Hallsfoot's Battle

by Anne Brooke

  Annyeke

  She barely stood, half sagging, at Johan’s elbow. She could scarcely believe her eyes were her own again, though the memory of what she had done in the realm of dreams clung to her. With all her blood, she wanted to fight, and fight now, however bitter the end. But the Lost One had spoken and something told her to wait, as she had done before, in the place of silence. The time for action would come, too soon, but it was not now.

  Johan, however, sensed none of this. She could tell his mind was too full of the physical world to pay heed to anything deeper. Was this what war did? Then, by the gods, she wished no more of it. Her beloved could see only the advancing dead soldiers, the enemy of them all holding Talus hostage, and Simon, his friend and cousin, grappling with the mind-executioner single handedly within the fire of the emeralds he’d seemed to yield to Gelahn.

  “Come on,” he shouted. “We must help him.”

  He leapt forward, clutching the thought-sword and she could not stop him. Neither of them, as the Lammas Lord followed instantly after. At the wall of green flickering flame, Johan’s best intentions tumbled helplessly into snow-filled air. The first touch of fire on his skin flung him spinning backwards, sending both men crashing to the ground.

  Tregannon cursed, in the old Lammasser tongue, while Johan rolled away and struggled to his feet, panting. As he stretched out a hand to help the Lammas Lord to his feet, Annyeke reached them, her limbs barely able to carry her weight. She had to make him understand, she had to.

  “Annyeke,” he whispered, but she shook her head to quiet him even as the flames danced and sang around them.

  When she spoke, she prayed it would be enough for him.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “It’s beginning. Simon’s last story. It might be the only thing to save us.”

  The Fourth Gathandrian Legend: Temperance and Greed

  Simon

  The Lost One stared deeply into Duncan Gelahn’s eyes. The mind-executioner struggled against his grip but, for once, Simon was too strong for him.

  “No,” the scribe said. “Not this time. This time the battle is between the two of us alone and the stories we tell, the stories that cling to us. We stay here until it is done.”

  As he spoke, Simon felt the searching arrows of his mind flow through his flesh and into the ebony and silver cane. From there, the shifting blue changed to starlight that pierced Gelahn’s skin and travelled upwards into his thoughts. The executioner drew in a sharp breath and gritted his teeth for a heartbeat.

  How did you do that?

  Simon did not know. He only understood the conjunction of the emeralds and the mind-cane in his hand had unlocked something deep within him he hadn’t realised was there. As the link between his thoughts and Gelahn’s grew more insistent, he shook his head.

  “No matter. The story you and I live in, and which must be fulfilled today, is this. It is a tale of temperance and greed, and will become the last Gathandrian legend you and I will ever share. Hear me now, and afterwards let the Great Spirit’s will be done.” As the Lost One began to speak, the words echoed in both their minds as well as in the air’s green heat around them:

  There once was a boy. He was born in a country he did not fully understand and had no hope of comprehending. Because two different worlds fought for supremacy in his blood, and neither could win, he was always a loner. An outcast, if you like. When he was young, something happened that changed his life. That event could be anything, but for me, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands, it was the discovery my mind had more gifts than I could ever know about whilst I lived amongst what I thought were my people. For you, Duncan Gelahn of Gathandria, it was the coming of the Spirit into your thoughts—directly, not in stories and hints of something once known, as is told in all the lands.

  But what happens after this is far more important than all. What path will those two young men choose? How will they live their lives with the knowledge that has been gifted to them? Simon chose the path of moderation. Driven away by his father, he chose to live in the shadows, to run and not to seek vengeance. He learned not to expect too much, a coward’s way, but a temperate one. He even chose to turn away from the truth of the gift he possessed, to deny all he could be and keep on running. Ah, but Duncan was the opposite of this. When he saw what could be achieved, he wanted it. For the good of the people, he told himself, and for the health of the lands but, more than any of these, he wanted it for himself and for himself only.

  Duncan

  He tries to reject the words the Lost One is saying, but they are like daggers in the flesh of his mind and hailstones on the body. The stories swirl and dance around them, all the colours of their mysteries an impossible pattern he can no longer find a way through to victory. The cane tears at his skin and the emeralds burn his eyes.

  He wants to scream out a denial but what comes from his mouth is merely a whisper and the Lost One blinks it away. Duncan has never imagined his enemy, half Gathandrian and half Lammasser, can fight like this. He has never imagined Simon of the White Lands could one day be as adamant as himself, as harsh as stone, as bleak as winter.

  He has never imagined that whatever happens next might not be ultimately in his gifting.

  Annyeke

  In spite of her attempt to stop him, Johan flung himself once more at the green fire shielding them from where Gelahn, Simon and Talus had been standing only a few moments ago. Her heart beat fast and her skin burned. Her words had not been enough for him. Surely, if they survived this day, then they would have much to learn about each other, much to offer in trust as well as love. A moment later, Johan was sprawled on the snow half a room length away from the strange circle.

  Before she could reach him again, Tregannon was there. He laid a trembling hand on Johan’s shoulder. Once at their side, she could see both men’s faces were pale, their eyes haunted. No time for words. Whatever was happening to Talus and Simon, Annyeke had to know about it. Now. Her mind spun outwards, met Johan’s as they both tried to make contact with the scribe and her young charge, but she could sense nothing. The emeralds must stop anything from getting through except the floating stories. They streamed towards the green flames and melted through them as if responding to a hidden call. Johan scrambled to his feet and attempted to breach the barrier a third time where the thickest glut of stories flowed, their greens, reds and browns blending into gold. For a moment or two, it looked as if he might succeed. His fingers and then his whole hand sank through with the darkest of the tales, but then he fell to the ground once more. When she looked down, she saw the flesh of his left hand was on fire.

  The heat behind her eyes pounded an uneasy rhythm into her head as she grabbed his hand, skin blackening with the emeralds’ flame, and covered it with the snow. In her mind, she could feel the hiss and spit of his gasp, but in the body he merely grimaced and bent more closely to the earth.

  She had to save Talus. Simon, too, both for his role and for who he was. But Talus first and foremost. Her duty as Gathandria’s Acting Elder be damned to the stars. Some things were more important than that.

  It was then that it came to her, dancing tales, falling snow, and the memories of the bird. How deeds must be done quickly if they were done at all.

  Before Johan could object, Annyeke reached down and pulled his freshly formed mind-sword, scarred from the recent battle, from his belt. Her thoughts raced to link with it, and him, trying to gain the extra mind-strength she needed, as she darted towards the glowing deadly circle. It was the only act she could think of. She would do it, whether or not it destroyed her.

  Simon

  In the midst of the fire, the Lost One, the scribe, continued to carve his tale into the air’s emptiness, sensing even then the need to fight against the stories gathering to the mind-executioner, and to fight them hard.

  So these two boys grew into men. One took the way of moderation and one took the way of greed. Neither was truly happy. A blue river watered and weakened the mind of the one, and
a dark prison strengthened and subsumed the soul of the other. One chose peace and the other chose war. Opposites, so my story tells us, but sometimes opposites can be destined to meet.

  The tales around Gelahn roared a song Simon could barely comprehend. In the executioner’s wild grin, the Lost One could see his enemy still battled against him, but he braced himself and allowed his words to flow. At the same time, something piercing and white captured the corner of his vision. The green fire surrounding them shifted and groaned. In one particular place, a silver flash not from the mind-cane pierced its way through, but he could not tell what it was. And he had no remaining energy to counteract it.

  He opened his mind, channelled his own song.

  And when those opposites do meet, they find another difference between them. The Gathandrian who has, albeit by default and cowardice, pursued the path of temperance as best he can, has friends he did not look for. Whereas the Gathandrian in thrall to greed for power only has slaves or those he bends to his will by force or temptation.

  Which, then, do you think will hit the mark more closely?

  For the fact of the matter is this, Greed can never understand or take into itself the truth of Temperance, but Temperance can, on occasion, grasp what is strongest in Greed and use it for the good, as long as it remains good. This I do so now. This is our legend, this is our story. We will live and die by it.

  Using all the strength he could muster, the scribe gave an almighty shove to his opponent, praying to all the gods Talus would not be harmed. The mind-executioner fell to the earth, bringing Simon with him. Talus fell on the other side, Gelahn still clutching him. The scribe couldn’t sense if the boy was conscious, felt his heart beat faster, breath catching in his throat at the absence.

  At the same time, a mighty roar rang out across the singing air and the fire circle split into two. Without having to ask or look, the Lost One knew the red-haired woman was there. Behind her came his cousin and the Lammas Lord.

  He scrambled to hold Gelahn down as the executioner spat his fury into the stories’ colour and dance, while his mind continued searching, searching, searching for the boy’s life. An emerald heat flowed from somewhere deep within him, tearing at his enemy’s skin, while the mind-cane carved lines of blood and pain into Gelahn’s flesh. It came to Simon that he did not know how long he could hold him down, or how this would end.

  Annyeke

  She was surprised when the barrier of strange fire began to yield at the first cut. She ignored Johan’s shout from behind her and the flurry of nameless emotions from the Lammas Lord and kept on slashing at the flames. She could feel the heat of them singeing her hair, but it didn’t matter. In the mind-world, she’d just given her eyes to the Lammasser for Simon’s sake, for the city. But for Talus, she would give it all if she had to.

  Just as she felt Johan’s hand on her back and the pull of Tregannon’s clutch at her skirts, the fire split from top to bottom, like a mantle being torn in two. She and her companions tumbled into a world of singing stories, battle and terror. But all she could see was Talus and the blood on his face from the executioner’s knife.

  Everything happened at once and she had no room for hesitation or doubt. Indeed, she wished for none. Holding Johan’s sword, Annyeke leapt onward through the open wall of fire and sprang towards the two fallen men.

  Talus.

  As she landed, Gelahn gave a cry of triumph and his eyes caught hers. Even as the Lost One fought to hold him down, emerald fire sweeping from his flesh into the executioner’s body and the mind-cane carving blood and unimaginable darkness into his skin, Annyeke saw the limp body in the executioner’s grasp, the way Talus’ head drooped at an impossible angle. The stillness of his mind, the emptiness.

  At the sight of him, there was no question in her mind as to what she would do.

  Duncan Gelahn

  The Spirit pours out his blood and he cannot take it back again. Eyes pound with impossible heat and the treacherous mind-cane tears a path into him through which everything he has ever lived, loved or wanted is scattered to the five winds. The precious stories have not been strong enough to hold him safe, to fulfil the Spirit’s desire, his desire.

  It will not end like this. It cannot.

  The circle of fire has ripped open and before his eyes he sees Annyeke Hallsfoot. Darkness rises from his depths and he wonders if she will be the very last thing he sees at all.

  His knife is, somehow, still on the young boy’s throat. Gelahn opens his mouth and laughs at her, at all who stand with her. Then his knife cuts deep into the child, piercing skin and sending a final rush of blood into the singing air. It is done. He will not leave without giving back some of the misery he has endured, though never enough, never enough. Never enough.

  Annyeke

  She sensed the very moment when Talus’ life was ended. She could feel the throb of loss in her mind.

  What happened after, she never knew the flow of it, simply scenes painted in snow and emerald fire. Scenes she could never regret.

  The feel of the mind-sword in her hand. Johan’s cry of shock. And the power he gave her. The Lost One’s eyes, a look full of knowledge. Acceptance, too. The glitter of the sword, the way it felt in her hand as she swung it upwards. The sudden silence as all the stories came to an end. The way even the mind-cane waited.

  My battle, she thought. My war.

  Then the long arc of the sword downwards. The mind-executioner flinging his bloodied arms outwards. Still laughing, as if death were to be welcomed, and all the time he had only been longing for its mastery over him. The edge of the blade sliced through flesh and bone as if it were nothing but water. His head, teeth set in a rictus of smiling, rolled gently away.

  Then the silence truly began.

  Chapter Twelve: The harshness of light

  Simon

  The green circle of fire vanished. The Lost One could feel its power returning home to the emeralds scattered around Gelahn. The mind-cane, too, ceased its dance in his hands and fell to the earth. He could hear nothing, the only sensation the sight of the mind-executioner’s bloodied head. Around him, no noise. The battle no longer pierced his ears and the undead soldiers stood stock still a mere hall’s length from them. Even the mountain dogs were quiet although he thought he could glimpse them slinking around and through the bony legs of Gelahn’s deadly troops. What Annyeke had done tore through everything he understood but, even so, it did not seem wrong. Some things had to be, come what may. He wondered if he would have been able to do such an act. Knew then he could not.

  “Please, please…”

  Annyeke’s voice, trembling on the brink of tears, cut through his wonderment and he dropped down to his knees next to her. She held the dead boy in her arms, cradling him as if he might somehow come back to life in the warmth of her embrace. Johan hunkered down a little to one side, his hand on her shoulder, the warmth between them flaring out like a beacon or the morning sun.

  It was lighter now, Simon noticed. Had a whole night passed while they were fighting this deadly war? How had the time escaped him so quickly?

  Ralph was crouched on all fours on the ground, his body shaking. The fact of him flowed through the scribe’s mind and he could feel the currents of relief and despair battling for supremacy in the Lammas Lord. He had no notion which of them would be the victor. Neither had he the time to discover it, now.

  “Please…?” Annyeke said again.

  The Lost One took her into his arms. Talus’ young blood smeared them both and its iron scent filled the air.

  “What can I do?” he asked her.

  She pulled away from him, the light of decision glowing in her eyes. You can make Talus live again, Lost One, if you want to…

  Simon sprang to his feet, backed several steps away from her. Her words filled his thoughts like an accusation. No. I cannot do that. I failed before when… when…

  The memory of Carthen’s death on his journey here haunted him. He had been responsible fo
r that boy and had failed in his duty then. Now, another boy was dead. Not his charge this time, no, but important to a woman he cared for. He should try to bring him back, for Annyeke’s sake, but the anticipation of failure held his feet rooted to the earth. He could neither move forward nor back.

  “You have to try, Simon,” Johan whispered. “We cannot leave the end of this war like this. There is grief enough, I know it, and a reckoning to be had by us all, but please, will you help him?”

  The Lost One did not know. His thoughts felt as if they had been crushed under a great weight and his body likewise. He was not strong enough to attempt this, his energies gone. How could he bring hope, life even, when he had so little of either?

  A wave of longing not his own broke over him, and his eyes were pulled to where Ralph sat defeated and strangely slight. This time, the Lammas Lord stared directly at him, his eyes as dark as the memory of death.

  You, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands, he said, the mind-words passing only between the two of them, you can do anything you wish to.

  Without knowing that was what was in his mind, the Lost One bent down, seized the cane from the earth where it slumbered and was at Talus’ side in a heartbeat.

  Give him to me.

  Annyeke didn’t even hesitate. The dead child slid from her arms into his. Simon could feel nothing from the boy. Not a spark, not a glimmer of life. He didn’t know if he could do this, but something in Ralph’s words had challenged him. Made him think it might even be true. In this one moment, now.