The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

legends, they still lurked at the edges of her understanding and in her blood. At the corner, the wood began with oaks and elders, their branches snagging at her threadbare cloak and the remains of snowfall sliding onto her hair as she brushed past. She could smell the earthiness of bracken and bark, and the breeze’s dank chill made her shiver. In the weak winter sunlight there had been some kind of warmth, but here she found none.
    Behind her, she heard someone stumble and cry out but, by the time she swung round to help, the woman who had almost fallen had recovered. She nodded at Jemelda who smiled, briefly, and continued their journey.
    “Be careful,” she whispered, “and keep as close to me and each other as you can.”
    Once again Jemelda did not wait for an answer as the need to forge a path through the woods to what she trusted would be a refuge on the other side was almost overwhelming. She could feel the tension in her neck and rubbed her shoulders to try and ease it but it did no good. It was so dark, darker than she had ever imagined. If she let the lurking fear of the legends overcome her, it might feel as if she and her people would never see daylight again. No wonder the Lammassers never travelled here, and no wonder the wolves made their home in this place.
    How she wished the murderer had never come to them and the war had never begun. Soon the stars would surely turn and shine more kindly on them once more. Until then, all she had to do was guard her people and bring them quickly to the safety beyond the wood. Surely the gods would allow her such a small request. There, perhaps, the day she longed for would come upon them. The stars knew she was ready for it.
    So she kept on walking, fighting her way through the undergrowth, praying as she’d never prayed before that they would soon reach the safety and completion she longed for. Her heart was beating fast and her skin was hot, even in the coldness which assaulted them all. Her hands and arms were scratched with the effort of beating down the thorns and stray branches, and she hoped she was providing some measure of protection to those behind her.
    They must have been nearly halfway through the woods when the strange flash of white appeared again, this time directly in front of her. For a moment she thought it was a wolf and, in spite of all her determination, cried out and came to an abrupt halt. She spread her arms wide as if to protect them from its sharp jaws and only then did she see it was no animal. Neither was it anything she recognised but simply a flow of whiteness drifting through the trees. It made her heart rise, and she blinked and tried to see more clearly in the gloom.
    “That’s it,” Thomas whispered in her ear. She had not realised he had been so close behind her. “It’s the vision, the blank parchment. It must be some evil thing sent by the murderer. See, we must destroy it and then perhaps the murderer’s power will be gone.”
    Before she could stop him, the blacksmith pushed her aside so she fell against the roughness of bark, and then darted towards the vision, flailing wildly in an attempt to seize it. The shimmer of white separated and flowed over him so for one long moment Jemelda could no longer see him at all. She heard him scream out and a wave of anger pushed her forward, shouting, as if any of her words might drive away whatever it was which had been sent to attack them.
    A heartbeat later and the whiteness surrounded Jemelda too. She thought she might have cried out but couldn’t be sure as her voice was nothing but emptiness and air. Every thought, every wish, every hatred and every love was sucked from her as if she were nothing but vapour, as if she had never been born.
    Beyond this, however, something stronger than her very self, that wilder presence she could not begin to name held on to her. A rush of sound in her ears, like water, then she stretched out her hands and met the softness of cloth and the warmth of skin. She would save this man from his own foolishness; he was necessary for her purpose.
    Thomas?
    How she longed to say his name but her tongue was trapped and she could not speak. Thomas. In her grasp he was suddenly a dead weight and she could barely hold him, and herself, upright. What was happening? This was her time, her mission and she would allow none to thwart it. Thomas’ foolhardiness would ruin all her plans and desire. He might even kill them all.
    She c ould not allow him