The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

enough to drive him to the reckless acts of courage he’d shown spasmodically throughout the wild journey to Gathandria. This also pleases the mind-executioner. And, Spirit willing, they will claim Gathandria tonight, since the journey to his homeland is now supremely possible with the emeralds. In the meantime, there is much to be done, and an army, albeit a strange one, to be gathered. He needs to focus his two companions on something else than each other in order to do it.
    “Tregannon,” he commands, dropping Ralph’s title and knowing the lack of it will only shame the other man further. “We must bring the army together and prepare your men for battle. The time for war is almost upon us.”
    The Lammas Lord frowns and glances at the cane in Duncan’s hand. It is pointless for him to protest and he knows it. His glance slides to the Lost One and then just as quickly skitters away. Behind him stand two women framed in a doorway. Next to them, and slightly in front, is a small rounded woman with silvered hair. Jemelda , the mind-executioner thinks and wonders why he notices her when the other women are more beautiful. Then he understands the reason and smiles.
    “I do not have the soldiers,” Ralph replies at last. “As I have told you, they have been scattered across the lands. Only a few remain at the castle and those are not the best.”
    Duncan blinks. Oh, how much his companions have to learn. From the death of the mountain and the death of Ralph’s soldiers something magnificent will be made. He will not voice it yet, though, not even to himself. Let them see in full when the time is right. He becomes aware of the Scribe at his side as he runs his fingers down the cane. He enjoys the feeling of its silky smoothness against his skin. If things had been different, then perhaps…but no matter. They are not. The Spirit of Gathandria has decreed it so and he will not fight such wisdom. He will only do its bidding.
    “Have you sent messengers?” he asks, keeping his voice low so Ralph must lean forward to hear him. Even though he knows the question is meaningless and he could give all his bidding to the Lammas Lord in a heartbeat simply by ravishing his mind, he forbears to do so for now. Such pleasures will happen later, when the battle is won.
    “No,” Ralph says simply. Of course, Duncan has already found the answer lying open for all to see within the man’s thoughts should they have the gift of it. He sees, too, how Ralph has hoped to conceal the emeralds from him. Such a foolish plan! How can he have thought to succeed in it? However, the mind-executioner cannot help but admire the Lammas Lord’s courage. Much good it does him.
    With a jagged movement, he brings the mind-cane up to his eye level and flicks some of its strength in Ralph’s direction. At once, Tregannon falls to his knees, gasping as the weight of history and ancient myth press him down. Simon steps forward, a cry of protest forming in his mind, but Duncan swings the simplest of mind-nets round his intention and the Lost One is brought to an abrupt halt in whatever idiocy he might have intended. Above them, the snow-raven circles, revived from its journey and its bleak cry piercing the bitter air.
    Spirit of Gathandria, what fools these men of flesh are. When will they learn they can only do the Spirit ’s bidding and all else is worthless?

    Ralph
    He barely has time to take in Simon’s presence and to explain the lack of soldiers to Gelahn before the mind-executioner drives him to the ground. The solid earth forces its harshness into his skin and he gasps. At the same time, the scribe steps forward, a protesting cry splitting the air, but Gelahn stops his purpose with another flick of the cane.
    At his side, Ralph feels a sudden surge of warmth from the emeralds and his fingers itch to touch them, but he cannot move. Neither can he breathe. When he opens his mouth to gasp, he gains no benefit from it. The mind-executioner strides towards him, and the dark cane he holds spits bright flame. Orange and purple, the colours of betrayal. His eyes are as black as a winter night; the anger in them pierces through the falling snow. His enemy raises the cane and a bone deep agony tears through him. The Overlord collapses sideways, still gasping for breath. Grit digs into his cheek and all he can see is the executioner’s feet and the wild swirls of the cloak he wears. All he can hear above him is the strange shrill call of the