The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

within her. She could hear the screaming and how those around her, both friend and enemy, were dying or trying to escape. But to where she could not guess. The mist was all around and within and would not let them go till its deadly and wonderful purpose was complete.
    Your time is now, trust yourself.
    And she found she did. Reaching out, she touched someone – she thought it was Thomas but couldn’t be sure – and used his body to thrust herself in the direction she had last seen the murderer. With her other hand, she bent down and scrabbled at the floor. This house was a poor one and there would be something there for her purpose. Her heart beat fast at the thought of it. Sure enough, as the right herbs make the dish sing, her fingers found rough stone and grasped it. It was heavier than expected but she had the strength of two women, one dead and one living, to lift it.
    She took two steps forward and then heard the old man, the murderer’s father, scream. The murderer must be with him but for what reason she could not tell. Then she saw the scribe. He landed heavily in front of her as if he had suddenly arrived from a great distance and a long journey. His face was pale and his eyes shone with terror. The voice had been right. Now was her time, their time. Before the man could recover himself, she lifted the stone high and began to bring it down upon the murderer’s head.
    From nowhere, someone else stepped in front of her, someone thin and grey-haired, his eyes wild with a strange knowledge she couldn’t comprehend. The murderous scribe disappeared from view, the old man pushing him away from her attack. But it was too late to do anything to stop herself, the blow was already in motion. With a great cry, she brought the stone crashing down on flesh and bone. She heard a splintering sound and then a gurgled moan, cut off suddenly. The next moment something warm and wet splattered over her hand and face and she couldn’t help but gasp. The taste of blood in her mouth, iron and bitter. She prayed the blood was the scribe’s.
    Then she heard his voice.

    Simon

    “Jemelda.”
    Simon felt his father die, his mind ripped from his fragile body in one overwhelming flood of deep colour which was there for a heartbeat and then no more. The physical contact between them as his father’s body lay sprawled on top of him plunged the sensation deeper within his thought so he would, he believed, never be free of it. He tasted blood in his mind before he felt it on his lips and the mind-cane tumbled away.
    “Jemelda,” he gasped, somehow dragging himself to his knees, clasping his father’s body. “What have you done?”
    Her only response was to lunge for the stone again, her deep fury driving her onward. The next target would be himself. Simon could not have let go of his father if he had tried, but he grabbed for the stone anyway, as far as he could see it in the mist. His fingers touched its rough surface and then slipped away as Jemelda got there first.
    Even though she couldn’t speak, he could hear the words in her head: This time, this time we will succeed.
    She raised the stone above him and began to bring it down towards his head. Whatever happened, he could not move fast enough to escape her. And the cane was out of reach.

    Annyeke

    She could hardly breathe, couldn’t form a thought, the only image in her mind being that of Johan. She had to get through this, she refused to leave him. Annyeke Hallsfoot, First Elder of Gathandria, would not die here, and neither would those she’d brought with her, as far as she had the power to save them. When the whiteness fell amongst and within them, Annyeke had felt her words wash away, along with those of the people and all she had left were the pictures they held in their thoughts: war, storm, and winter fields.
    One image within was almost stronger than all, only Johan being more deeply ingrained inside her. She could see a woman’s hands and a stone dripping with blood. Dread flowed through her, the need to do something to stop whatever was about to happen forcing her forward though she could see nothing. Then in the middle of the screams and terror, she heard it: the clatter and fizz of what must surely be the mind-cane falling to the floor. She ran towards it. It would lead her to the Lost One.
    The next moment, she could sense Jemelda reaching for something out of her vision. There was blood everywhere, she could smell it, and prayed it wasn’t