The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

So near. But the raven plunges between Simon and himself, the adamantine strength of its wings beating away Duncan’s desperate grasp. As darkness sweeps over the executioner once more, the bird snatches up the cane in its beak and bears it upwards, upwards, through the open roof of the Library and into the freedom of air.
    His fruitless scream rises and fades away. At the same time, fire tracks from the cane the raven carries. Its crimson talon falls to the earth beneath and the Library is engulfed in a scarlet roar which somehow fails to kill them. Instead, they are, for the moment, held safe in a circle of blue while the fire rages round them.
    He had not expected to feel the King of the Air’s anger and the harshness of his wing. It is because of this and this alone that the mind-executioner stumbles. It is because of this that the mind-cane is lost to him once more.
    Too late to curse the gods in the fire. For, in spite of the heat and terror, the scribe, for all his foolishness, is upon him in an instant. The weight of the Lost One’s body knocks Duncan to the floor and he struggles for breath.
    Nausea at the man’s closeness prickles at the executioner’s tongue. He is not accustomed to such unlooked-for contact. For many year-cycles, he has lived only in his mind. The elders’ cage taught him that. With a twist of his body, he frees his arm and brings his hand up to the Lost One’s throat. He could kill him, even without the cane. But that would be in the body only; the coward’s mind would still be free. Not only that, but such a death would unite the Gathandrians against him and the land would never be his. He should have killed Simon before he came to the city. He knows that now. The Gathandrians have chosen to believe this man, a murderer and a traitor, might be their saviour, and everything has changed.
    Duncan moves his hand upwards, clamps his fingers on the scribe’s forehead and penetrates his mind as he did before.
    Although he should not be able to do such an act, the Lost One speaks.
    “Why do you hate me so?” Hartstongue asks, sweat lining his forehead and the vast uncharted sea of his thoughts almost drowning the executioner with its wild currents. “No matter what the Gathandrian legends say, what have I ever done that you should hate me? ”
    Duncan stares at the scribe and realises that power from the other companion here in Gathandria who holds to him in secret is still open to him. He takes a decision he had not thought to take.
    It is precisely at this moment that the flames break through.

    Simon
    Snatched from the world of the story and back in the heart of the Library, Simon flung himself onto the mind-executioner as the fire around them roared out its bright hot anger. He still had no idea how Gelahn had spirited himself here, but he had to do something. The snow-raven had rescued the cane. He was on his own now. Such courage as his act seemed to indicate was borne of desperation alone.
    For a heartbeat or two, it almost seemed as if he might have some power after all. He knocked his enemy to the floor, taking care not to touch his head and building a wall in his mind that might slow Gelahn down, even if it would not stop him. The two of them scrabbled for purchase on the stone, then the executioner’s fingers reached for his throat, pressing so hard into his skin that he could scarcely breathe. The flame’s roar grew louder, as if it dwelt in his head alone. His skin poured out sweat. Then, in spite of Simon’s attempts to delay the inevitable, Gelahn’s hand was at his head and his foolish mind-wall was breached as if it had not been there at all.
    He opened his mouth to surrender, beg for mercy if any could be found. What he said was not what he had meant to say:
    “Why do you hate me so? No matter what the Gathandrian legends say, what have I ever done that you should hate me? ”
    Gelahn stared at him and the onward penetration of Simon’s mind suddenly vanished. Before he could pull himself free, fire breached the strange undulating wall around them and consumed them both. The scribe screamed and, from instinct, clutched at the man at his side, feeling the heat crackling his hair.
    Then one word: Come.
    Wild sparks flew from the mind-executioner’s skin as the heat roared out its fury. All the parchment and binding roared back in answer, cream shading transmuted to crimson, a destruction of words. He could no longer sense the Spirit of the Library. The