The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

Whether sound of limb or not, he cannot outrun the hunger of Gelahn’s dogs. But at least they are chasing him , the whole pack of them. If they continue to do that, they will not harm those left in the castle, those supposedly under Ralph’s care. Sharp stones pierce the thin leather on his feet as he races over the courtyard slabs to the bridge. The guard’s post is abandoned; none care now who leaves or who enters his domain, or what was once his domain.
    Hot breath threatens his legs and he knows the dogs will soon be upon him. He knows, also, how Simon must have felt when the executioner let loose these devils on the mountain and showed him no mercy. Ralph is barely over the bridge now. The village and the well are a lifetime away.
    Instinct drives him, just as the first of the dogs scrapes his flesh with its cruel teeth. His fingers scrabble in the jewel pouch, find an emerald. Seize it. He swings round, casts the emerald towards the dog. The jewel flies through the animal’s head—a shaft of green through the deepest black. The howling is instantly cut off, as if the hound’s tongue has inexplicably vanished. Ralph doesn’t wait to see what happens next. Clutching his cloak around him, feeling the reassurance of the remaining five emeralds in his hand, he sprints out over the field towards the trees and, beyond that, the village. The pain of his present wounds doesn’t matter any more; he is too afraid of the pain that might come.
    Behind him, the mountain dogs begin to howl again.
    Ralph is almost at the trees when they catch up with him once more. Taking the next emerald out of the pouch he flings it at the two dogs a little ahead of the others. This time they are wiser. One of them leaps up towards the orb of green fire, jaws closing round its small form. It vanishes into the dark.
    He screams out a denial, his voice nothing but a whisper compared to the wild howling that pursues him.
    But the emerald is not prepared to die so easily. Green flame explodes out of the fluid stone shape of the dog and the howl accelerates to a shriek, just as suddenly cut off as a river of colour flows from the animal.
    And already Ralph is running once more, the thought of the well and the safety it might bring. To him? To the jewels? He no longer knows any of the answers but thought of the well drives him onward. Branches tear at his skin and hair, but they’re slowing the dogs down, too, only the gods and stars know how. But he has known these woods since childhood, all their secret paths as clear to him as if they are the familiar rooms of the castle. And dogs such as these, he imagines, are not used to woods or forests; their terrain is the uncrowded spaces of the mountains. In truth, they are the mountain.
    Breath snagging in his throat, Ralph arrives at the far edge of the woods. From here, it is only a matter of minutes before he reaches the well. For the first time, the thought that he is leading the dogs towards people rather than away from them slides through his mind. But the well should be deserted. At this time of day, all the water will have been drawn and the people, what few are left, will either be in their homes or the fields. They will hear the dogs, they will hide, and perhaps Ralph is somehow doing the right thing this time.
    Besides, it is him the hounds are after. Once the pack has scented the wolf, it will neither rest nor turn aside to other quarry until the chosen prey is dispatched. They may kill him, but he must hide the rest of the emeralds. Jemelda will know where they are. The jewel he has left with her will guide her to them. She may even be able to interpret their power more effectively than Ralph when the time comes; she is the purer-hearted of them.
    It is imperative he lives as long as it takes him to get to the well.
    Even as he acknowledges that thought, a roar behind him catches Ralph unawares and the next moment he feels the jaws of death about his throat. He opens his mouth to cry out but no sound comes out. Skin rips and his hands, slippery now with blood, tear helplessly at his attacker.
    He will die here after all. He has failed.
    As Ralph falls to his knees, still scrabbling for release, his hand spills open and the four last emeralds drop to the earth. One of them brushes past the strange stone coat of the mountain dog attacking him. Green flames singe its body and a part of it melts away. The hound opens its mouth and howls. Blood streams from Ralph’s neck, but it’s