The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

to himself most of all. “I am the Lost One.”

    Ralph
    The moment the scribe speaks the words, his eyes shining a strange green at Ralph as if he can see all that the Overlord is and all he has hidden, the mind-cane in the executioner’s hand dances into the air and falls into Simon’s grasp like a bird returning to the falconer.
    Ralph holds the scribe in his arms. He finds he has the strength to do so, though he doesn’t know how. No time to question it. This is the first time he’s touched Simon since he laced the rope round the scribe’s neck in the Place of Hanging at the castle, as himself, that is, and not with the mind-executioner’s voice in his mouth, his enemy’s thoughts in his head. The sheer fact of the scribe’s skin plunges Ralph’s blood into unaccountable heat and Simon’s gaze locks with his. Ralph thinks it’s the first time he’s looked at the man, really looked at him, since…since he doesn’t know when. Something in the scribe has changed. He can see it as clearly as if this were daylight and they were back in the quiet of his castle rooms. There are a thousand words on Ralph’s tongue that he wants to say, but he understands none of them will be welcome. It is not the time.
    Use the emeralds, Ralph says, mind to mind with no words wasted. May they bring you the power you need.
    Simon nods, as the Gathandrian stories swirl and dance around them, streaming towards the now ecstatic Gelahn. He steps back from Ralph, turns away.

    Duncan Gelahn
    The mind-cane is gone. He sees the green flash travel between the Hallsfoot woman and the Lammas Lord, knows what Ralph will do with it, and he is too far away to stop him, even with the original Tregannon emeralds still in his grasp.
    He has come too far to lose now. Surely the great Spirit will not allow it. Here, in the Library he has destroyed in order for the stories contained in the walls to be more truly his, he must be the master of the lands. It is written, it is spoken. It must be so. The stories dance around him, touching his mouth and mind with their colours and shapes and song.
    Nonetheless, the Lammas emeralds seep out from under his authority. He can feel their pull towards the fresh jewels Annyeke has created. Some of the essence of their power must have been leeched from him during their encounters. He did not feel it vanish. She must have more to her than he suspected, enough to form new jewels from the shadows of his.
    Gelahn doesn’t like the turn in the flow. Even as Ralph passes the newborn gifts to the Lost One, the two of them standing so close in the freezing snow that they could be one man, one mind, Gelahn’s thoughts have leapt to a thousand possibilities for victory. Of which, one is the nearest and most enticing. The boy crouches at Annyeke’s side. The two Gathandrians do not look at the executioner. The transference of the new emeralds has taken all Annyeke’s strength, and Johan’s mind is on her alone. Love, Gelahn thinks, is indeed a devil he can use.
    Before the Lost One has turned away from the Lammas Lord, his hand glowing a deep green from the magic he holds, Gelahn launches himself across the small space between them, stories clinging like fireflies to his torn cloak, and snatches the boy away. Even as he does so, he feels the cane’s power growing through its contact with the scribe. From his belt, he draws his knife.
    The child cries out, but Gelahn pulls him closer, bringing the knife up and slashing through his hair with it. At once, blood pulsates outwards from where the dagger has pierced skin. The boy falls silent.
    A scream fills the air. It is louder by far than the approaching soldiers of the dead who are responding to the Library’s victory call. Bone on bone and the harsh clang of metal. Hallsfoot stands, one arm steadying herself against Montfort’s shoulder. Her face is the face of a skull and her eyes as black as night.
    Her scream ends in a sudden sob and she takes one step towards him. The mind-executioner does not know where that strength comes from, for she has surely suffered enough for death to take her, yet she still lives. He grips her young charge tighter and raises the knife once more.
    At once, she stops. He sees her body shake.
    Through the soft enticement of legends, the last of them crowding around him, Gelahn speaks, with his mind only. They do not need to say the words aloud.
    Give me the emeralds you have made and the cane you have stolen, he says, and the boy