Hallsfoot's Battle

by Anne Brooke

  Look at what you see, Simon. Understand the truth it tells you.

  He could see flashes of black, leaping towards him and then vanishing away. Within the black lay glimpses of silver and he knew then what he saw—Gelahn’s knowledge of the cane.

  How can I know this is real? he asked. It is your mind and you can show me what you choose.

  Then take hold of it and see, came the reply. Here, it will not harm you. The cane is not physical, but in my memory alone. Take it and trust your own understanding.

  Simon stepped forward and found himself held in the power of Gelahn’s protection. The realisation made him blink. An instant later, another black and silver flash of thought. He reached out, grasped it and, for a moment more out of time, he felt all the power in the world, known and unknown, spark through his fingers. It made him fly with the birds over the mountain top, and burrow deep into the hot earth with the bones of those who had died. It was all the colours he had ever seen, red, blue, gold, green, purple, black and silver, and all the sounds he had ever heard, from the crying of a child to the last breath of a dying man. In that heartbeat, he understood the power of the cane, knew Gelahn’s grief at the losing of it, and the way he himself had been scarred for his thoughtless use of its mysteries. No matter that the cane had, for its own fathomless reasons, sought him out and chosen him—his use of it before he was ready had shown him as wanting. He was being punished for his foolhardiness, but for how long? And what exactly was the punishment?

  With a cry, he flung the black memories away. The thought-world around him swung violently and he fell, down and down until the air was forced from his lungs and he could no longer breathe.

  He came to himself, panting and gasping, back in Gelahn’s family home. The mind-executioner still held his fingers so he snatched them away. His own thoughts were already too torn and wild; he did not wish them to be at the mercy of an unfamiliar power.

  “On the contrary, Simon, I could help you calm yourself,” Gelahn said. “I could help you order those thoughts beating at your skin even now, if you allow me.”

  “Let me be.”

  “As you wish.”

  The mind-executioner waited until Simon sat down. The scribe found he was gasping, shattered by the experience he had just been granted, unable to weigh it and allow the sense of it to flow, but knowing the truth of what Gelahn had said, the truth of what he was now saying.

  “So you see it at last,” the executioner’s voice was low, almost gentle but insistent. “The mind-cane seeks you, but you are too weak to bond with it, too weak to become more fully yourself, which is the gift it offers you. But I know its energies and how they can be wielded for the greater good. Now you see it, Simon. Together, and with the help of the cane, the two of us can form a mind-union that will free the people of every country, Gathandria, Lammas, the White Lands, and all their neighbours, to be what the Spirit intended. So then, what do you say? Though, after what you have seen in me, you have no choice, do you?”

  As he continued to struggle for breath, Simon grimaced, pointing out what surely must be obvious. “Yes, I-I understand what you say. But n-neither of us possesses the cane any longer. So your…your plan is flawed from the outset.”

  “Now that’s where you are wrong, my friend,” Gelahn replied. “Because, in fact, the artefact that will see us as the victors in this game is even now approaching.”

  Duncan Gelahn

  Even as he speaks his words of impending triumph to Simon, the mind-executioner knows in his blood that the snow-raven is near and, with it, the source of all power. The balance of success is changing, and faster than he anticipated.

  “Come,” he says. “Look upwards.”

  As the scribe lifts his head, the ceiling above them both dissolves. The walls shimmer and vanish, taking with them the table, the shelves, the chairs. Only the two Gathandrians are left, standing now in a vast expanse of blue.

  “What happened to the house?” Simon asks. “Is this truly the sky?”

  “A measure of it, perhaps,” Gelahn replies, “and something your snow-raven brings.”

  The scribe starts and swings round, his gaze darting upwards into the air. A white wave of mixed joy and relief flows from him through Gelahn, making him smile. The innocent knows so little of what is truly expected of him; taking his unplumbed knowledge will be easier than anticipated. After this, the glory will be his. For the raven has not been able to deny the undercurrent of darkness to the Lost One’s call. In spite of all, the bird has come.

  “Look,” Simon cries out, stepping forward, his chest rising and falling with his every breath. “There!”

  The snow-raven is at first nothing more than a flash of white against a blue and white sky, a brighter colour than the clouds, with a dark stripe crossing the shape of the bird leading the way. The sight of this makes Gelahn smile again. In less time than it takes to begin a winter story, the snow-raven is circling above them. Music hums in the space between the men and the bird, the mystical song of the cane. Its colours are neutral. It is waiting.

  The scribe turns, watching the raven. He has raised his arms towards the arc of its flight but when it descends no lower, he brings them to his side again.

  “Why doesn’t it come nearer?” he whispers, and Gelahn hears him in his mind as clear as sunlight.

  He answers directly to the Lost One’s thoughts. Both cane and bird wait for your decision, Simon.

  At once, darkness fills the scribe’s mind. He turns back and gazes at Gelahn. On his face is such seriousness, such concentration that the mind-executioner has never seen on him before.

  They wait for me to answer yes or no to joining with you to save Gathandria in a different way? Simon asks.

  Gelahn nods.

  Simon shuts his eyes for a moment and sighs. So, if I say no?

  The snow-raven will return to Gathandria without us, taking the mind-cane with him.

  And if I say yes?

  Then bird and cane will be ours, to use in a manner that pleases us both.

  As he speaks the thought-words, Gelahn grants the Lost One access to his mind so Simon may understand the heart-beliefs he, the executioner, holds. He senses the scribe’s presence but chooses not to frighten him by reading his responses. Of course, he only allows him to see so far. The victory of agreement is so near and he is once more loath to lose it.

  Finally, after a length of time even the mind-executioner cannot fully measure, the Lost One withdraws. The two Gathandrians gaze at each other. Then, as the raven still circles above, Simon breaks the impasse.

  “Then I have no choice,” he says aloud. “I must join with you and come what may.”

  “Your decision is a wise one, my friend. Now we can take control of what is rightly ours and make it what it should be.”

  With that, the snow-raven plunges downwards, lands between himself and the scribe. The mind-cane drops from its beak and those great white wings fold into its body. Both Gelahn and the Lost One step forward, place one hand on the cane, feel its power, all the futures it could bring.

  Although he senses the scribe’s every mood, has an unalterable link to him now, he is almost surprised when Simon seizes his tunic with his free hand and searches his thoughts as if looking for something he fears.

  “What you say,” the scribe murmurs, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, “will surely bring death to many. It will start a fire that may never be put out. We meddle with things too strong for any of us.”

  “No,” Gelahn breathes, glancing down at the cane he holds. “This is the artefact that will end all wars. And tomorrow we will use it, for its time is now.”

  Chapter Eight: Of manuscripts and men

  Annyeke

  The death of the great Library and the destruction that lay as far as her eye could see darkened the vast expanse of naked sky and sent a chill into the air that made her shiver, and go on shivering. Her feet rested on solid earth, but Annyeke had never felt so little connected to its stre
ngth. Beyond that, she could feel the great wave of despair coming not only from the menfolk immediately around her, but from the crowds of people she could see in the vicinity of the ruined Library, and those she could not.

  They had never expected the physical battle for Gathandria would begin in this way. She, more than anyone, had assumed that the executioner would come to them from the Lammas Lands, bringing with him the armies of Ralph Tregannon. Their enemies’ strength and experience would be more than a match for their own uncertain use of the mind-cane. So why start with the Library, and how?

  She sighed. When she considered it, the answer to the first question was obvious, because it darkened their minds and sent hope plummeting to the soil. The only real issues were why play such games with them when Gelahn’s victory was all but certain, and how had he achieved it, anyway?

  There was more going on here than she could see, and the mystery made her skin grow colder and thoughts swirl like night-mists in her mind. What was the executioner really up to? This puzzle had lodged itself in her blood since the return of Johan to the city, bringing the scribe with him. It came with the cloak of responsibility that the First Elder had handed to her.

  Annyeke was sick of it.

  She was sick of trying to shadow-guess the mind-executioner, of the uncertainty of what might happen next, and of the ill-fitting role she couldn’t perform. It was time for something different.

  “I’ve had enough,” she said, not even realising she was going to say the thought out loud.

  Johan’s eyebrow rose and his grip on her young charge tightened. “So have we all, Annyeke. We are all near the end of ability to hope.”

  Even in the midst of the river-changes flowing through her blood, she could almost smile. She could still rely on Johan to say what was true rather than what was comforting then. Some things never altered.

  “No,” she replied. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that ever since I became Acting Elder, I have tried to do too much in the way it was done before, in the way we expected things to unfold. But the mind-executioner has not yet attacked us with his armies, Simon has not understood the mind-cane’s power, and now, in any case, he has gone, and the Library is no more. It is time to try a different path.”

  “How, Annyeke?” This from Talus, and in such a tone as opened up the possibilities rather than prevented them. Indeed, how she loved him for that.

  As she answered, the words came from a place within that she did not know existed.

  “The battle,” she said, “is not Gathandria’s, nor the elders’, nor indeed Gelahn’s. The battle is mine. This time we will fight it, not according to the mind-executioner’s wish, nor as tradition or even as the elders advise. We will fight it in the way my own wisdom guides me and we will fight it first.”

  “How?” Johan asked.

  She smiled.

  “We will call him to us,” she said.

  Something light and powerful passed through Johan’s mind that she could not comprehend, but it made her shivering cease. He blinked.

  “Isn’t that too dangerous?” he asked.

  Annyeke flung out her arm to indicate the scenes of devastation in which they stood. “And you think all this is not dangerous, Johan?”

  After a moment, he smiled. And still that something else slipped from her grasp. What was it?

  “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “We have suffered too much while we wait for the executioner to come to us.”

  Annyeke nodded. She gestured for several of the Gathandrians nearest to them and gave them orders to take the First Elder and Talus to a place of safety if one could be found. Talus objected, but she shushed him with a touch of her hand and he left, grumbling, hand in hand with a woman she thought she knew from the old theatre. Three Gathandrian men carried away the injured Elder. The women fussed around them, tiny sparks of mauve and gold flying from their skin, the colours of compassion. One of them was Iffenia, the Second Elder’s wife, but that was good. A woman to be trusted, Annyeke thought.

  As soon as the remaining wounded and children had been cared for as much as was possible, she turned to Johan. Gazing at him, she felt all the words she wanted so much to say dancing in her thoughts. She should ask him about the little battle training he and Talus might have managed to impart to the people in spite of the sense of failure she had already gleaned from him, but she could not. For a moment, she once more sensed something she couldn’t interpret, a gift she wasn’t expecting, but then, just as suddenly, it was withdrawn. Perhaps it had never been there at all. What in the gods’ and stars’ names was going on?

  She pulled her feelings back before she said anything foolish. Her heart was beating fast and her skin felt too hot. Now was not the time for emotion of any sort. Now was a time for clear, concerted action.

  She stepped away from Johan, the tendrils of his puzzlement clinging to her skin. She tracked her mind into the waiting air so her thought-words would be clear to everyone.

  It is the stories, she said. It is the stories that bring destruction and healing, that give life and take it away. It is the Great Library that has proved an entry point for our enemy. I do not yet know how this has happened, but rest assured I will discover the reasons for it. For now, we see the chaos his presence has brought amongst us here today. The Library is gone but the stories are not. We must grieve, but we must also hope. For our tales lie here around us, in the scattered scraps of parchment and manuscript the flames have not burnt away. They lie also in our memories and in our minds. Let us then use our stories to draw out the mind-executioner. Let us tell them to ourselves, to each other, and to our land and let Gelahn hear all our words, so he cannot deny the power of them. For why should we wait for a time that someone else will choose when we have the gift of making our own choice? Indeed, when we have finished with the tales that we know, let us start with those we hold within ourselves, the stories known only to our private minds. For it is in connection that we grow stronger, it is in our stories that we are most truly ourselves.

  There was more she wanted to say. But she knew the words would flow through the minds of the people of the city and there needed to be space and time enough for them to respond. So she waited.

  In the silence, she felt the touch of Johan’s hand on her shoulder and smiled her thanks at this small comfort. For Annyeke knew what she asked of the people was more than had ever been asked of them in all the generation-cycles of their history that had come before, more, indeed, than she had asked them to give her in her first words to them as Acting Elder. She was asking them to bring trouble to the land when for all their lives they had been lovers of peace, and when they were not ready for it. But when would they ever be prepared for what was to come? The truth of it pierced her as the sun pierces the morning mist at the time of the wine harvest. Perhaps all they could do was choose the timing. And, by the gods and stars and her own ingenuity, such as it was, she would do her utmost to ensure that was enough, or die trying.

  Even as these thoughts entered her blood, she could sense the gathering of the people’s response, more quickly than she had anticipated. At first, it was a slight trickle and then each answer gathered up another and another and another, singing their small streams into a mighty flood, greater and more powerful, and with such a depth of colour, green and yellow and blue, than she could ever have imagined.

  Annyeke opened her arms wide to receive the offering of the people, although the physical form of it was as light and insubstantial as a prayer. In her mind, however, its weight was vast.

  One thing then she knew—the act would have to be performed with temperance and with a steady heart, for the answer, in the end, was yes.

  Sixth Lammas Lands Chronicle

  Ralph

  The howling of the dogs comes ever nearer. The kitchen-area is filled with dread. He can sense the dark shifting colours of it emanating from the cook, her husband and the boy—black, purple, brown.

  Ralph pushes the boy towards Jemelda and at the
same time reaches for the pouch of emeralds she still holds.

  “Look after Apolyon,” he snaps out the words like small knives, and drops one of the precious jewels back into her palm. “This emerald will help protect you.”

  “My lord, where are you going? You can’t…”

  He pays her no heed. Already he’s pulling the curtain aside and half stumbling into the courtyard, ignoring the pain in his leg and still clutching the emeralds, hoping they might save him as he tries to draw the executioner’s dogs away, not knowing if they will. The icy air bites his skin and, pointlessly, he understands that today the snows will start for certain. The battle will be all the more bitter because of it.

  The dark howling of the dogs assaults all Ralph’s senses—not just his ears, but his mind also. He does not know if he can contain the noise. It brings with it madness and a strange self-destructive path he does not want to choose. And without warning, just when he thinks he can bear it no more, the wild barking rises to another level and he sees the first of them appear around the corner of the castle.

  The lead hound’s black shape ripples as it runs towards him, as if its very form is bleeding into the air or arriving from another element. Its teeth are bared and its red eyes are a fiery contrast to the dark. Ralph knows it has scented him. He does the only thing he can think of. He runs—away from the kitchen-area and towards the village. He sees the well in his mind and he flees to it.

  Impossible to get there. Whether sound of limb or not, he cannot outrun the hunger of Gelahn’s dogs. But at least they are chasing him, the whole pack of them. If they continue to do that, they will not harm those left in the castle, those supposedly under Ralph’s care. Sharp stones pierce the thin leather on his feet as he races over the courtyard slabs to the bridge. The guard’s post is abandoned; none care now who leaves or who enters his domain, or what was once his domain.