afraid during the moments when he’d touched it before on the journey here. He hadn’t even thought about it on the occasions when his blood, such as it was, was up. But now, in the spaciousness of relative peace, he had grown more wary than ever.

  Simon didn’t know what the cane might do to him if he allowed it a greater inroad into his soul. He dressed quickly, strengthening the barrier to his thoughts so the cane couldn’t spring through, though, of course, it was a ridiculous act. The mind-cane did whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted. It did not take its orders from the scribe. Simon slipped out of the curtained entrance and into the world beyond.

  The cane followed him but did not approach any nearer. And, thank all the gods and stars, its strange humming stopped. But, for how long?

  At his sudden appearance, Annyeke and Talus turned. Annyeke herself was a short, rounded woman with long red hair that she had tied this morning into a messy plait. Her fingers were white with flour from the bread she had been baking. Her smile, found in the instant she saw him, was wide and welcoming, but he could sense the troubles lying in her heart. The boy simply blinked and pushed his brown hair away from his face.

  For a moment, there was silence and Simon wondered which of the many apologies he owed them he should start with. But it was Talus who spoke first, staring curiously at the cane.

  “Is it going to kill us?”

  The scribe had no real idea. He understood quite well that the cane was capable of killing. What he didn’t know was whether it actually wanted to kill. He didn’t think he could say that to a seven-summers-old boy he’d only just met, when a woman’s voice in his head said: Be honest. We’ve had enough of words that are less than the truth here.

  Annyeke. The green essence of her drifted through his thoughts. Just like Johan (damn the man, but where was he?) she’d read him before he’d realised it. He wished he had that skill with them.

  He hunkered down so his eyes were at the same level as the boy’s. Something in Talus’ expression reminded him of Carthen…

  “I don’t know,” he said, in answer to Talus’ question. “The cane has the power to kill, yes, but so far, while I’ve been…sleeping, it’s left the three of us alone. I hope that blessing will continue. And I think…I think that if it does decide to kill anyone, that person will probably be me. In which case, it will give you and Annyeke time to escape.”

  The boy frowned for a moment or two and then nodded, as if Simon’s explanation made any kind of sense. Or perhaps Talus was simply being polite in the face of evident adult confusion? The scribe didn’t know and he wasn’t about to meddle in the mind of an unknown child to find out.

  Above them both, Annyeke smiled again. “That’s answered, then. So we may have a while to live yet. Talus, why don’t you go and see if there are any bush-herbs in the garden? I’d like to have something to flavour the soup with at midday. And besides the Lost…the scribe and I need to talk.”

  The boy sighed, gave Annyeke an accusing glance and left. The movement of the curtain brought a deeper shaft of sunlight into the eating area.

  Annyeke grimaced. “I’ll pay for that, but I needed to see you alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said, “for not communicating for two days. Thank you for your patience, and for letting me stay.”

  His companion nodded, but asked for no further explanations. He was glad of it. She sat down at the table, indicating he should do the same.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked, but he shook his head and gazed at his surroundings. Here in the eating area, simple glazed bowls scattered across the working surfaces, one of them filled with what looked like flour. A hunk of unbaked bread lay to one side. The fire in the oven warmed the air and another freshly baked loaf had been split up upon platters, some of which had already been eaten. He noticed the colours Annyeke had chosen for her surroundings—green and yellow—the same as he’d lived with in his sleeping area for the past two nights.

  It was then that he became aware of the atmosphere of calm around him, in spite of the mind-cane quivering at the edge of his vision. This feeling seemed to emanate instead from the stone walls around him. It gave him a sense of hope. When he glanced up, he saw she was smiling.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Gathandrian houses take on the mind-sets of those who live in them. I only wish I were that calm now. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry into your thoughts, but they were so clear.”

  The scribe wondered what the atmosphere of the place where he had lived back in Lammas might be. Cowardly and confused, no doubt. Little wonder she could read him so well.

  “No matter,” he said. “Johan does the same. Perhaps I’m an open scroll to all Gathandrians.”

  The mention of Johan’s name brought a slight blush to Annyeke’s face. A ripple of something from her mind drifted through his and, as if she’d suddenly shouted it, how things were with her became clear. Simon knew how love felt, and he re
ached out and patted her arm even as she was replying.

  “Even so,” she said, recovering her mental poise. “Even so, I should be more courteous. I’m not used to visitors, you see. And recently there’s been rather too much to think about, even for a woman.”

  The words were meant in jest, but Simon still nodded. He’d heard what the disgraced elders had said at Isabella Montfort’s burial, had an inkling of the kind of responsibility they’d given to Annyeke before they, like Johan, had vanished. It seemed beyond any one person’s capabilities. Now he could sense their presence in his companion’s mind, the facts of them almost overshadowing her, if such a thing were possible. Greatest of them all was the First Elder, the Day-Guardian of the Wine Lands, a man whom past sins and regrets had all but shattered. He had departed from the city to the distant place of healing where the cypress trees grew in abundance in order to try to save Gathandria with prayer. That much Simon could see, although he could not understand it. He had taken the remaining four elders with him, men skilled in glass-making, the carving of chairs, the nurture of gardens and parks, and one who knew the harmony of words and silence. They had gone together in order to meditate, leaving Annyeke alone. He did not envy her task.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  Annyeke leaned back on her stool and brushed her hand through her hair. The gesture caused some strands to escape from her plait and she frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what the elders meant, if I’m honest. Of course, we need to work together as a people, try to rebuild our strength and face Gelahn when he attacks us again. But if you ask me how in the gods’ names we’re going to do that, then I really don’t know. The elders left me no clues. But that doesn’t mean I won’t die trying, if I have to.”

  Watching the determination flicker over her face and feeling the bright echo of it in his mind, Simon thought perhaps the elders had known exactly what they were doing. It also surprised him that she would dare to mention the mind-executioner’s name. Hadn’t Johan warned him against doing so, since it apparently gave their enemy an entry to the mind and a chance to ravage them? It was obvious things in Gathandria were changing but, without any personal sense of the land’s history, the scribe had no understanding of how much, or how dangerous those changes might become. But, right now, there were more urgent issues to face.

  “I hope we won’t have to die,” he said. “I’m a scribe, not a soldier. I was hoping things might be easier once I was here in your lands, but I can see, already, that’s unlikely.”

  If Simon had expected the frisson of distaste he was accustomed to from Johan when he expressed something less than enthusiasm for an act of bravery, his expectations were not fulfilled.

  Annyeke laughed.

  She stretched forward, gripped his shoulder and opened her mouth to speak as the door to the outside world was pushed open and someone who wasn’t Talus stepped onto the threshold.

  Johan.

  First Lammas Lands Chronicle

  Ralph

  The castle of the Tregannons is no longer his home. He does not even need the gifting of a Sensitive to know this. Ralph’s few remaining guards mutter in the shadows and the stallholders have gone from the courtyard—the women, too. Not that he has taken a woman for many moon-cycles, nor any man neither, not since Simon the mind-dweller came to haunt him.

  Ralph thinks Simon saved him during the battle with the Gathandrians, but he cannot be sure. His hair is burnt, as is the skin on his arms and chest. His leg is twisted and cannot bear his whole weight. He doesn’t remember much about how this happened but perhaps that is for the best. It is certainly better not to think of the scribe at all, nor about what he himself has done. He must instead think of his people, the Lammas dwellers. Soon the mind-executioner will return and Ralph must be ready for him. The executioner and he have failed in their endeavours and he does not know what his enemy will do now, nor how he might want Ralph to help him.

  There is no other choice, but he has always known that. The mind-executioner’s hold on him is too great and Ralph will never be free of it. He gave up that freedom when he chose to save himself rather than Simon before the great and fruitless journey to Gathandria that has brought them only more pain and a despair he cannot shake.

  This morning, when the sun wakes him, Ralph finds a moment in the darkness of his mind when everything is as it should be. He is the Lord of these lands, his position is sacred and the decisions he has made over the past moons are mere fantasy and nothing but children’s terrors. That moment doesn’t last long, but it is precious beyond anything he has known.

  It has only been two days since the scribe sent Ralph back here. The thought of another day of inaction is too overwhelming, so he swings himself out of bed, reaches for the half-finished beaker of wine he left the night before, takes a long gulp of its sweetness and begins making the small series of decisions that will keep him alive through to the night, he hopes.

  All but stumbling over the remains of yesterday’s frugal supper of winter oranges and slivers of dried goat meat, Ralph flings open the carved wooden door and yells out into the corridor’s darkness.

  “Boy! Bring me my garments, and fresh water. I need to wash.”

  He closes the door without waiting for any response, limps across the bed area and gazes out of the window. The boy will come. He knows it. Since the death of Ralph’s former steward, only a handful of his personal servants remain with him. But how long they will stay, Ralph does not know. The first morning of his return here, his young dresser’s response was quick, startled, no doubt, by his Overlord’s unexpected return home. Yesterday, the boy had tarried and Ralph had been all but ready to shout for him again when he had arrived in the chambers, bearing the tunic and overshirt he is still wearing. The cloak lies discarded on the stone floor where Ralph had pushed it during his night-time thrashings. Sleep had been granted only with the wine he’d drunk. He should have punished the boy’s tardiness before, but the heart for it has gone.

  Now, Ralph wonders if he will bother coming at all. While he waits, he gazes out over the castle courtyard acknowledging, once again, its emptiness. Only a few moon-cycles ago, he would have seen a hubbub of bread-sellers, herb-dressers, beer- and mead-makers and the inevitable travelling story-tellers, all vying for the honour of being part of the evening tale-bearing. Simon, of course, had been one of these before Ralph had taken him into his employ, although he had sold his mind-skills secretly, as well as offering his talents with writing and herbal cures, a gift learned from his mother, Simon had once told him. Ralph hadn’t known then which of his skills he had meant. Now he’ll never know.

  The air drifts in, smelling of trees and the faint metallic sweat of the few soldiers lurking near the moat. They don’t see him and he makes no effort to command their attention. He has no orders to convey, though he must do so soon, before all his protection is lost. Ralph senses he will need it.

  The time for the beginning of one of Simon’s stories goes by before the boy arrives. Ralph would give the whole of his castle, lands and ancient privilege (though not, please the gods, its people) to know where the scribe is now and whether he is safe, but there is nobody here to whom he can offer such a prize, and none who would take it. Thus far he, Ralph Tregannon, has brought the Lammas Lands and all its lesser lords into disrepute.

  The boy knocks on the bed-chamber door and opens it without waiting for any command. When Ralph turns round from the window, the boy won’t look him in the eye. He’s only fifteen winter-cycles old and he’s been Ralph’s personal steward for two days now—a slight boy with pale blond hair and a limp which almost echoes his own. Ralph doesn’t even remember his name. As he thought, the boy is later than he was yesterday, but Ralph says nothing; he’s too young to be caught up in the middle of Lammas politics. Too young, also, to be forced to stay with a discredited Lord.

  “Why do you stay, boy?” The question is spoken aloud, even though Ralph had not realised he would do so, and the
boy starts, almost dropping the jug of water and basin he clutches under one arm.

  “My Lord,” he mutters, dodging past and placing the items on the side shelf. He is still carrying the bundle of clothing Ralph asked for. “Do…do you wish me to lay out your morning dress?”

  Words crowd Ralph’s mouth. So many questions he wishes to ask, but he cannot bear listening to the answers. He wants to ask again why the boy stays when there is no future here, or not one that bears any resemblance to the past they have known. He wants to ask where the other servants have gone and what they might be doing, if indeed they are still alive. He wants to ask if the boy imagines that the soldiers will be any defence against the mystery of whatever is to come upon them. Most of all though, he wants to ask if he thinks that Ralph’s presence here is more of a blessing than a curse.

  Of course, he asks none of these things. Not of a servant. Ralph’s father taught him well. Instead, he shakes his head.

  “No,” he says. “Leave them on the bed. I will dress myself today.”

  As he speaks, Ralph remembers the last time he made the decision to dress himself—the morning when Simon the Scribe first visited the castle.

  He brushes the memories aside as the boy nods a reply and leaves. He doesn’t look back.

  When he’s gone, Ralph fills the basin with the icy water and splashes it over his face. It knocks away his self-pity and makes his mind feel clear. He washes quickly and, as he dresses in plain clothes, Ralph thinks about what has happened and what might still.