The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

his head and stumbles to a halt in the cleft between two jagged rocks.
    “Isabella?”
    She thinks he intended to shout but his voice is dry and brittle like a winter leaf left hanging on the tree, and she does not answer him.

    Simon
    Tasting the harsh, metallic tang of his own blood, Simon tried to continue on the journey but couldn’t find the strength. What was happening to him on this mountain? Were the legends true and invisible demons were even now sucking out his life-force? Damn it, but how could he face an enemy he couldn’t even see, let alone know how to fight? He slipped between the rocks and would have fallen but for the edge which he grabbed at, somehow finding a grip and hanging on.
    Gaping his distress at the boy, Simon could find no words for what he should do, but the next moment the boy was scrambling up the onwards path, frantically waving at their companions. His mouth was open wide but of course no sound issued forth, only a breathy wheezing.
    Simon’s fingers slipped on the rock and he felt the layers of scree under his back begin to move. Gods and stars . He had to stand upright, gain his balance again. If once the mountain began to thrust him away, then he wouldn’t be able to stop from falling. His mouth filled with more blood and he spat it out, crimson flecks patterning the jagged edge he was clinging to.
    Suddenly, a gush of blood came again, this time from the scribe’s throat, and he vomited out dark red liquid streaked with small circles of grey. He was gasping for breath and his throat felt as if he were vomiting up grit and dirt, the taste of it like acid on his tongue. His vision blurred and the sky above darkened, even though it was only late morning. He scrabbled for another handhold and his fingers slipped, trying to gain balance. When he raised his hand to his face again, two or three of the tiny circles clung to his skin. They felt hard, rough. A stone. And another like it. It was part of the scree. But what…?
    Gods . An overwhelming wave of nausea and the scribe’s final handhold on the mountain gave way. He tried to cry out but his teeth were full of rocks, slivers of them fighting their way up from his throat, over his gums and through his lips into the stifling air. And blood. So much blood. He couldn’t breathe.
    Simon .

    Johan
    When he turns, he sees that Simon is almost done. The enemy has attacked so soon. Why has Johan not noticed this? Has a mind-net blinded him? He must reach Simon at once before he falls. The mountain wants to kill him.
    Johan begins to run. “Simon, hear me .”
    Though he couldn’t have heard, the scribe’s eyes blink open, but it is obvious that he can see almost nothing. His body lurches towards Johan, trying to reach safety but he can’t move. Heart beating fast, Johan wraps his arms tightly around him and for a terrible moment there is no response. Running out of options, he reaches into the scribe’s mind.
    Simon .

    Simon
    Suddenly, unaccountably, Simon could speak. His mouth spilled out blood, vomit and rock. And, with it, words. A vast cavern of them. Over and over again.
    “I can’t breathe , Johan. Help me.”
    Simon’s fingers were gripping his companion’s upper arm and as he watched he saw them turn grey and gnarled, as if he’d aged in a moment to the point of death. He was becoming the mountain. Not the road to death he would have chosen. Not that he wished to choose any.
    Fight it, Simon. Think your way through.
    Johan’s words echoed in Simon’s mind, but he couldn’t see the sense in them.
    Gasping for breath, his throat constricted to almost nothing, Simon somehow managed to force his eyes wide open, in spite of the heaviness weighing them down, and look up towards Johan. Think his way through…
    Think…
    His mother’s voice. Her song. The smell of her cooking on a winter morning. The coolness of her touch on his skin. A time long ago when Simon had once felt safe.
    That’s right, Simon, that’s right. Think of her. Feel her. Bring her here in your thoughts, now.
    Memories tearing at him, Simon brings his mother so close that he can almost reach out and touch her over the path of the years. Time no longer matters, and he is a boy again. Running through the wheat as she chased him, the sun dappling their backs. Her laughter. Her secrets. Then onward, galloping over the moon-cycles, and he is snuggling up to her near the fire his father has just lit. She is reading from one of the books she keeps