The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

upwards from his leg to his whole body, a jagged series of blows which snatch the breath from his throat. At the same time, his head begins to throb, a blinding dullness that threatens his intention.
    He will not get to his destination by walking. So he must find another way.
    Still gripping the shoulder of the man supporting him, Ralph turns round. It takes him a moment more to steady himself again and he prays no more wolves are within a distance to scent their blood this day-cycle. Because if there are, no power in Lammas could save them a third time.
    He knows what he must do. Slowly, his fingers reach into his belt-pouch under the cloak and wrap round the warmth of the emeralds he keeps there. Their presence eases him. He takes them out and at once there is a flash of white and green in his mind. It makes him grimace but once more it is gone as soon as noticed.
    A few of the men around him stir and mutter when they see what he is holding and the man next to him slips away, but he pays them no heed. Sometimes when the fight is at its harshest, it is better if the commander decides a strategy alone and trusts for his army to follow. Today he will give them no choice.
    So, without a single word, Ralph steps forward, staggering as the bright pain rips through his leg, all but blinding him again, and throws the sparkling emeralds up into the sky. A woman screams and he senses the terror running through the group but it is too late. The green circle he has formed sweeps them up within itself and then they are already deep within the wild and frantic journey.
    He only hopes the destination will be the one he wishes for.

    Simon

    As the snow-raven swept through the outlying homes of the village, the mind-cane all but leapt out of his hand and as he lunged to tighten his hold, the great bird banked to the right and he tumbled to the earth. So much for the dignity of his position. He found himself amongst bracken and thick moss, and thanked the stars and gods it had broken his fall. He did not wish to gamble with death again.
    The cane grew hot in his hand, almost too hot to hold, but he would not let it go. Whatever it was warning him about, he would listen. Simon rolled over and scrambled to his feet, spitting out mud. He must find Annyeke. For one frantic moment, he had no idea whether she and the people had managed to outrun the strange emptiness, but then he sensed her presence, and the mind-net she had woven. Two buildings down, in the night-women’s hovel. He began to run towards it. Glancing up, he saw the whiteness come swooping in, an echo of it rising up within his blood to meet its mirror in the air.
    The silence is also mine.
    Once more he swung the cane through the enveloping mist and saw the path through towards what he hoped was his destination. At the same time, he sensed the snow-raven’s presence in the skies above him, and felt the softness of wings brush through his hair as he kept on running. The bird flashed by him and some of the whiteness dissipated in the beat of its wings. He could see the hovel now. The roof was intact and most of the walls still stood. Annyeke had chosen well.
    All he had to do was get in.
    The mind-net the First Elder had woven was a strong one, though he could sense its structure weakening and knew it would not last long. But it would be a matter of some vital moments for him to find the core within to dismantle it. Quicker to try the old-fashioned way.
    So the Lost One leapt onto the door and crashed the cane and his fists against it.
    “Annyeke!” he yelled. “It’s me, Simon. Let me in for the stars’ sake .”
    Tendrils of whiteness, more than he could fight back against, flowed into the edges of his mind and he flung himself at the door more fiercely. The next heartbeat, the wood gave way as the door was opened from inside and he tumbled onto the floor, scattering the few people huddled within.

    Annyeke

    She’d hoped the Lost One would come to them soon, but she hadn’t expected such an entry into their midst. As the scribe fell headlong amongst them, her mind-net, already fragile, bowed and buckled and threatened to vanish entirely. Bearing in mind the tendrils of emptiness the Lost One had brought with him which clung to his skin and thought like early mist, she could well do without losing her only form of defence.
    “Simon! Help me,” she panted as she flailed about for some hook to hang her thought on.
    She didn’t have to ask twice. He pulled