The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

long ploughs, shoulders bent under the strain.
    As the scribe continued to watch, the book he held began to glow a brighter shade of green, but it did not burn him. At the same time, the raven spread his wings and launched himself upwards, flying towards the crowd of weary workers. The bird made a slow circle in the sky above their heads, although none appeared to notice, and then began to return to Simon. As if drawn by an invisible cord, two men left their companions and followed the raven’s path, on earth as he in sky, towards the scribe. The taller of the two was dressed in black and the scribe scrambled backwards, thinking for a heartbeat or two that it was the mind-executioner once more. But no, this man was older than Duncan Gelahn, and his face was gnarled and lined with the sun. Next to him, the shorter man was dressed in red. He was younger but the resemblance to what must surely be his father or his brother was obvious.
    They are brothers. This is their story.
    The book was talking to him, its voice filling his mind, spilling over his skin and changing the attitudes and actions of his heart. He and the book he held shared the same thoughts and spoke the same words. They were one.
    This is their story and I am living in it, he told himself. Or perhaps it was the book who told him? He could not say. This must be the level of story telling Johan had told him about on their journey over the sea. He was more than listening to it, he was dwelling in it, in a way he should not have been able to as these were no memories of his but the legends of an unknown people. He could see, smell, touch and taste the story, with his body and with his mind, too. It felt as if he was caught in a river rushing to the sea and the current was too strong for him. His breath came in gasps and his hands were shaking.
    But still he held the book, couldn’t let go. And now the raven had alighted on an oak tree only a few paces away and the two brothers were all but upon him.
    “Who are you?” the older of them asked, and the scribe gasped at the fact that this…this… legend should actually be able to talk to him. But hadn’t he already heard the voices of the brothers’ people? He should have been ready.
    “ Who are you?” his questioner asked him again, this time accompanying the words with a prod at Simon’s shoulder. “Have you come to spy upon us?”
    The scribe stumbled and saved himself only by means of the mind-cane.
    “Leave him alone,” the younger man said, his voice a gentle stream compared with the rough edge of his brother’s tongue. His hair was also a deep black set against the silver streaked hair of Simon’s questioner. “He hasn’t harmed any of us, has he?”
    “No. No, I haven’t. And I don’t intend to.” The scribe suddenly found his voice and tried to stand taller against the bulk of the elder brother. He hadn’t tackled a man who didn’t exist before, but that was no reason not to try. “Why do you assume the worst about those you do not know?”
    The elder brother frowned but made no move to strike him as Simon had thought he might. Instead, the younger man answered, with a laugh. “He’s right, Kanlin. You are too suspicious. You make things hard for yourself in life, you know. And at this time of celebration, you should try not to make yet another enemy.”
    “Hush, do not share our secrets with all you meet,” Kanlin grunted, directing his deepening frown at his brother. “You do not know what use they might make of them.”
    Simon couldn’t help himself. He laughed. The thought that he was actually here, living and breathing a story someone else had told many generation-cycles ago, made his blood sing.
    “I can make no use of things I do not understand, can I?” he countered. “And, as this is the first time I have ever been here, then believe me, I understand nothing, but I will offer you one of my secrets if it will help you. My name is Simon Hartstongue of the…White Lands and I am a scribe. I am, I am told by others, also One Who is Lost, but neither of these truths can bring you harm.”
    Kanlin shook his head and stepped away, while the younger brother smiled and tried to hide it.
    “I greet you,” he said. “Welcome, Simon Hartstongue, to our world. My name is Ahelos and I am a tiller of crops. My brother, Kanlin, is the protector of our livestock, and we rely on him for many things. I, and all of our people, could not do without him.”
    Ahelos’ expression