The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

helplessness. Please help him, she prayed, fearing the pointlessness of it. Please help him.

    Ralph

    He has nothing left, or that is what he believes. Simon has the jewels and, as for Ralph, he is spent. This day-cycle he cannot be the soldier he needs to be. The scribe must save them from the silence which has no end, if anything can. Then the darkness falls.
    Time-cycles stop and he cannot tell whether he has been here for a second or a season, but the blackness within does not fade to white, as he is expecting. Instead, it seems to take a breath he cannot take and in which he cannot, though yes he tries, lose himself. From nowhere the darkness pierces his ears and he flinches as words come hammering into his head: Simon. Please help him, please …
    It is the voice of the Gathandrian elder which tears his mind from its would-be rest. He cannot tell how she has contacted him but the anguish in the tone spins him into action. Simon? He must not die, he cannot do so.
    Instinct and anger power the Lammas Lord to his feet. When he opens his eyes, he sees the grim face of the blacksmith from the village. He is standing over Simon’s senseless form, knife raised high, in the act of striking a man who cannot fight back. Ralph cries out and launches himself at the blacksmith. He knocks both of them off-balance, away from any danger to Simon. The blacksmith yells out and Ralph doesn’t need to be a mind-sensitive to understand his purpose. This is battle and there can only be one end to it. As the blacksmith turns the knife on him, Ralph grabs his fighting arm and with one blow twists the weapon away. It falls to the earth and both men lunge to grasp it. The blacksmith gets there first, but Ralph’s blood is up and he kicks the knife out of the man’s reach. This time, Ralph is nearer and he seizes the weapon. The blacksmith is already upon him, hands reaching to his throat and in any other circumstances Ralph would be the loser. But today the gods and stars are with him and he has already turned the blade towards his enemy. The blacksmith lands on the knife, the point of it breaching his chest and shattering his heart. The force of his assault brings the whole weight of him down on Ralph’s body, but blood spills from the blacksmith’s mouth and a moment later he is no danger. Ralph hears his own ribs crack, and pain streaks through him as he is drenched in another man’s blood.
    Before he faints, he hisses at the blacksmith who can hear nothing, but Ralph is honour-bound to say it. “Do not kill the man I have pledged to protect. You are a fool to try so.”
    Then the darkness returns to him but this time it is different and somehow comforting.

    Annyeke
    This time, she knew it, the battle was truly over. The mist vanished and she could see the world again. It was not her own world, but she was nonetheless glad it looked as it should. That, at least, was something, though in itself not a sight which heartened her. The Lammas village lay in ruins, only one or two houses remained standing.
    Ignoring the pain in her hand, she made her way as swiftly as possible from person to person, checking if any were alive and if so what she could do to help them. For the time it took to begin one of their ancient legends, she was the only one conscious, perhaps because her mind-skills were greater and the blood flowing within her was full-Gathandrian, and she had to hold back tears at each death she found. How this grief had risen amongst those who had already drunk their fill of suffering. She wondered if she could have protected them but she could not see how. She had been here, during this battle, and for their sakes she was glad. But for herself she could not be glad, as nobody should have to face this scene without companionship. Every step pulled her to the earth, it seemed, with each discovered death a failure and each man or woman she found still breathing a small success. She started with Simon, and found him not dead, thank the gods and stars, but as pale as a winter stone. With her unscarred fingers, she hunkered down on the side furthest away from the mind-cane and dared to stroke his hair. It did not wake him, but she could feel his thoughts coming to terms with what had taken place, and with his own part in saving them. Words hummed beneath his skin and they made her smile, but briefly.
    Finding nothing to cover him for warmth, she had no option but to rise, or rather stagger upright, and continue her search for