The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

over the bridge. His feet slip once on the mud, but he recovers himself before falling. The guardhouse stands empty, as it has done since his return. There is nothing left to guard against. The darkness and death they fear lives in their midst.
    In the fields beyond, he can see, or sense, no movement though, of course, his mind-skills are worse than useless in such an open environment. Ralph needs rooms and people to use his understanding to its full capacity.
    Keeping to the hedges, he makes his way towards the woods, calling Apolyon’s name softly as he trudges through mud and grass and corn stubble. It is suddenly vitally important that the boy be safe; Ralph cannot rest until he knows for sure that he is not in immediate danger. He is Ralph’s only ally, and that reluctantly, but the Overlord hopes the heart of his concern is more than mere self-interest. The boy is one of his people and there is much he owes them all.
    The woods are silent in the rain. No hunting owl shrieks its cry of triumph to dark skies. He hurries along the outskirts, heartbeat quickening. Where is the boy? Of course, he may simply have fled and Ralph will not see him again. Strangely, the thought of that draws sorrow to his throat and he blinks.
    It is then that his foot hits something soft on the earth and he falls to his knees in mud and bracken.
    A small voice cries out and at once he knows it is Apolyon.
    “M-my lord,” he stutters, but Ralph hushes him. Something in the Overlord’s mind has already felt a pain that is not his own, but when he draws away that contact is lost.
    “Are you injured?”
    “No. I th-thought you were…”
    He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. His fear of their unwelcome guest is obvious. “No matter. Did you hide the emeralds?”
    “Yes, my lord. I found the book. Then I was frightened, so I ran.”
    The simplicity of his reply cuts through Ralph’s frisson of disappointment. The boy did only what he ordered him to, after all.
    “Well done,” he says and in the gloom Ralph can see the glitter in his eyes at the words. He does not remember thanking a servant before. The experience is not unpleasant. Such a weakness would have earned Ralph the back of his father’s hand, if he had been alive to show his displeasure. He is not though, is he?
    Shaking his head to clear it, Ralph gets to his feet, wiping the mud from his breeches as best he can.
    “I—We—must get out of this rain, and back to the castle. My guest will be waiting.” It strikes him that it would be nothing less than cruel not to see to Apolyon’s safety also, but Ralph finds himself uncertain as to how begin such a conversation. Generations of lordship in these lands lie weighty on his shoulders. “Are...Are you fit to walk?”
    Apolyon nods and struggles to his feet. Again, Ralph should help him, but he doesn’t know how. Side by side but not touching, they begin the journey back home. With the boy’s limp and his own, they are like two wounded deer together, but after two steps Ralph realises there is something more. Without physical contact—an act that would be shameful to both of them—he cannot tell what it is.
    They take one further step together and the boy breathes in sharply, as if the mud and the rain and the field are beyond his ability to traverse. With a quick but heartfelt oath in his mother’s tongue at what his father taught him, Ralph reaches out his hand and brushes Apolyon’s shoulder briefly. The lad flinches and cries out, but it is enough for Ralph to sense what he needs to.
    “The pain in your leg is more than you are accustomed to? You fell?”
    His hesitation is obvious, but he is honour bound to answer. “Y-yes, my lord.”
    Ralph has to lean forward to hear him, by which time the decision is made. “Come then, we will travel to shelter more quickly if I carry you.”
    Without waiting for any kind of response, though Ralph already knows what that will be, he grasps the boy’s shoulders and knees and swings him up into the air so his thin face is level with his master’s chest. The boy is as light as if he were carrying air.
    “No, my lord, no, p-please, it is not…you cannot…”
    “I am the Lord of the Lammas Lands and therefore may do as I will. So be quiet and we will be the sooner at the castle.” Even as he speaks the words, the truth falls well short of them, but it has the desired effect of stopping Apolyon’s protest and they slowly travel the rest of the way in