The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

that is no death when he returns, Ralph must do something. If he does, then, perhaps, when the Overlord is no longer here, the people he is pledged to protect may not be entirely enslaved.
    Where there is breath, tomorrow remains ours. A saying of his mother’s, something to encourage him in a way that his father’s traditions have never fully done, a spur to his feet.
    Pulling himself upright, Ralph finds his legs are even weaker than he anticipated. Damn Gelahn’s dogs. His mind, too, lies shattered within, but at least it is no longer under attack. He has no time to wait for recovery. He must act now.
    In the yard, he blinks in the sun and accustoms his eyes to the glare. He sees nobody. At this time of the morning, the enclosed land around his home should be full of people setting up to trade, greeting each other, the clash and shouts of the soldiers, the laughter of children. It has been the background to Ralph’s life for so long that the lack of it once more pierces his mind. It will be here again one day, he swears. Now, however, he is glad of the emptiness, the thought of anyone seeing him in the condition he is in makes his skin grow cold.
    Still, someone will have to see it because he knows where he is heading. It is the only idea he has, although, that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He stands for too long outside the entrance, fighting against the instincts his father instilled into him almost from birth—honour, integrity, pride and, last and most important of all, the family name. In spite of everything that has happened, Ralph continues to hear his father’s voice. He is sick of it.
    He pushes aside the curtain and walks into the kitchen-area, the place he visited only the night before. At least he means to walk, but his wounds have weakened him more than he realises and, in fact, he stumbles, almost falling.
    At his appearance, the sound of talking and labour ceases. Ralph finds himself staring into the eyes of Jemelda. Next to her stands her quiet husband. The man’s eyes flick from one of them to the other, as if waiting for a fight to start. Ralph is in no state for fighting, but he cannot say the same of his cook.
    She raises both eyebrows, opens her mouth to speak. Ralph is too quick for her.
    “Neither of us wishes me to be here,” he says. “But my need—our need—is urgent and I find myself obliged to ask for your help.”
    He’d intended to sound dignified, but his words came out as a mere whisper, unadorned by pride.
    Jemelda purses her lips as Ralph sways. The sink surface is not such a solid foundation as he’d hoped for. The slight shake of his body must be obvious to all, no matter how much he tries to control it. The smell of stale wine and yeast overwhelms him and he struggles to stay alert.
    Finally, the cook nods.
    “That is as close to an apology as I imagine we’ll get from any of the Lammas Overlords, past or present,” she says. “Sit down, Ralph Tregannon, before you fall. My kitchen will not be made unclean by such as you.”
    Ralph had not realised his words had been an apology of any sort, but he lets it go. Though what she says is harsh, the tone in which she says it is not. Her husband rushes to bring him a stool, and he slides down onto it, grateful for the man’s attentions.
    “Thank you,” Ralph says to him. “Forgive me, but I have never known your name. Might I ask it of you now?”
    This, he thinks, is a simple request, and one made from courtesy. But Jemelda’s response sweeps all thoughts of courtesy far away.
    She takes two strides up to him, grabs a wooden tool Ralph does not recognise from the draining area and brandishes it in his face. He blinks but does not flinch. She is a servant, after all. If Ralph showed fear, his father, if he were still alive, would have beaten him. And all the time Jemelda is shouting. Her voice plunges through his skin and ransacks his thoughts with its stridency and its truth.
    “That is exactly the kind of grievance we hold against you,” she yells. “You know nothing about the Lammas people, not even the names of those who have given their lives to you and your family. You and your father have made us the beggars we are today. He oppressed us and you, with your desire for glory and hatred of peace, have crushed us with your empty dreams of grandeur. Did you not think the mind-executioner would use us, use you, and turn against us in the end? And why did you bring in Simon the Devil to kill us at the