The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

if conjuring the stars and gods to come to him. In the eerie light, he hardly seemed real. A great arc of green patterns shifting and changing with every heartbeat surrounded him. It was like a cage holding the executioner, or a place of safety where nobody could ever defeat him again. His right hand held onto the cane, which was gleaming silver all the way down the length of it. The scribe had never seen that before. It made his fists clench and his throat constrict. He tried to scramble backwards, but the wall behind him prevented any hope of escape. His hand touched something warm and soft. For a moment, he had no idea what it was. Some type of weapon to tear him apart at last? Another enemy not yet encountered? Then realisation came rushing in.
    Acting from an instinct that leapt up inside him, he buried both hands in the snow-raven’s feathers and hugged the great bird to himself. At once, a blue river flowed between them, small but visible against the white of the bird and the white of the snow still falling, even in the midst of such strangeness. The river began to circle both bird and man, reminding Simon of the mind-link that had saved Johan and himself from the executioner’s desert attack. He hoped that whatever the contact with the snow-raven had produced, the result would be the same now.
    Because the fire and the storm were one. The scribe could see Gelahn in the centre of it, his hands still outstretched towards the fearsome sky. The roars and cries that filled the air sounded more like men and women now, in pain beyond imagining. He wished he could cut out the sound, but it was not simply in the air—it was in his thoughts.
    Was this war always to be fought in both body and mind? Green tongues of flame shaped like accusing fingers flashed across the courtyard. They darted up to the mind-executioner, but the cane he held kept them at bay. They recoiled, springing around him as if to seek out something else to burn, something else to destroy. Simon could see shapes in the air, of people and strange beasts he couldn’t comprehend. The people were stretched out as if their bodies were suffering torments from which they could never be free, their faces etched with a shifting, dancing agony.
    He wanted to look away. He could not.
    The emerald fire slashed angrily against the fragile blue river, like a knife finding at last the kill.
    Ralph , he thought. Ralph .
    He could barely sense the Lammas Lord, Ralph’s mind nothing but a whisper on the edge of his consciousness. Another beat of his heart told him he’d had enough of waiting. As the wild storm continued and the flashing light continued to dance around the mind-executioner, Simon crawled a slow way over to the trembling Lammasser. The bird and the blue river came with him and the emerald fire did not overcome their defences.
    The moment he touched Ralph, the river flowed around his motionless figure also. The scribe could see cuts and bruises on the Lammas Lord’s body and face from where the fire had attacked him, but he seemed to be breathing. And the mind-whisper was still there.
    They had to escape, Simon realised. Somehow they would have to find refuge from the terrors Gelahn was summoning, or they would not survive this, with or without the snow-raven’s power. And, besides, who could tell how long that and the river would last? Without its protection, they would be lost.
    The scribe took a breath, weighed up the possible success of half dragging half carrying Ralph into the relative safety of the castle. Slim at the best, but by the gods and stars, he had to try.
    But just as he’d taken another breath and started to scramble to his feet, hauling Ralph with him, Simon realised everything had become silent. The storm vanished as suddenly as it had begun. At the same time, instead of being empty the courtyard was filled with people. For another second or so, the scribe didn’t understand who they were, then realisation kicked in. Ralph’s army. These were Ralph’s soldiers. The uniform they wore and the scattered helmets told him more clearly than if anyone had spoken the truth aloud. How had they got here? Had the mind-cane and Gelahn called them through the storm? Simon could think of no other explanation.
    Something about them niggled at his skin. They were silent. None of the men before him spoke, and they all faced Gelahn. Without wanting to, the scribe took an involuntary step backwards, still clinging to Ralph and the