The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

companion, however, who takes the first action. She grabs the screaming woman and begins to race over the grass and weeds. They are heading for the baker’s house. Ralph does not know whether it will be enough, but it is something.
    As he reaches the well, the women stumble over the ramshackle stone of the ruined dwelling and disappear from sight beneath the walls and, as the dogs finally catch up with him, his hand grasps the sides of the well and he feels the hint of water on his flesh. The emeralds begin to sing, something Ralph has never heard before, and he collapses to the earth, beaten and exhausted.
    He expects to die. The hunt is over and the victim cornered. It is now that the final blow falls.
    Except it does not. The dogs cease their howling and the only sound left is the song of the emeralds. It pierces Ralph’s flesh and he drops the pouch containing them. The tune continues, but he could never repeat its notes. They are from a range impossible for the tongues of men; they are that particular shade of white in the leaves of winter-lilac before the coldest part of the year-cycle, a white that cannot be copied in paint or thread; they are the melody that wakes you at dawn when the summer season is at its height and which is half dream, half reality.
    The mountain dogs cower back, whimpering. The emeralds’ song becomes louder and green fire flares out from amongst them. It darts past Ralph’s face so he feels the heat from its depth scald his skin. The fire forms a circle on the other side of the well. It burns away the air around it and darkness fills the space within so he cannot see through to what he knows should lie beyond—the grass, the shattered houses of the poor and the path through the village. Is this the magic his ancestors promised? He does not know and cannot control what it may do.
    At the edge of his eye, Ralph catches a swift movement—dark against the morning light. When he swings round, the nearest of the dogs is already leaping towards him. It comes to him that he is tired of running and he does not want to die like a coward. So he faces the mountain beast full on and, arms stretched wide, tries to roar out his anger and frustration to the emptiness and desolation of the village he has helped to ruin. Of course, he has no voice and he is nothing but a fool. He can only hope Jemelda and the emeralds may somehow save his people.
    But what Ralph expects does not occur. His face is not torn, nor the flesh ripped from his bones by Gelahn’s star-forsaken hounds. The mountain dog leaps over his head and Ralph catches the scent of rock and death as he flies above him. The animal passes easily over the well mouth and plunges into the fire circle created by the emeralds, where he vanishes into the dark.
    The flames leap higher and Ralph only has time to gasp once before the remainder of the pack is following suit. One by one, the dogs disappear into the flames. Each time one of them is swallowed up into the strange green night, Ralph thinks he sees a glimpse of something—someone—that should not be there, but his mind recoils away from the image, cannot admit the chance of it.
    Finally, when all the mountain dogs have vanished, the circle’s voice softens until, with a sudden long drawn out hiss, the flames turn in on themselves and vanish. All he can hear now is the shallow whistle of his own breath, all he can feel is the warm blood on his skin. For the first time he realises he is thirsty almost to death. Perhaps the dogs did not need to finish him off at all. Perhaps he is already vanquished.
    The morning around him shimmers and he blinks to clear his vision. It doesn’t work. Trees bend and dance, and the sun falls and rises in the sky. When he tries to move, he has not strength enough to do it. A sound from his right. Whispering and footsteps. He turns his head a fraction and sees long dark hair, a glimpse of torn skirts, blood.
    Ralph’s last sight before the blackness takes hold of his body is a woman bending towards him, concern and terror in her eyes.

Chapter Nine: Deceits and desires

    Duncan Gelahn
    In the vast expanse of blue and white, which is both the executioner’s childhood Gathandria and a place of emptiness where the Spirit has led them, the mountain dogs appear as if from nowhere, leaping through air into air from a mysterious circle of green fire. The Lost One cries out, but Duncan seizes him, stops him from running.
    “No,” he whispers. “Their blood