Hallsfoot's Battle

by Anne Brooke

  “It’s too late. You can’t help him.”

  In her arms, Talus was sobbing. She should never have agreed to Johan’s request. Again too late; behind them flame caught at her door, blocking their escape.

  If they couldn’t go back, they would have to go forward. Her people needed her to do something.

  Come on.

  She picked Talus up and began to run, towards the library, not needing to look back to know that Johan would be following her. With each step, she sent out one word and one word only from her mind: Fight.

  She hoped the people would take courage from that. She hoped they would pay her some heed. They mustn’t let the mind-fire overcome them, nor the terrible fact of where it came from. If they did, all would be lost. Still imprisoned in her grip, Talus squirmed but she refused to let him go. She had sworn to herself to protect him; she would keep that promise until no breath remained in her.

  The streets were full of cries and heat. Twice, an arrow of flame came close enough to singe her hair and blister her arm, but she caught at the pain and swallowed it down before it could destroy her. Fight. Fight. Fight.

  At the corner of the street where the great Library stood, the heat drove her back. She could go no further. With a cry of despair, Annyeke crushed Talus into Johan’s arms and turned to continue her onward path, but the boy snatched at her hair and screamed.

  “No, Annyeke, please.”

  It’s too dangerous; you can’t go, Johan’s voice broke into her thoughts as if they’d been waiting for a chance to be heard. A pause, then: we need you, Annyeke. We—I need you here.

  When she looked at him, his face was as open and vulnerable as she’d ever seen it. All the sense of pride, of his own separate identity and the need to hold to it, even his innate jaggedness was gone. He simply held the boy as if she’d offered him a precious gift he had no right to accept and shouted so he could be heard above the roar of the flames, “Don’t go any nearer, Annyeke! You’ll die.”

  Duncan Gelahn

  In the Great Library of Gathandria, the snow-raven lets forth a cry the mind-executioner has never heard any snow-raven give before. The notes have no harmony and, when they take physical form in front of him, they are not perfect orbs, but have sharp edges, frayed in all the shades of blood, winter earth and night.

  Duncan laughs. His hand grasps the book of the story that must have brought him here. Who knows how? He is a wolf amongst mere birds who, like Simon, are feather-torn, unable to fly. He will ravage them and make the lands his own.

  The mind-cane lies between himself and the scribe. Duncan moves first. He is, as ever, more prepared for the hunt. He lunges towards the cane. A heartbeat later, the Lost One leaps forward and reaches for it, also.

  At the same time the notes from the raven’s discordant song turn in the dusty air and become claws and deadly beaks to wound and to kill. One of them dances across Duncan’s face and gashes blood from his flesh. He screams. The Lost One cries out also and twists sideways in mid-air, landing sprawled across the ground. The second note narrowly misses the scribe’s arm.

  Just as suddenly, the bird is in flight. The mind-executioner’s fingers touch the ebony cane. So near to having it. So near. But the raven plunges between Simon and himself, the adamantine strength of its wings beating away Duncan’s desperate grasp. As darkness sweeps over the executioner once more, the bird snatches up the cane in its beak and bears it upwards, upwards, through the open roof of the Library and into the freedom of air.

  His fruitless scream rises and fades away. At the same time, fire tracks from the cane the raven carries. Its crimson talon falls to the earth beneath and the Library is engulfed in a scarlet roar which somehow fails to kill them. Instead, they are, for the moment, held safe in a circle of blue while the fire rages round them.

  He had not expected to feel the King of the Air’s anger and the harshness of his wing. It is because of this and this alone that the mind-executioner stumbles. It is because of this that the mind-cane is lost to him once more.

  Too late to curse the gods in the fire. For, in spite of the heat and terror, the scribe, for all his foolishness, is upon him in an instant. The weight of the Lost One’s body knocks Duncan to the floor and he struggles for breath.

  Nausea at the man’s closeness prickles at the executioner’s tongue. He is not accustomed to such unlooked-for contact. For many year-cycles, he has lived only in his mind. The elders’ cage taught him that. With a twist of his body, he frees his arm and brings his hand up to the Lost One’s throat. He could kill him, even without the cane. But that would be in the body only; the coward’s mind would still be free. Not only that, but such a death would unite the Gathandrians against him and the land would never be his. He should have killed Simon before he came to the city. He knows that now. The Gathandrians have chosen to believe this man, a murderer and a traitor, might be their saviour, and everything has changed.

  Duncan moves his hand upwards, clamps his fingers on the scribe’s forehead and penetrates his mind as he did before.

  Although he should not be able to do such an act, the Lost One speaks.

  “Why do you hate me so?” Hartstongue asks, sweat lining his forehead and the vast uncharted sea of his thoughts almost drowning the executioner with its wild currents. “No matter what the Gathandrian legends say, what have I ever done that you should hate me?”

  Duncan stares at the scribe and realises that power from the other companion here in Gathandria who holds to him in secret is still open to him. He takes a decision he had not thought to take.

  It is precisely at this moment that the flames break through.

  Simon

  Snatched from the world of the story and back in the heart of the Library, Simon flung himself onto the mind-executioner as the fire around them roared out its bright hot anger. He still had no idea how Gelahn had spirited himself here, but he had to do something. The snow-raven had rescued the cane. He was on his own now. Such courage as his act seemed to indicate was borne of desperation alone.

  For a heartbeat or two, it almost seemed as if he might have some power after all. He knocked his enemy to the floor, taking care not to touch his head and building a wall in his mind that might slow Gelahn down, even if it would not stop him. The two of them scrabbled for purchase on the stone, then the executioner’s fingers reached for his throat, pressing so hard into his skin that he could scarcely breathe. The flame’s roar grew louder, as if it dwelt in his head alone. His skin poured out sweat. Then, in spite of Simon’s attempts to delay the inevitable, Gelahn’s hand was at his head and his foolish mind-wall was breached as if it had not been there at all.

  He opened his mouth to surrender, beg for mercy if any could be found. What he said was not what he had meant to say:

  “Why do you hate me so? No matter what the Gathandrian legends say, what have I ever done that you should hate me?”

  Gelahn stared at him and the onward penetration of Simon’s mind suddenly vanished. Before he could pull himself free, fire breached the strange undulating wall around them and consumed them both. The scribe screamed and, from instinct, clutched at the man at his side, feeling the heat crackling his hair.

  Then one word: Come.

  Wild sparks flew from the mind-executioner’s skin as the heat roared out its fury. All the parchment and binding roared back in answer, cream shading transmuted to crimson, a destruction of words. He could no longer sense the Spirit of the Library. The executioner’s fire tracked round them both and the sudden increase in heat made Simon cry out again. Flame filled his mouth and throat and he could not spit it out.

  He was still alive though. Only the gods and stars knew how.

  Come.

  That word again. It might have been the only one left in the Library’s obliteration. Even though the voice he heard was Gelahn’s, he clung to it, a word crisp with silver and something like hope offered where he had thought to find only death.

  A sensation of being lifted an
d then the heat lessened but only by a fraction. Not enough to dream by. He was aware, from a distance, that Gelahn’s mind-fire must be protecting them from the greater danger. And he was also aware that something in his own mind was responding to it, helping that strange salvation, perhaps allowing him to live.

  Then blackness rushed in and he could think no more.

  When he woke, he could not recognise where he might be, neither by feel, smell nor thought. He should be used to that by now, however. It was, no doubt, a measure of his incompetence that he was not. Still, at least he was alive.

  The scribe opened his eyes. He saw straw and mud above him, constrained into a tight pattern of circles forming a roof. Shadows flickered over bare stone walls, and a flicker of flame at the corner of his vision drew his gaze.

  No danger, though. No curse of fire branding his mind. This was simply a candle. Slowly his heart took up a steadier rhythm. Already he knew Gelahn was here, too—his dark presence filled the air.

  “Where is this?” he asked.

  The mind-executioner stepped in front of him, looked down and smiled.

  “This was my home,” he said.

  They must still be in Gathandria, then. Simon knew Gelahn was from the city.

  The executioner laughed and paced away. “Where else would we be? The city is what I want and you are the key to it, Hartstongue. Now you have drawn me here, why should I wish to be anywhere else?”

  Scrambling to his feet and brushing dust and straw from his clothes, Simon stared at his abductor. “I’ve not drawn you here, and I’m no use to you. Neither of us has the mind-cane now and, even if it were with us, I would not know how to use it.”

  Gelahn made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “All of that is a lie. Your own weakness and fear drew me. The mind-cane needed you and you failed it, so it called to me and I came. Besides, you have already used its strength against me when you stole it.”

  “I didn’t steal the cane,” Simon replied. “It came to me. Only the gods and stars know why. Though I am sorry it has also brought you back. The Gathandrians believe me to be the Lost One they speak of, but what good is that to me when I can do nothing about it?”

  “There is much you do not know and I am grateful for that.” The executioner took three paces across the small room to stand in front of Simon. The scribe flinched but did not back away. “What puzzles me are the parts of your mind you do not know how to access, a result, I imagine, of the lack of mind-training in your childhood. If you wished, I could help you be more truly yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In answer, Gelahn raised his hand and placed his fingers on Simon’s forehead once more. The scribe braced himself for pain, but none transpired. Instead, a flood of pleasure took him, a sparkling river of green and blue and gold with, every now and again, a burst of soft flame within its silky depths.

  What…?

  Hush. If you let yourself be, then the river you carry with you will flow to the ocean you long for.

  Simon gasped. They were communicating purely by thought once again. He couldn’t reason why but somehow this time it seemed more dangerous than before. Neither could he reject the happiness pulsating through his flesh. A picture of Ralph flashed up in his mind and was as quickly gone.

  Ah, Gelahn said. The Lammas Lord. You still hold to him, then, in spite of all he has done?

  Knowing he should deny it, the scribe discovered that lies were impossible. Yes.

  Then you are more of a fool than even I took you for.

  Better a fool than a murderer of minds.

  The shaft of pain that cut through him vanquished any thoughts of rebellion. He sank to his knees, Gelahn following him so the two men were still face-to-face.

  Yes, I can bring you pain such as you have not known before but, see, I can bring you delight, also.

  In a moment, the pain disappeared as if it had never been and the river of joy flowed through him once more. Simon heard himself cry out, his voice a long keening of released desire.

  Do you want more of that, scribe?

  He and Gelahn both knew the answer was yes. But the scribe did not voice it, refused to allow it space to breathe amongst his thoughts. If he did, something told him he would be truly lost, beyond the rescuing of the whole of Gathandria, perhaps.

  A chuckle at his ear. You fight me? You have more courage than I suspected.

  The mind-executioner’s laughter cut into the river almost threatening to drown him. For a moment, his body and thoughts were clear. Just long enough to save himself from what he knew he wanted.

  “And perhaps more honour than you anticipate.” As he spoke aloud, all but shouting the words so he could hear himself above the storms of his flesh, he grabbed Gelahn’s hand and tore it from his skin. The river roared in protest and nausea overtook him, but he somehow kept himself free. The executioner cursed and lunged at him, but Simon ducked underneath his arm and rolled away. Gelahn did not follow. As the waters subsided and all their strange passions dampened down, the scribe could not help but regret the loss.

  By the time he recovered himself, Gelahn was sitting calmly at the table where the candle glinted as if nothing at all had taken place.

  Simon rose to his feet, walked towards his companion, hoping his gait was steady but knowing it was not, and stood opposite him. “Don’t ravish me like that again.”

  The mind-executioner raised his eyebrows. “Not even if you desire it?”

  “It is not I who desire it, but you who force your will upon me.”

  Gelahn laughed. “If that is what you think… But no matter. My interest in you does not manifest itself by way of the body, though the game is amusing, I must confess. However, your honour, such as it is, is safe enough as I have quite other wishes for you, if you will listen to them. But, first, will you drink? There is water. Wine, too, if that is your pleasure.”

  “I will never drink with you. Not willingly.”

  “A shame,” the executioner shrugged, “as what I have to say to you may take a while and will leave you much to think of.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t think you have anything to say to me that would carry any meaning at all.”

  A long pause before the mind-executioner spoke again. “Simon, look around this room. Tell me what you see.”

  The unexpected use of his name made the scribe blink. Without thinking, he gazed round the walls that trapped him with his enemy. He saw rough stone lined with shelves of bottles in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. All of them were empty. Near the table where the executioner was sitting lay a selection of manuscripts written in a language Simon couldn’t recognise. Rugs and matting, green and gold, covered the floor and provided the only splash of colour, while a simple bed-area filled the opposite corner.

  “You said this was your home?” the scribe asked, not looking at his abductor.

  “Yes,” Gelahn replied. “When I was a child.”

  Simon took a breath and sat down. Questions filled his thoughts and he was unsure which to voice first.

  “Yes,” the executioner said. “It is not dissimilar to your mother’s home, is it not?”

  “My father’s, also.” The scribe raised his head, stared at Gelahn, who dismissed his words with a wave of his hand.

  “Your father is not important. It is your mother’s Gathandrian blood that matters here. We are more alike than you imagine, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands. Our childhoods were both poor, and neither of us fit comfortably with the environment into which we were born. My parents were wine-makers, as you can see by the bottles stored here. Their profession was important enough to take over even the bed-chamber of their only child. The manuscripts I loved to read and write, too, as you do, had no place in the measured existence of their lives, and neither did I. My lack of any interest in the delights of wine was a great burden to them. But, no matter, I quickly found my own path and walked it without them.”

  “Killing and torturing other people as you di
d so,” Simon interrupted, unable to hold back the protest on his tongue. “Perhaps your parents were right.”

  “Ah, Simon,” Gelahn leaned back in his chair and took a sip of ruby wine from his beaker. It stained his lips crimson. “Bearing in mind your own blood-soaked history, it surprises me to hear you say thus. After all, I am not the only one who has hurt people on the way, am I?”

  In the emptiness where the scribe’s response should have been, he heard only the accusation of his own soul.

  “What do you want?” he whispered when the silence grew strong enough to break him.

  Gelahn sighed, as if he’d been waiting for a gate to open and allow him access to a forbidden field. “I wish to tell you my own Gathandrian legend and why it drives me to do what I have done. The only question is: will you listen?”

  The Third Gathandrian Legend: Prudence and Sloth

  Duncan Gelahn

  With every heartbeat, the mind-executioner grows more aware of the shapes and patterns of his childhood home. Memories carve their way into his skin. The empty wine bottles each have their place on the shelves around his old bed, but they sing to him of abandonment. He never had that knowledge of belonging. The only part of himself that exists here lies in the collection of manuscripts, a riot of words that kept his parents at bay and do so still. He longs to touch their glistening pages, but there is no time.

  For the scribe is stronger than the mind-executioner has believed but, even so, he has his weaknesses. Duncan is glad that, after the disaster of losing the mind-cane, he has at least had the presence of mind to bring his captive here. The house he grew up in is almost the mirror of the scribe’s own childhood home. This fact, the sudden kinship between them, could yet prove Hartstongue’s undoing provided that the executioner does not allow it to be his, also.