The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

and misery. When he has won, that will be the time to begin healing the lands, to bring them into harmony with his wishes and desires. Until then, he will use what he can to achieve what he wants, no matter who else will suffer. Set against the final vision, no other but himself has meaning. That is the way of the dark. It is his way.
    As these thoughts crowd his mind with orange and red and black flames, it is then that the partial solution to the problem of journeying to Gathandria leaps up at him.
    Of course. The mountain-dogs. He cannot yet see exactly how they can help him, but he knows they will. It will be made clear when the time is right. For now, the fear of unbalancing the already fragile mind-set of the Lammas Overlord has persuaded Gelahn to keep them leashed and invisible since their arrival at Tregannon’s castle. It had been enough to show them briefly in the courtyard in order to terrify the people into obedience. No need to overcook the field calf, indeed—a Lammas saying, but one Gelahn enjoys. After all, if you plan to destroy a people, why take the language with you?
    The mind-executioner peels back his thoughts to where the mountain dogs lurk. Stretching out his hand, he focuses himself until green and black flashes leap from his fingers. With each strange flash, a wild dog is set free and howls its new-found liberty to the waiting air. Grey and sleek like the mountain they came from, with fierce red eyes. Gelahn allows them to come, faster and faster. It doesn’t matter if he lets them all loose here in this room. They fade and vanish into the walls, the bed, the chair, before shimmering into physical form again. From the ruined mountain, he can conjure up a thousand if he so wishes. The howling, wild sound of them is no barrier, his mind is protected against their baying. It is the people beyond these thick walls who will reap the pain and fear of their presence. He laughs to imagine what Tregannon and his servants are thinking. Let them tremble, let them sweat and cry to think he might release the terror and death of the dogs onto these poor fools. It is best for slaves and women to live in fear.
    At the memory of women once more, he grimaces but pulls the regret up sharply before it can interfere with his mind-magic. Isabella. He is sorry she is truly dead. A part of him enjoyed her company. If she had lived, she might have been his match, with her wiles, her grief and her rage; nonetheless, the other will have to suffice.
    Simon the Scribe will pay for that deed, as he must pay for so many.
    A time and a time later, when the dogs are quieter and are waiting for his command, Gelahn hunkers down and reaches out to touch the nearest of them in his thoughts. It backs away, snarling, bloodied teeth glowing crimson even in daylight and dark eyes gleaming. But it doesn’t attack. They will never attack the one who made them live.
    “You are wild dogs of the mind,” he whispers. “That is where you dwell. But be patient, for soon you will live in the flesh more fully, also. Then your revenge and mine will be complete.”

    Ralph
    The moment the mind-executioner has commandeered Ralph’s room for his own personal use, the Overlord hobbles down the passageways of his half destroyed home, determined to reach Apolyon and the emeralds before Gelahn can discover him first. He hopes the boy has obeyed his instructions about placing them in the secret library for safety. He hopes, also, that he has fled and is no longer hidden next to what is now the mind-executioner’s bedroom, for surely Gelahn will read the boy’s fears and discover him if he is there.
    Ralph’s mind is still trembling at the fact that Gelahn has not been able to uncover his thoughts. The protection of the emeralds must be strong indeed, but already that green glow he can sense but not hold onto is fading. Perhaps it will prove enough to protect the boy, too? He cannot tell.
    As he walks, the walls around him seem to grow darker, something he has noticed in the presence of Gelahn before. There is a dank smell from the stonework, and the remaining tapestries not destroyed by the mind-battles appear thinner, less vibrant. His footsteps echo in the sudden eerie silence. Even in the main hallway, where the north wall is jagged and in places lets through the sunlight, the one remaining tapestry—a depiction of summer—hangs uneven today, the girl’s bright hair ripped across the needlework.
    The mind-executioner’s arrival