Hallsfoot's Battle (4 page)

With a curse at his companion, Ralph turns
and speaks softly to the horse, threading his fingers through his
mane and holding him still. “Hush there, boy, hush. All will be
well, steady. You know me, Nightcloud, fiery one, don’t you? Yes
you do.”

Moments later, he is in the saddle. The
stallion trembles beneath him, and Ralph strokes his neck. The
contact there fills his mind with pictures of fire and wind, orange
and pure white and, with a gasp, he jerks his hand away. Since the
scribe helped him in secret to hone his thought-skills, Ralph’s
gifts as a Sensitive have grown stronger, even to the point of
sensing the emotions of the higher beasts, should he touch them. He
had almost forgotten it. Risking a glance at the groom, Ralph sees
he’s noticed nothing out of the ordinary and raises a prayer of
thanks to the gods and stars. It would be the worse for him if the
people discovered what he is. Mind-skills of any quality have been
punishable by death in the land for many years—that is why the
executioner came, ostensibly, at least.

Shaking such memories away, he wheels
Nightcloud out of the yard, and the horse trots over the unguarded
drawbridge, through the patches of marsh-cotton and starwort. Above
them the corn-crows circle, their sharp cry beating at the frosty
air. Outside his immediate home, Ralph kicks the grey into a gallop
and sets his head past the village for the woods.

It is only on a horse that he feels most
whole, something he doesn’t think Simon ever fully realised, for
all the scribe’s skills at reading him. Of course, with his
background of poverty and the need for constant flight, always on
foot, the opportunities for learning horsemanship never came to
Simon. Early on in their acquaintance, Ralph offered to teach him,
but he was unwilling. The gods know why. Now, as he gives
Nightcloud his head, and the village flashes by in a haze of green
and brown, Ralph would truly be nowhere else but here. The rich
smell of horseflesh, the rhythmic beat of hooves on earth, the feel
of the wind through his hair—all of this takes away the
difficulties he wrestles with and leaves them far behind for a
while. Not only that, but the ride helps him see things more
clearly.

They gallop through the woods, dodging the
thick-set branches of the old oaks and weaving their way with the
skill of the familiar through the ash and lichen-trees. Ralph can
tell Nightcloud remembers the touch of his hand and the nudge of
his heel now. The time for forgetfulness and inactivity is over. He
is glad, however, that he did not take him on the journey to
Gathandria. He could not have borne to lose such an animal. For the
moment riding feels like reclaiming a friend, perhaps the only one
Ralph has.

When they are through to the other side of
the woods, he pulls the stallion to a halt. As Ralph expects, he
tries to fight the command and maintain his gallop, but at the last
the Overlord is stronger-willed. He pats the horse’s neck once
more, whispers words of endearment and feels again the thrill of
Nightcloud’s colours in his mind. As he dismounts, looping the
reins over one arm and staring out at the mountains, the horse
whickers at him.

The mountains are not what they once were.
Since his return here, even the shape of the horizon has changed.
Where once the southern hills reared their mystery at the Lammas
outer boundaries where none dared go, now their height is shattered
as if a great rock from the sky has blasted them out of existence.
That, too, is surely the mind-executioner’s doing. It occurs to him
that each of the battles fought, and the damage caused on the
journey they took in pursuit of the scribe and the Gathandrians,
has had an echo here in the Lammas Lands also. Is that true for all
the lands then? If so, there must be some kind of link, however
fragile, between them all. The thought of that makes Ralph shiver
and he turns aside, reaching into his cloak for the packet he has
hidden there.

At the same time he is trying not to think of
it, forcing his mind to build its walls of defence as Simon taught
him. As distant from him as the mind-executioner is, Ralph is still
wary lest his enemy pick up the tenor of his thoughts. If he reads
them, Ralph has to hope that the executioner only understands the
broad stroke of his mind. As he brings the bundle out into the
morning light, Nightcloud snorts and tosses his head at him, but he
pulls back on the reins and whispers until the horse is soothed
again. It is impossible for him to know what Ralph is doing, but
Nightcloud must have picked up on his trepidation.

He opens what he is holding and the green
rocks catch the light. He dares not look at them too closely for
fear of what he might find there—the seven Tregannon emeralds. A
secret kept hidden through the generations for fear of mockery and
death, and something bequeathed to him from his father, and from
his father before him. And so on, until the annals of the past
disappear entirely when none can discover them. Their strength is
untested and Ralph is not sure precisely how their power is
fathomed. But he believes in their wisdom, the one faith he has
kept from boyhood, and he intends to rely on their help now.

Which is why, for the first time in many
year-cycles, he finds himself kneeling on the rough ground, out of
sight of all prying eyes, and whispering words of need and
desperation into their green clarity.

“Please, our family legends say you are the
key that unlocks our salvation and I have nowhere else to turn. I
do not know how to use you, but I am asking for your help to save
my people and this land. Please, give me a sign that I can know you
have heard me. And show me what to do.”

Ralph waits. For one heartbeat, and another,
and then another. Nothing happens, though he had not known what to
hope for. Still, he had expected rather more than clear sky and a
silence broken only by Nightcloud’s munching and the distant shriek
of a field-crow. A little more time drifts by before he struggles
to his feet, already cursing himself for his childishness and
feeling the unsteadiness of his leg again. Does he truly think a
mere legend can save them? This is real life and he cannot escape
it.

And already time has flown faster than Ralph
wished for. In the east, dark clouds threaten the sky’s deep peace
and his heart thuds a warning. Soon the men in the fields will
begin to prepare themselves for rain, perhaps a winter storm. They
will be wrong. Because his mind is humming with a sound that he
knows will soon reach an almost unbearable intensity. There is
little time. He must ride back while he still can. He must prepare
himself.

For before long his enemy will come on the
wings of the rain, from the ravaged mountains themselves. It is the
mind-executioner.

Chapter Two:
Decisions

Duncan Gelahn

The mountain cave seems darker now, if such a
thing were possible. The mountain people have flowed together in
their prison so their stone sides form what could have been a
barrier to his arts, if they had been stronger than he. The smell
of dust has become greater, almost overwhelming, and their tall
elongated stature is more jagged. Haunting. As Gelahn continues to
touch the mountain leader’s frame, a spark of stone travels up the
mind-executioner’s arm—a foolish gesture and one he quickly turns
back on his would-be assailant. With a shift of his thoughts, the
stone falls to the ground, tearing itself apart from the rock-flesh
of its owner. Duncan can feel the scream in his mind, but it does
not hurt him, even without the mind-cane.

The fact that the mountain has tried to harm
him, however, gives him the beginnings of an idea. Releasing the
mountain man who staggers back before all but disappearing into the
bodies of his companions, Duncan erects a mind-wall and pursues the
thought. Up to now, the pain he has used to control his enemies has
been based in his mind only. While he still possessed the
mind-cane, that power was more than enough. He shakes his head at
the memory. He will not dwell on the past, it is the future that is
important.

Equally important is that Hartstongue the
Scribe does not know how to harness that power. If he did, then by
now Duncan would be beyond death, drowning in the fires that never
go out. He snorts a laugh. Has he not already experienced something
of that in his former Gathandrian jail where the Elders chose to
keep him for so long? By the gods, he will never let that memory
go. It gives him strength, strength to fight and keep on fighting.
But if his mental powers are less, then why not utilise physical
prowess instead? Perhaps now is the time to take his battle into
the lands and bodies of men. Perhaps now is the season to begin to
build an army in the flesh, time to learn how to inflict physical,
as well as mental, pain.

He turns back to the mountain leader. He
smiles. Both of them have much to learn, and quickly.

Concentrating, he forms an axe in his mind,
feels the length and breadth of it, the stalwart wood of the handle
and the silver glimmer of the blade. He has not done this before,
he has never needed to and he remains unconvinced of its success.
But a story’s end-time later, the twin of the axe lies on the
stones at his feet. He can feel its weight against his torn shoe.
He picks it up and turns to his mountain companions.

“Come then,” he says. “Let us see what we can
discover together.”

Duncan discovers that mountain people can die
without the use of mental tricks, although the process is slower
and more exhausting. He also discovers that the stone-dwellers
never stop fighting back, and twice he has to pause in what he is
engaged in to rebuild the mind-wall that keeps them out. This would
have been unnecessary if he still had the cane but, in that case,
neither would he have required the axe. He will have to be careful
of his mind-skills now. The loss of the cane means he has to spend
more time refreshing his thoughts.

Finally the execution is complete. When the
mountain-leader is beyond even the healing of stone, Duncan lays
down his axe and slumps to the floor besides the ravaged being. The
high keening of the mountain assaults his ears and he wipes the
sweat from his face. Beyond the mind-wall’s protection, the dead
mountain leader’s companions are mourning, but after a while they
fall silent. As stone, he thinks to himself and laughs. They are as
silent as stone now. It is the mountain-dogs who continue to roam
in the shadows and growl.

He waits for his strength to return. Then he
gets to his feet, rips aside the mind-wall and steps out into the
stones’ dark grief.

“This,” he says, his voice rising like the
cry of the wolf on the hunt, “this is what will happen to you all
if Simon the Scribe is allowed to take on his power.”

As he speaks, he gestures at the fallen
stone-man, and even the mountain-dogs cease their frenzied pacing.
“For do you truly believe that you will be safe from a man who
cannot control the strength the mind-cane gives him? If he becomes
master of one-tenth of the power he dreams of, then you, the
mountain of the world, will no longer survive. He will blast you
out of existence and all your people and legends will be lost. The
death I have been forced to show you today will be multiplied
beyond all your imaginings and there will be nothing left for you.
Is that how you wish your future to be. Is it?”

He stares round at the solidity of them,
challenging them to act. But they will not fight him—how can they
when his strength is greater? They are not so foolish. Still, even
as he thinks that, at the edge of his vision Duncan catches a hint
of movement from the creature who had been closest to the leader.
He turns and stares in its direction and the whisper of rebellion
is quelled. Good. No, better—he can use such a fighting spirit in
the battles to come. It will be distilled into the heart of the
dogs.

When all continues quiet and no remaining
entity of the mountain attempts to move towards him, Duncan speaks
again and this time his voice is lower, more persuasive.

“I am sorry for what I had to do,” he
whispers. This is naturally a lie, but no matter. “But the time for
old leadership is over for you. Now you and your dogs will answer
to me and together we will win. The training we must go through
will be hard, but not fatal, I promise you. When we are ready, the
mountain people and I, the mind-enabler, will take up our places of
honour in the world once more. Then all will be as it should.”

Annyeke

As Johan stepped through her doorway, the
chill winter air swept in with him, scattering the dry remains of
Annyeke’s flour over the work surface. At the same time, Simon
rose, stepped to one side and gestured at the stool he’d vacated.
Annyeke simply stared at Johan. He looked as if he’d been awake for
many day-cycles, his blue eyes were dark with exhaustion and his
clothes were not the freshest; a faint smell of stale herbs and
sweat drifted around her and she stepped back, wrinkling her
nose.

“I’m sorry, I …” Johan began but Simon shook
his head, strode over to him and led him to the nearest seat while
Annyeke fetched bread. Even with her back turned she could sense
Johan’s colours, the very fact of him, easing through her
skin—sea-blue, aquamarine, sapphire.

“Don’t worry,” the scribe said when Johan
tried another feeble protest. “And don’t try to talk. You must
eat.”

Annyeke dropped two hunks of bread on a
platter and set it before Johan. He grimaced and she understood he
hadn’t actually eaten since his return to the great city. When she
gestured at him, brooking no refusal, he took a hesitant first bite
but then moaned and began to eat with gusto. Typical man, she
thought, they forgot to eat while their minds were elsewhere and
then valuable time was lost whilst they regained their strength.
When would they ever learn?