Hallsfoot's Battle

by Anne Brooke

  If he can force Tregannon to bring together the army he already has and to prepare them for war with his mind-tricks, then the most pressing problem left to Gelahn is how to transport them to the battle zone because the Gathandrians will not fight such a battle on anything but their own territories. That much is certain. Their ridiculous fear of damaging the people and lands of those “under their care” will prevent them from coming to him. He must go to them. Of course, in the city itself, their mind-power is stronger, but they will not have the advantage of trained fighting men.

  Gelahn blinks. His smile deepens.

  Why should the fighting men even need to be alive? He raised the desert people from the dead once before. Many in the Lammas Lands armies are dead also, but that is no reason why they cannot be part of his victory along with living men. To do that without the cane, however, he will need help, perhaps even from Gathandria. For a moment, the mind-executioner licks his lips and ponders. Then he remembers. Of course. Isabella was not the only woman whose mind he had trammelled and brought under his command in the great city. There is another, too, but it will be difficult, and the Gathandrian elders and the woman called Hallsfoot might not be slow in objecting if they find out. At the moment, they do not know anything, and the fact of his strange ally is something Gelahn is determined they will not discover.

  Still, the Gathandrian Elders do know two things. They know he will not accept defeat as the final answer, and they know he must use means other than mind-powers to continue the war. So. They will guess at some of his plans and will, in some respects, be right. They, too, will be preparing for physical onslaught. Therefore, Tregannon’s battle preparations must be speedy and precise, as the greatest advantage and the greatest demand of all will be time.

  By the end of this week-cycle, they must be on their way to Gathandria. But how to get them there? The Kingdoms of Earth, Air, Fire and Water are not tackled lightly, no matter how barren and weak the first of them is now. He must meditate on the problem. Yes, that will be best. He needs to hone his mind-skills in any case, keep them the sharpest they can be. Without the mind-cane, he must take care of such things himself.

  He shuts his eyes and lets his mind stretch out. It fills his very being until, with just one small pace, he could almost be only thought itself. No flesh. It is the state he strives for, the body bringing only pain. Gelahn’s mind is different from all Gathandrians, the people he has disowned and who have disowned him in return. It has always been so; if he believed in legends other than the ones he himself creates, he would say that it has been written that way. But that is not true, not for him. The mind-executioner makes his own fate. He is master of his days.

  What he thinks is wrapped in darkness. From earliest childhood, Gelahn has held no mind-space, no special place as others have. The few times he tried to create a mind-world in which he could be himself, it was quickly destroyed by his discontent. It is this ability that sets him apart from others; it gave him his vocation.

  In the darkness, he is most truly himself and most powerfully alone. The aloneness shifts around him like velvet but remains as strong as the earth. It hides nothing, though within it lie flashes of red and gold and another kind of brightness he has never interpreted. He has no wish to. He has never needed it. Indeed it is a truth known only to a few that, for power and mind-knowledge to grow and mature, some mysteries must be left untrammelled. For now, he relaxes, allowing himself to float free in the emptiness and at the same time permitting it to consume him.

  He meditates on the dark for as long as he is able to, though time-cycles are meaningless in the world he finds himself in. Then, when he is ready, he begins to call back his mind to its moorings, preparing himself for life in the body again. As this returning takes place, the flashes in the darkness become more frequent but, of course, he is used to that. Grateful to them also, for allowing his physical form to reorientate itself.

  This time, however, something is different. Amongst the streaks of gold and red, the mysterious brightness is stronger, like a door to another world beyond the dark he is accustomed to. Strange how it almost calls to him. How real it seems. How real and how close. Without knowing it, he reaches out to the flashes of light and, for a moment, here in Tregannon’s home, it is almost as if he has a choice and his heart beats faster before the darkness plunges in to him once more.

  No, he is being foolish. It is the unfamiliarity of this room and his new mission that has unsteadied him. And, of course, he forgets that there is no choice. There has never been one. From the moment the elders (may they ever be cursed) imprisoned him in the cage of terrors in Gathandria’s hidden library so many year-cycles ago, Gelahn has sworn that he will live by the dark, not by the light. The dark has been good to him and he will not abandon it now. It is in the dark where kindness and courage and justice are found—the light brings only cruelty and weakness and anger. He will cleave to the dark still, understanding that success comes only through pain and misery. When he has won, that will be the time to begin healing the lands, to bring them into harmony with his wishes and desires. Until then, he will use what he can to achieve what he wants, no matter who else will suffer. Set against the final vision, no other but himself has meaning. That is the way of the dark. It is his way.

  As these thoughts crowd his mind with orange and red and black flames, it is then that the partial solution to the problem of journeying to Gathandria leaps up at him.

  Of course. The mountain-dogs. He cannot yet see exactly how they can help him, but he knows they will. It will be made clear when the time is right. For now, the fear of unbalancing the already fragile mind-set of the Lammas Overlord has persuaded Gelahn to keep them leashed and invisible since their arrival at Tregannon’s castle. It had been enough to show them briefly in the courtyard in order to terrify the people into obedience. No need to overcook the field calf, indeed—a Lammas saying, but one Gelahn enjoys. After all, if you plan to destroy a people, why take the language with you?

  The mind-executioner peels back his thoughts to where the mountain dogs lurk. Stretching out his hand, he focuses himself until green and black flashes leap from his fingers. With each strange flash, a wild dog is set free and howls its new-found liberty to the waiting air. Grey and sleek like the mountain they came from, with fierce red eyes. Gelahn allows them to come, faster and faster. It doesn’t matter if he lets them all loose here in this room. They fade and vanish into the walls, the bed, the chair, before shimmering into physical form again. From the ruined mountain, he can conjure up a thousand if he so wishes. The howling, wild sound of them is no barrier, his mind is protected against their baying. It is the people beyond these thick walls who will reap the pain and fear of their presence. He laughs to imagine what Tregannon and his servants are thinking. Let them tremble, let them sweat and cry to think he might release the terror and death of the dogs onto these poor fools. It is best for slaves and women to live in fear.

  At the memory of women once more, he grimaces but pulls the regret up sharply before it can interfere with his mind-magic. Isabella. He is sorry she is truly dead. A part of him enjoyed her company. If she had lived, she might have been his match, with her wiles, her grief and her rage; nonetheless, the other will have to suffice.

  Simon the Scribe will pay for that deed, as he must pay for so many.

  A time and a time later, when the dogs are quieter and are waiting for his command, Gelahn hunkers down and reaches out to touch the nearest of them in his thoughts. It backs away, snarling, bloodied teeth glowing crimson even in daylight and dark eyes gleaming. But it doesn’t attack. They will never attack the one who made them live.

  “You are wild dogs of the mind,” he whispers. “That is where you dwell. But be patient, for soon you will live in the flesh more fully, also. Then your revenge and mine will be complete.”

  Ralph

  The moment the mind-executioner has commandeered Ralph’s room for his own personal use, the Overlord hobbles down the passageways of
his half destroyed home, determined to reach Apolyon and the emeralds before Gelahn can discover him first. He hopes the boy has obeyed his instructions about placing them in the secret library for safety. He hopes, also, that he has fled and is no longer hidden next to what is now the mind-executioner’s bedroom, for surely Gelahn will read the boy’s fears and discover him if he is there.

  Ralph’s mind is still trembling at the fact that Gelahn has not been able to uncover his thoughts. The protection of the emeralds must be strong indeed, but already that green glow he can sense but not hold onto is fading. Perhaps it will prove enough to protect the boy, too? He cannot tell.

  As he walks, the walls around him seem to grow darker, something he has noticed in the presence of Gelahn before. There is a dank smell from the stonework, and the remaining tapestries not destroyed by the mind-battles appear thinner, less vibrant. His footsteps echo in the sudden eerie silence. Even in the main hallway, where the north wall is jagged and in places lets through the sunlight, the one remaining tapestry—a depiction of summer—hangs uneven today, the girl’s bright hair ripped across the needlework.

  The mind-executioner’s arrival still continues to work its dark magic then. Unsurprising how none of Ralph’s servants have returned and even the castle dogs are barely whimpering, refusing to acknowledge him as he passes. Perhaps they feel betrayed. And, so far, he has done nothing to defend against that unspoken accusation.

  He must find the boy.

  Stumbling out into the deserted courtyard, Ralph glances up at the window of the master bedroom, but sees nothing untoward. For a heartbeat of time-cycle, he wonders if it might be worth building a defence to his mind, just in case Gelahn should think to plunder him, but he dismisses such a foolhardy plan. Ralph cannot keep himself safe from him, not by his own power. Foolish to even try, as such an act would only alert the mind-executioner to a threat. The emeralds have somehow kept him safe, thus far. He must rely on the gods and stars, and luck, for the rest.

  As he turns the corner towards the hidden doorway that leads to the library, it begins to rain and the wounds in Ralph’s leg throb harder. The onset of winter. If Gelahn wishes to train the soldiers to fight, then he has chosen the worst season for it. When the winds and storms attack from the mountains, what little mountains there are left now, there is nothing the people can do but shiver and try to stay indoors. Nevertheless, the executioner has spoken and there is nothing for it but to obey. Even without the mind-cane, his powers are far greater than anything Ralph has ever known. Sometimes he wonders how his enemy has honed them and what has happened to incite him to do so. Gelahn never speaks of it, and Ralph is loath to raise the subject. He has done enough meddling in men’s minds for one lifetime. He wishes no more of it, no matter where his skills lie. It is already too much of a challenge to control his own wants.

  So, even in the bitterest season they have in Lammas, Gelahn will see the army trained to fight the battle he plans for. Ralph will do his best to see his people survive. After all, there is little hope that they will reach Gathandria to fight; even the mind-executioner’s powers cannot magic them there without the cane. It is a hopeless mission.

  Realising this, Ralph smiles before catching the distant sound of the mountain dogs. Shaking, he swings round, eyes darting left and right to ascertain the approach of danger with his hands clasped into fists. While the howling continues, he remains alert, ready to jump and run in any direction, though where he might find any refuge from those murderous hounds he does not know. Nothing happens, although the baying goes on, and he starts to breathe more steadily again. Gelahn must have the dogs trapped somewhere. He is using them as some kind of threat. No more—for now.

  The rain causes the hair to stick to his face and melds his tunic to his body, but Ralph resumes the search. Checking that nobody else is around, it is a matter of moments to reach through the winter jasmine bush and press his fingers onto the fourth stone in height three stones from the corner. It gives easily and the darkness within lurks like a warning. As if he has not had enough of warnings already. He shuts his eyes and concentrates, trying to ignore the rain, and always the sense of time and power slipping through his grasp.

  He imagines the narrow passageway ahead, cobwebs hanging from dank corners and the feel of small cobbles underfoot. He doesn’t enter it though—he is afraid that, if he does, then Gelahn will sense Ralph’s arrival so near to where he has demanded to stay. So he allows the half-skills of his mind to float along the familiar route, alert for anything unfamiliar there, anything living.

  He senses nothing. The boy, Apolyon, is not there. He must have fled to the bridge where Ralph had told him to seek refuge. The Overlord does not have the heart to blame him, though he wishes now that he’d told him to take the emeralds. If he has obeyed his master’s foolishness and they are still in the library, then they will have to be rescued at another time, somehow. Or, perhaps, they are safer there after all? He cannot tell and, in any case, it doesn’t matter. For now, Ralph must seek the boy.

  Pulling the stone door back into its wall, the slight scrape seems to echo even in his thoughts and he scans the courtyard again. No sign of life. He remains undiscovered yet. Wishing he’d brought his cloak, he hunches down and limps as quickly as possible in the rain along the yard and over the bridge. His feet slip once on the mud, but he recovers himself before falling. The guardhouse stands empty, as it has done since his return. There is nothing left to guard against. The darkness and death they fear lives in their midst.

  In the fields beyond, he can see, or sense, no movement though, of course, his mind-skills are worse than useless in such an open environment. Ralph needs rooms and people to use his understanding to its full capacity.

  Keeping to the hedges, he makes his way towards the woods, calling Apolyon’s name softly as he trudges through mud and grass and corn stubble. It is suddenly vitally important that the boy be safe; Ralph cannot rest until he knows for sure that he is not in immediate danger. He is Ralph’s only ally, and that reluctantly, but the Overlord hopes the heart of his concern is more than mere self-interest. The boy is one of his people and there is much he owes them all.

  The woods are silent in the rain. No hunting owl shrieks its cry of triumph to dark skies. He hurries along the outskirts, heartbeat quickening. Where is the boy? Of course, he may simply have fled and Ralph will not see him again. Strangely, the thought of that draws sorrow to his throat and he blinks.

  It is then that his foot hits something soft on the earth and he falls to his knees in mud and bracken.

  A small voice cries out and at once he knows it is Apolyon.

  “M-my lord,” he stutters, but Ralph hushes him. Something in the Overlord’s mind has already felt a pain that is not his own, but when he draws away that contact is lost.

  “Are you injured?”

  “No. I th-thought you were…”

  He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. His fear of their unwelcome guest is obvious. “No matter. Did you hide the emeralds?”

  “Yes, my lord. I found the book. Then I was frightened, so I ran.”

  The simplicity of his reply cuts through Ralph’s frisson of disappointment. The boy did only what he ordered him to, after all.

  “Well done,” he says and in the gloom Ralph can see the glitter in his eyes at the words. He does not remember thanking a servant before. The experience is not unpleasant. Such a weakness would have earned Ralph the back of his father’s hand, if he had been alive to show his displeasure. He is not though, is he?

  Shaking his head to clear it, Ralph gets to his feet, wiping the mud from his breeches as best he can.

  “I—We—must get out of this rain, and back to the castle. My guest will be waiting.” It strikes him that it would be nothing less than cruel not to see to Apolyon’s safety also, but Ralph finds himself uncertain as to how begin such a conversation. Generations of lordship in these lands lie weighty on his shoulders. “Are...Are you fit to walk?”


  Apolyon nods and struggles to his feet. Again, Ralph should help him, but he doesn’t know how. Side by side but not touching, they begin the journey back home. With the boy’s limp and his own, they are like two wounded deer together, but after two steps Ralph realises there is something more. Without physical contact—an act that would be shameful to both of them—he cannot tell what it is.

  They take one further step together and the boy breathes in sharply, as if the mud and the rain and the field are beyond his ability to traverse. With a quick but heartfelt oath in his mother’s tongue at what his father taught him, Ralph reaches out his hand and brushes Apolyon’s shoulder briefly. The lad flinches and cries out, but it is enough for Ralph to sense what he needs to.

  “The pain in your leg is more than you are accustomed to? You fell?”

  His hesitation is obvious, but he is honour bound to answer. “Y-yes, my lord.”

  Ralph has to lean forward to hear him, by which time the decision is made. “Come then, we will travel to shelter more quickly if I carry you.”

  Without waiting for any kind of response, though Ralph already knows what that will be, he grasps the boy’s shoulders and knees and swings him up into the air so his thin face is level with his master’s chest. The boy is as light as if he were carrying air.

  “No, my lord, no, p-please, it is not…you cannot…”

  “I am the Lord of the Lammas Lands and therefore may do as I will. So be quiet and we will be the sooner at the castle.” Even as he speaks the words, the truth falls well short of them, but it has the desired effect of stopping Apolyon’s protest and they slowly travel the rest of the way in silence.

  It is only as they cross the sodden bridge into the courtyard again that Ralph realises he does not know where to take him. By the gods and stars, he has come this far in his casual flinging-off of Lammas convention, and he cannot bring himself to ask his servant such a question. It would be too great an intimacy and his feet slow, almost stumbling once more.