The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

of encompassing flame and the three of them are spun through darkness on an impossible journey. Annyeke’s colours rampage through him: yellow and green. Meanwhile, the old man whimpers, but does not struggle.
    Ralph has scarcely begun to orientate himself, if such an act were possible, when the green fire swallows itself up once more and comes to rest in the jewels clinging to his fingers, leaving him and his companions exposed to open skies and wild sound. By the gods, he will never grow used to this method of travel, which remains neither elegant nor dignified. But oh how necessary it is.
    He is up on his feet before he has time to take another breath. He knows the shouting before he sees the people, as he cannot forget the voices of those who were once his villagers. Jemelda’s voice comes most clearly to him, and that of the blacksmith too. Above and beyond all these, he sees Simon, his body wracked with suffering on the tree. The rope pierces his flesh, and his tongue is lolling sideways as if desperate for water which will never arrive in time.
    Ralph cries out, one long sharp note that pierces the noise of the huddle of people witnessing this death. He half-lifts the old man in his arms and drags him across the stone courtyard. He doesn’t know if he will need him or what the old man can do, but the emeralds brought him to the scribe’s father, and Ralph refuses to let him go. Behind him, Annyeke says something he can’t hear and he doesn’t stop to listen. He must reach Simon, before it is too late. Perhaps it is already too late. When he glances round, desperate to see if she has any wisdom she can impart, the First Elder is running in the other direction, away from the tree of death. Above her the strange white raven flies, calling out its sorrow in the falling snow. She has betrayed him and later there will be a reckoning, he thinks as darkness fills his mind. If Simon dies then Ralph’s vengeance will never find rest.
    Three times his feet slip on the scatterings of resting snow across stone, the old man holding him back and wailing like a young marsh-cat, but finally he is there, at the execution place. The people part for him like the trees part for the wind and he spits out his commands as they spring from his very depths.
    “You kill this man when it is I who commanded him to do the things that ruined you? How you have judged wrongly, and punished the hearth-dog when you should punish his master. I have spent too long grieving for my crimes, but that time is past. I am here and I order you to bring this innocent man down. ”
    All these year-cycles, and Ralph has never berated the villagers in such a way. Yes, he has suspected them of treason, harried and pursued them and murdered them too, but he has never confronted them like this. Neither has he admitted his wrongdoing, and the shape of the words in his mouth brings its own strange freedom.
    Jemelda, his treacherous cook, speaks first, stepping up and gazing directly at him as if she is an equal. “It is too late, Lammas Lord, as the murderer is dead.”
    The blacksmith curses and spits on the ground. “He died too soon, great sir. The rope should have kept his agony for longer.”
    Without a thought, Ralph knocks the man down so he sprawls sideways, slipping on the snow, and the people surge back. So much has his power amongst them diminished and how he should have remembered this before fighting with those he needs to appease.
    “No, no. ” The voice comes from one he has forgotten and the people have discounted. He glances down, mind pierced with a rising sense of pain, and the villagers crowding them both come to a halt, as the old man cries out again. “My son, my son , I abandoned you and now you are dead.”
    Ralph can see it is true. Simon’s tongue is swelling even in the cold air, and his whole body is slumped on the tree. His heart pounds like the absent drums heralding death and he knows all in one torrent how his crimes have returned to pierce him. He staggers forward but the old man is faster. He reaches his dead son and wraps his arms around his feet, pulling at the ropes that bind him. He is weeping loud enough to wake all the Lammas dead but Simon is beyond any response. Ralph pushes his way through the people to reach him.
    “Help me untie him,” he orders, panting hard and not looking at any of them. There will be time for his own grief later. “We must take this man down. Don’t you think there’s been death