The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

future.
    He growls at the man, hoping to distract him with commands he will already most likely perform. “Rub the horse down and give him only a little hay. I don’t want him fretful.”
    “Yes, my lord,” he blinks and his gaze slides away. Perhaps he, too, is planning rebellion. Such an act would not surprise Ralph and may, indeed, only be what he deserves. Still, he does not have the power to broach the horseman’s mind, and trying to read his emotions will only alert him to any oddities. Best wait until whatever is ahead finally comes.
    For now, Ralph must prepare for Gelahn.
    He takes the courtyard at a run, ignoring the pain in his leg and nearly stumbling over one of the old hunting hounds, blind in its dotage. The swiftness of the movement makes the pouch of emeralds in his belt rub against his thigh. He does not know what to do with them. The one or two men he passes pay him no heed; they are already casting fearful glances at the sky and running for their own homes.
    During the frantic journey inside the castle to his private rooms, Ralph meets no one. The few servants he owns have already fled or are in hiding. He can’t blame them. The last time the mind-executioner was here, the hopes that they had for the Lammas Lands and all the plans he’d longed to share with his people were slowly destroyed. Optimism turned to despair and dreams to dust. Ralph had wanted everything too quickly, and power most of all. It was the desire for that which had brought them all to ruin.
    Once in his rooms, Ralph swings round, seeking for solutions to what is to happen, though he knows there are none. He was a fool to hope in spite of everything that Gelahn would have finished with him. If that had been the case, then Ralph would be dead.
    Death is not the worst that can occur.
    The sky is almost like night, although there are no stars and he makes his way by feel. Gelahn’s arrival has blocked out the sun. Outside there is a terrible silence. Even the animals and birds make no noise. Flinging his cloak from him, Ralph snatches the emeralds from his belt and holds them for a moment in the palm of his hand. Their magical glow seems stronger but that might only be the light of them against the darkness. He must find somewhere to hide them, but where?
    “My lord?”
    The voice makes him jump and Ralph curses, in his mother’s tongue. A heartbeat later, he wishes the words unspoken; he has staked his reputation on his father’s blood.
    “Who is that?” he asks again, this time in the language of the castle.
    “A-Apolyon, my lord.”
    The name means nothing and still Ralph cannot make him out. His mind is too much occupied to try to sense anything outside its own dread. The one thing he understands is this unknown voice bears no threat towards him.
    “Apolyon?”
    “Your new s-steward, my lord.”
    Of course. Now that he’s given Ralph his name, it is as if he’s known it all along. After all, it was he who gave it to the boy many year-cycles ago when he first came to the castle. The lad was too poor to carry his own. Not that it is a real name, given through the formal naming ceremony. No need for that for one who will own nothing when he dies.
    “Why haven’t you fled like the others?” Ralph says. “There is no safety here.”
    “I cannot, sir.”
    No. Of course he cannot. His limp is too pronounced and, besides, he has no home but here.
    The sound of distant howling breaks into Ralph’s thoughts—Gelahn’s mountain-dogs. The noise of them is carved onto his skin. They almost killed Simon once. He is glad they did not.
    So little time.
    “Come here,” he says roughly. There’s no room for courtesy now.
    A scraping over the floor, and then the boy’s hand is on Ralph’s unwounded leg, withdrawn just as quickly. He pays the insult no heed. Instead, crouching down, Ralph takes the seven emeralds in their silk pouch and pushes the small bundle into Apolyon’s fingers. Then he half leads, half drags the boy to the wall behind his bed.
    Opening the trapdoor to the secret library, and fumbling with the lock mechanism, Ralph is talking all the time.
    “Go. Take what I’ve given you and go. A few paces along this passageway, you’ll find a collection of books. You won’t see it as it’s dark, but they’ll be there. When the air begins to smell of calfskin, put your hand out—your left hand. The third book that you touch will be the one. Take it from the shelf, open it and put the bundle I’ve