The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

mind-cane and its executioner, then the power Duncan had longed for would most truly be his.
    He should have seen it before. The destruction of the Library released the power of the stories, that same power the Gathandrians used to connect with each other, to defend themselves and to live. Gelahn knew that power and he could use it against them. But why hadn’t he simply done this when he’d escaped? The question flitted through the scribe’s mind, but he knew as he stared at the mind-cane what the answers might be. It had something to do with the Tregannon emeralds and the gift of travel they possessed. Gelahn had not then had them and, besides, somehow the cane’s best power existed only in his own presence. He, then, Simon Hartstongue of the White Lands, was the catalyst for what was to come. The only one who could make things different.
    Then he would stop it. The epitaph of destruction was not one he wanted carved on his bones forever.
    He took a step forward just as he noticed the noise of the battle had ceased and that all he could hear was the growing rattle of bones. The dead soldiers. They were closing in. He could not tell what would happen now, what terrors they might bring and how the executioner would use them. Unable to help himself, Simon cried out even as he forced his body towards the wild-eyed Gelahn.
    Wait.
    The word reverberated through his mind, its accents as familiar to him as his own blood. Swinging round, he saw Ralph swaying in the snow, barely able to stand. His eyes were as dark as winter and his face scored with grief. Around him, the patterns and shapes of all the stories in the city flowed, but he did not seem to pay them any heed.
    The Lammas Lord tried to walk, but had no strength. He fell down, scrabbling on whiteness, both arms stretched out as if begging for help. His eyes were fixed on something Simon couldn’t see, something behind him. Even as he made to help the fallen man, a green light flashed from a point the scribe couldn’t see, and darted towards Ralph.
    Before the scribe could even think to cry out a warning, Ralph had grasped the light which flowed through him like water. Simon could feel the further shattering of the Lammas Lord’s thoughts as they splintered outwards. He turned to see where the danger had come from. Annyeke sat upright in Johan’s arms. Her eyes were bloodied, but her hand remained outstretched, pointing towards Ralph. As he gazed, a second flash of green rolled from her fingers into Johan’s waiting grasp where it burnt and spat on his flesh. With a cry, Johan flung the sparkling flame towards the Lammas Lord. Simon gasped and stepped forward, determined to stop this strange chaos if he could. He was brought to a halt by Ralph’s command.
    Stop .
    It was directed at him, Simon knew, not at Johan or Annyeke. He ducked as the green fire darted over his head. Ralph caught it expertly and once more emerald light spread over his hand and arm.
    Simon, come to me.
    Without question, the scribe obeyed, losing his grip on Talus as he did so. The boy ran to Annyeke, dropped by her side and began to weep. By the gods and stars, the scribe should have learned Tregannon was not to be trusted, but his body—no, his blood—paid no heed to the logic of his thought and he found himself a mere breath away from this man who haunted him so.
    “What should I do?”
    Take the emeralds.
    Despite the lunacy of what he was being asked , Simon reached out so the jewels dropped into his hand. The next moment, the fire Ralph held flowed into and through his own body. Everything stopped, or, rather, everything moved on but he was caught in a circle from which there was no escaping. He shut his eyes. Ralph held him in his arms and he felt the other man’s warmth against him. It was as nothing compared to the heat of the emerald fire. This was not the circle through which they had travelled, but something utterly different, a sensation he could not name. Flame and legend, truth and history and dreaming. The scribe felt as if his very flesh was being changed into something greater than he could ever have imagined. It was as if he was being made one with the stories and the dreams, with the longing and the hope.
    He knew then that what the Gathandrians said about him was true. He could not understand how it had happened or why, but he knew . He opened his eyes and spoke the words that had been hidden from him for so long.
    “I am he,” he whispered to everyone and