The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

to do this evil. And she would not: from inside her in a place she didn’t know she had, a scarlet rage exploded. It filled the blankness of her blood and mind, gave power to her skin and flesh so she could reach for Thomas’ head, open her mouth and breathe that same fire that filled her over him also.
    That fire was words: angry, bitter ones which terrified her to feel but thrilled her too. The flow of them through and over her was like being plunged into the baker’s ovens when the heat was rising. When, in her life at the castle, she had passed by the place where the corn-bread was made where the fires were hottest, they had all but scalded her skin. This was a hundred times more powerful and more fulfilling. The bitter heat made Thomas jump and groan, and she felt him struggle to stand. And suddenly, because of the fire or because of whatever dwelt within her or perhaps both, Jemelda found her voice again.
    “Let it go, Thomas!” she cried out, holding him fast to her. “ Let it go. Use the rage I’ve given you and find your words and your mind again . Come back to us and do not ruin what we have so bravely started. ”
    She didn’t know if she’d reached him, or if she ever would, but then he groaned again and this time she recognised the ramblings of speech, though she could make no sense of it. She felt as if the ingredients were there, in her very grasp, but she could not blend them together to make anything good. Because of this, the strange anger flared up out of her again and plunged once more into the man she held. He opened his mouth – she could see it this time – and she heard words. Real words. She was not going to lose what she’d come here for by all the stars above.
    “Jem-el-da?... What …?”
    “Come back to us,” she said, realising how hoarse she sounded, as if she was learning to speak for the first time. “You have been a fool, Thomas, but we can still salvage the power we have, if you come back .”
    As the sheer brightness of the vision loosened its hold on them, and the white emptiness began itself to disappear, Jemelda kept on murmuring any words that came into her head. They were a barrier against the whiteness whose strength had been summoned too soon. They drew back Thomas’ soul from wherever it had been taken and made things right again.
    Gradually, the trees and the bracken shimmered into view and she could smell the dankness of grasses and wood. Thomas breathed more steadily against her but he was quiet and she knew she alone couldn’t return things to where they should be. Anger flared within her again, but then she saw the rest of the people on their knees or clinging to branches around them.
    “Speak,” she said as clearly as she could. “Please, say anything at all. The vision has taken our words and lives away, when its purpose is surely to help us not to fight us, and we must bring ourselves back if the scribe is to truly die. So speak, as I do not have words enough for the task.”
    For another moment, silence. And then the words began to come. Meaningless and uncertain at first, but still that pure melding of thought and sound. It reminded her of the delicious moment when a new recipe came together and she knew it would be good. It kept the darkness at bay. Her people’s words grew stronger and Jemelda began to recognise prayers and old tales, and the names of loved ones, both dead and living.
    Finally Thomas shuddered and opened his eyes. He stared right at her as if he had no idea who she was, and then she saw the glimmer of memory and life come back to him. “Jemelda?...”
    “Thank the stars and gods,” she whispered, words coming to her from deep within where the glorious darkness lay. “You are with us once more. You had, I think, almost destroyed our mission, but we are ourselves again. Some things we fear might actually be for our greater good, Thomas, and you must learn to trust me for this. But, no matter, now we are safe again.”
    A howl from beyond the trees proved her words more than false. Jemelda swung round, holding on to Thomas, and caught the flash of yellow eyes from the shadowy undergrowth. A wolf, and one primed for hunting, if she was not mistaken. By the gods she prayed it was alone.
    “Run!” she yelled at the rest of them. “Stay close together, but run !”
    She hadn’t needed to tell them to stay together as the dense trees would do that work, alongside their own sense, if they kept it. She grabbed the nearest