The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

remaining guards mutter in the shadows and the stallholders have gone from the courtyard—the women, too. Not that he has taken a woman for many moon-cycles, nor any man neither, not since Simon the mind-dweller came to haunt him.
    Ralph thinks Simon saved him during the battle with the Gathandrians, but he cannot be sure. His hair is burnt, as is the skin on his arms and chest. His leg is twisted and cannot bear his whole weight. He doesn’t remember much about how this happened but perhaps that is for the best. It is certainly better not to think of the scribe at all, nor about what he himself has done. He must instead think of his people, the Lammas dwellers. Soon the mind-executioner will return and Ralph must be ready for him. The executioner and he have failed in their endeavours and he does not know what his enemy will do now, nor how he might want Ralph to help him.
    There is no other choice, but he has always known that. The mind-executioner’s hold on him is too great and Ralph will never be free of it. He gave up that freedom when he chose to save himself rather than Simon before the great and fruitless journey to Gathandria that has brought them only more pain and a despair he cannot shake.
    This morning, when the sun wakes him, Ralph finds a moment in the darkness of his mind when everything is as it should be. He is the Lord of these lands, his position is sacred and the decisions he has made over the past moons are mere fantasy and nothing but children’s terrors. That moment doesn’t last long, but it is precious beyond anything he has known.
    It has only been two days since the scribe sent Ralph back here. The thought of another day of inaction is too overwhelming, so he swings himself out of bed, reaches for the half-finished beaker of wine he left the night before, takes a long gulp of its sweetness and begins making the small series of decisions that will keep him alive through to the night, he hopes.
    All but stumbling over the remains of yesterday’s frugal supper of winter oranges and slivers of dried goat meat, Ralph flings open the carved wooden door and yells out into the corridor’s darkness.
    “Boy! Bring me my garments, and fresh water. I need to wash.”
    He closes the door without waiting for any response, limps across the bed area and gazes out of the window. The boy will come. He knows it. Since the death of Ralph’s former steward, only a handful of his personal servants remain with him. But how long they will stay, Ralph does not know. The first morning of his return here, his young dresser’s response was quick, startled, no doubt, by his Overlord’s unexpected return home. Yesterday, the boy had tarried and Ralph had been all but ready to shout for him again when he had arrived in the chambers, bearing the tunic and overshirt he is still wearing. The cloak lies discarded on the stone floor where Ralph had pushed it during his night-time thrashings. Sleep had been granted only with the wine he’d drunk. He should have punished the boy’s tardiness before, but the heart for it has gone.
    Now, Ralph wonders if he will bother coming at all. While he waits, he gazes out over the castle courtyard acknowledging, once again, its emptiness. Only a few moon-cycles ago, he would have seen a hubbub of bread-sellers, herb-dressers, beer- and mead-makers and the inevitable travelling story-tellers, all vying for the honour of being part of the evening tale-bearing. Simon, of course, had been one of these before Ralph had taken him into his employ, although he had sold his mind-skills secretly, as well as offering his talents with writing and herbal cures, a gift learned from his mother, Simon had once told him. Ralph hadn’t known then which of his skills he had meant. Now he’ll never know.
    The air drifts in, smelling of trees and the faint metallic sweat of the few soldiers lurking near the moat. They don’t see him and he makes no effort to command their attention. He has no orders to convey, though he must do so soon, before all his protection is lost. Ralph senses he will need it.
    The time for the beginning of one of Simon’s stories goes by before the boy arrives. Ralph would give the whole of his castle, lands and ancient privilege (though not, please the gods, its people) to know where the scribe is now and whether he is safe, but there is nobody here to whom he can offer such a prize, and none who would take it. Thus far he, Ralph Tregannon, has brought the Lammas