The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

that we shed will be first and foremost in the flesh and the death we deal our enemies will be permanent.”

Chapter Three: A new companion
    Annyeke
    In the small home of the Acting Elder of Gathandria, surrounded by the remains of bread and with two worried men to soothe, Annyeke was about to say something inspirational if she only knew what that might be.
    But the sound of shouting from the street outside stopped her, then the noise of wood scraping on stone. The next moment, her front door was slammed open, the entrance curtain torn down, and a vast mass of wild white terror launched itself through the room towards the table. Blood poured from its frame, and she and Talus and the two men flung themselves out of the way as the beast skittered across the floor and skidded to a halt.
    In the shocking silence following this onslaught, as Talus clung to her, the mind-cane began to hum.
    Annyeke had always hated birds and, by the gods and stars, especially legendary ones. So she stared at the great white snow-raven from the Kingdom of the Air now sprawled on the stone floor against her eating table and shuddered. The beast was almost the size of a grown man, with the span of its wings nearly doubling that length. It brought with it a strange smell of cinnamon and lime which turned her stomach. She could feel the swift tumbling of Talus’ mind against hers and fought for balance for them both.
    Simon was backed up against the wall, the mind-cane abandoned at his side and his hand touching his cheek. No, more than touching it. For a reason she couldn’t fathom he looked as if he was protecting it. Why would he wish to do that? The bird, whatever it might be in reality, was at the moment no danger. In fact, it looked as if it might even be dead, which would be a good thing. There was certainly enough blood for that to be true. The stonework must have somehow torn through its feathers.
    Johan was already there, his hands touching the fallen bird, firm but gentle. Annyeke sighed, then shook her head to dispel the thought.
    “Is it dead?” she asked, easing Talus away from her but keeping her hand on his arm.
    “I don’t think so.” Johan frowned but didn’t look up, continuing his examination of the bird.
    “Am I right? It looks like a…”
    “…a snow-raven.” Simon confirmed it, his voice low, and Annyeke blinked.
    She’d been right, although she couldn’t understand why it should be here at all. She herself had never seen such a bird directly, though many of her fellows had. They were the stuff of Gathandrian legend, talked about in all the ancient tales and many of the modern ones. She’d glimpsed them with the Elders by means of the mind-circle’s power when she was watching Johan take his long, hard journey home with Simon but, because of the light that emanated from them, Annyeke had never seen one in any detail. It had been an impression of whiteness and song.
    “It’s dying,” Johan said.
    “ He ,” was the Scribe’s hissed response. “Their leader is a he .”
    “I can’t sense anything,” Johan turned to Simon, raising one eyebrow. “You can’t know that for sure.”
    “I know. It’s the raven leader, and he’s not dead.”
    Time to intervene, Annyeke thought. Even though she hated birds, she didn’t particularly want a dead one in her home. A dead bird would somehow be even more horrific than a living one, legend or no legend. And the men were, once again, doing nothing to stop this possibility.
    She steeled herself for compassionate action. “Talus, take the largest jug and fetch water from the street well. Simon, give me your tunic. Johan? Can you put the bird on the table? It will be…”
    “ He ,” Simon said again.
    “…he will be easier to tend to there.”
    A small storm of activity ensued as her companions hurried to obey her commands. In spite of everything, it felt good to be doing something at last, however unsuccessful it might be, because she was tired of doing nothing.
    In a matter of moments, the bird was on the table and Annyeke, heart skittering a staccato rhythm, was dipping a piece of Simon’s tunic, torn into strips, into clear water, almost as if this was an everyday occurrence.
    As she began to clear up the blood, at arms’ length and with her face half turned away, she distracted herself from the fact that she was all but touching the bird directly by concentrating on Simon.
    “How do you know he’s not dead?” she asked, praying that whatever