The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

refused to ponder on what the executioner had said about Iffenia. Although her heart was beating fast and she could not glimpse a small fraction of what might come, she knew she had to stand her ground, for what it was worth.
    “You did not have to kill those who would not have been a threat to you,” she whispered, the pain at the side of her head where the mind-cane had hit her beginning to throb. “Your quarrel is with the leaders of our city and, therefore, only with me.”
    Gelahn laughed. She didn’t like the sound.
    “Oh, yes,” he said, his tone cool and mocking. “Our revered elders are so busy with their own regrets that they put an untried girl in charge and expect her to be enough to stop me, when I have planned this for years, dreamed up every scenario in my head while enduring the tortures your people’s leaders subjected me to. Did you think I wouldn’t have thought of you? When I had all the time in the land to think of everything, even the Lost One himself?”
    With that, the mind-executioner flicked the cane in Simon’s direction. A tongue of silver flame exploded in the space between the two men, heading towards the scribe. Annyeke cried out a warning but there was no need. The Lost One put up his hands in an attempt to provide protection but the fire had already stopped. It hovered next to his face, almost licking his skin but not quite. Annyeke could see the sweat on his forehead, the way his body shook.
    Her eyes flickered back to Gelahn. Had he meant to kill the scribe? What would he do now, and who would he destroy? But, to her surprise, the executioner was smiling.
    “Yes,” he said, talking as if only to himself, but his words were clear to her, written in crimson across the air and snow. “Yes, for now the threat can be made, but it cannot be completed. The Spirit and the mind-cane are still waiting. There is more to be done.”
    His words shook Annyeke out of her inactivity. Yes, there was more to be done. And before the executioner did whatever it was he was going to do, she wanted to make her mark also. Before she even knew such an act had been decided, she launched herself towards Gelahn while he gazed at the shifting white flame, and tumbled him to the ground. For one wild moment, she felt his surprise flooding through her thoughts and then a knife hit her mind again and she screamed, falling backwards and scrabbling at her face to try to ease the pain.
    Let her go. Please. She is not your enemy. I-I beg you.
    The words from the Lost One spun between them, forming a net to keep the worst of the attack at bay and giving her a ledge of thought to cling to before she was lost entirely in the stormy seas. She clung to it as best she could, cursing her own foolishness. This battle was not one of childish gestures, it had to be fought from the depths and maturity of the spirit.
    The air around her mind grew still and she could sense no familiarity there. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the pain vanished and she opened her eyes to find herself lying sprawled on the ground looking up at Gelahn. The flame still hovered and she could see that Simon had not moved, although he leaned forward as if to spring to her defence, which he had already done, indeed. Her fingers spasmed and she felt the warmth from the stories she had held easing over her palms.
    “The scribe is right,” the mind-executioner said. “You are not the enemy I must fear most. You are nothing but a witness to my glory. And there are others who must also witness me. Look, they are already here and the preparation is almost done.”
    A sudden rush of wind and wings above her and something heavy knocked her down, leaving her scrambling on the icy earth and out of breath. For a moment, she had no idea what it was and then the sense of his nearness washed over her.
    Johan.
    From instinct, Annyeke grabbed him, trying to see if he was harmed. Her fingers felt the heat of blood on his face and side, and her skin turned clammy and cold. Johan.
    At his side, she saw a curved sword, as bright as the midsummer cycle or a burning star in the darkest night. It was there at his belt, powerful and deadly, but also not there. A mind-sword, she thought. He succeeded in what he sought, then, for Gathandria. This is how they had been fighting.
    At the same time, at her side she heard the Lost One’s indrawn breath and his mind’s cry. Ralph . The sound of it filled her thoughts with a river of sparkling blue that just