The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

softened as he spoke and he reached out a cautious hand to touch his brother’s shoulder. Kanlin snorted and pulled away. Ahelos shrugged. In the silence, a distant shout attracted their attention, and the scribe looked up to see one or two of the men in the disappearing group waving at them. Ahelos waved back as Kanlin spoke.
    “Come, then, we must get back,” he said. “The stranger may follow us if he wishes, but he must find shelter elsewhere. We have no room for him.”
    Simon was about to respond that he had not thought of following them, but the mind-cane fizzed in one hand and a surge of heat from the book almost burnt the other. Still, he did not let go of either, as he had been ordered. After a few moments, the burning sensation faded and he could breathe again.
    In the meantime, Ahelos had clapped him on the back and set out towards the houses. “Come, then, you may rest with one of our neighbours, if my brother will give you no room. But, first, I must gather elm nuts for supper.”
    “You should have done that earlier. We will have to hurry,” Kanlin grumbled but made no other complaint as the three of them veered towards the woods, already darkening in the twilight gloom. Bare branches twisted at the sky as if caught in a wild dance to an unheard music and, from somewhere, Simon heard the call of a hunting owl.
    As he strode behind the two men, the scribe thought it odd that he could pick up no individual thoughts from the brothers themselves. His only understanding emanated from the sensations filtered through the book and he could not tell their origin. He had a sense of history, as if this place, these people, had been here for generation-cycles beyond numbering, and would always be here. Beyond that, the background hum of the village-dwellers’ feelings, exhaustion, satisfaction, hunger, the need for sleep, friendship, love and peace. More frightening emotions, too, swirled in the void left by men and women who had never been real, fear, jealousy, resentment and hatred. All these passed over him and he could not make them stop, or understand their meaning, not fully. He was new to this.
    Nearer the trees, Ahelos took out a pouch from his belt that he unfolded and handed to his brother. “Come then, if we both gather the elm nuts, then we will the sooner be home.”
    “And free from the threat of the river foxes,” Kanlin added.
    The scribe did not like the sound of such animals, but decided asking would only bring an answer to his question and he did not want to know. He thought he, too, should perhaps offer to help, but the younger brother shook his head, smiling.
    “I have only two belt pouches,” he said. “And, besides, I see you already have your own burdens to carry. You will have to keep watch for us.”
    Before Simon could object, Ahelos had turned away and was striding deeper into the wood, Kanlin by his side. In the sky, the snow-raven continued to wheel and dance an intricate pattern, each change of direction accompanied by a harsh whistling. The scribe shivered and plunged into the trees.
    They swallowed him up. Tall, interlocked branches cut out most of the dying light and the only glimmer came from the silver carvings on the top of the cane. He could hear a constant low howling and wondered whether that could be one of the river-foxes—whatever they were—before realising it was only the wind. His own foolishness made him smile but, nevertheless, he tracked the brothers and kept watch as best he could, not that he knew how he could protect them from danger if it transpired. He had no weapon, only the cane, and it did not always act as he might wish. If it chose to be, it was stronger than any knife. But the scribe could not guarantee its choice, especially in a fictional world such as this, no matter how real it felt.
    To his left, he caught the bulky shadow of Kanlin hunkering down beside a great tree-trunk and gathering handfuls of what must be the elm nuts, pouring them into the belt pouch. Ahelos he couldn’t see. His slight figure must be hidden amongst the trees.
    The scribe took a step forward, drawing together his scant supply of courage to tell the older man that already he had failed in his task. He had not been keeping watch and the younger brother had vanished. At the same time, a wave of thick blackness swept over him and he found he couldn’t move at all. The book felt cold to his touch and the mind-cane’s silver ceased to glow.
    Ahelos appeared on the