The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

Spirit’s work die, not after so much endurance and so many day-cycles.
    Gelahn opens his mind to the full as he brings the cane down, pointing it towards where Simon stands, unwary. At the same time he stretches out his other arm and speaks the words he has been longing to say, perhaps since before he was even born:
    Come then, come , Great Spirit, and let the work of cleansing begin.
    For a heartbeat after the echo of the plea has left his thoughts, there is a strong and sudden silence. The distant throb of battle is stilled, and even the soft hush of the snowfall is unheard. Gelahn takes a breath, and the air lights up in the darkness. All the colours of gold and rose, sea blue, herb green and morning grey rise from the floor, the shattered walls, the dust itself that is contained in the mystical Library of the city. All the stories are coming to the mind-cane’s call. They are coming and, when all the stories are one, with their colours and textures, their voices and their desires, then will the age of contentment truly begin.
    The mind-executioner cannot help himself then. He laughs. The stories will cleanse every unrighteousness from the land. They will come to him and then everything he has always longed for will be his.

    Ralph
    He cannot feel his mind any more, and what he sees makes no sense—a man wearing a patterned black cloak that hangs torn from his body. He holds an ebony and silver cane in one hand and a handful of glowing emeralds in the other. The green depths of them call to Ralph, but he cannot make out their voice. There is something he must do—soon, but he does not know what it is. He hears someone groan and knows it is himself. In that moment he sees, though does not understand, a number of things. There is a woman lying to his right, perhaps dead, being rocked in the arms of a weeping man. Her red hair is fire against the whiteness of the snow around them. Between them and the man in black stands a slight figure of another man. This one is trembling, breathing hard as if he has been running for many fields and has still not found a resting place. He is beautiful and something about him makes Ralph’s blood sing. At his side beyond where Ralph lies, he sees a small boy held in the slight man’s grip.
    The final and the most confusing sight of them all is the colours of stone exploding, floating upwards as if unfurled from the air. They are like pages of a book, but he sees no parchment or papers. All of them drift and fly towards the man with the jewels and the cane. He is laughing.
    And the only thing Ralph understands is that he must stop this man from gathering them up, but he does not know how.

    Annyeke
    In the darkness of nowhere, something held her to the life she once knew. She could feel Johan’s arms around her body and his warmth brightening her skin. He placed his fingers against her head, and she sensed unknown sparks in his blood as he tried to reach her, discover if she was still alive.
    Annyeke .
    There was so much behind the way he said her name, so much she had understood for so long, but which was new to him. She longed to respond but could not. She could not even move. The death, sweat and terror of the battlefield filled her mind as Johan tried to make contact with her thoughts. For a long moment there was nothing, and if Annyeke had had the gift of crying she would have done so.
    Then, suddenly, the colours. They startled her. His were muted, earth browns and soft yellows and blues. Of course, she knew the colours Johan lived by; she’d worked with him so well over the year-cycles. She was green and red and silver, but mainly red. But he’d never linked with her quite in this way. The truth of it—the truth of him —plunged through her like falling stars. She sensed his indrawn cry, the way the link between them swept aside all his doubts, everything he’d ever wanted to hold back from those around him. From where he stood deep within her silent mind, Johan began to run. The ground under him, the foundation of her own mind, was honeyed gold, its warmth easing them both. Around her the sky was a clear blue, no clouds, no breeze, no birds. In fact there was nothing there except the ground, the air and the streaming colours that moved and shimmered with his every step.
    She could not tell where her memories were. This scene should be filled with shapes and patterns of her past, her worries, her joys, but she could not grasp them or turn towards the man she