The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

not tell for sure, the small group reached the outskirts of the village. Even though the night shrouded all things, she could see the jagged shapes and shadows which made up the now ruined homes, the trading areas and, nearest to her, the ancient well.
    “You know what you have to do, each of you,” she turned and whispered to her would-be rebel force. “When you have done it, meet me at the other side of the village in a summer story’s length and then we will go to the fields. Remember: do not hesitate or falter in your purpose as the survival of our land depends on you.”
    They slipped away, hazy figures disappearing into darkness. Jemelda felt the stuttered beat of her heart and hoped to all the gods and stars they would be well; these people were the only army she had. As their leader, she had allotted herself the most difficult task and she knew she must do it quickly, before her courage failed her. Her determination never would. So she slipped along in the shadows of the destroyed houses, hearing the faint movements around and within them, some from her people and others she imagined from those who had stayed.
    Soon she reached the other side of the village and looked up to see the familiar and imposing shape of the castle framing a deeper shadow against the night sky. She had once called it home, but now it was the home of her enemy. Here was the most dangerous part of her journey and the reason she had chosen not to send anyone else but herself: the path from the village to the castle was bereft of places to hide, especially in winter, and even though she knew she was being foolish, anyone who chose to gaze out of any of the windows could very well mark her arrival. Yes, it was night and the darkness would itself be a shield but who was to say what the murderer’s mind-cane could do? Perhaps the murderer knew even now the nature of her plans and hopes. She shivered and, head down, began to walk. Then let him.
    Halfway there, she heard a noise and crouched down at the side of the pathway, stopping the cry which came to her lips. Blinking fast, she tried to adjust her eyes to the low light and see what it was that had disturbed her. If it was a wolf, then she would need to run although it would be impossible to escape, but if a man or woman then perhaps they had not yet seen her. For a long moment, the silence flowed around her, with not even an owl’s cry to break the spell. But then it came again, a shuffling sound followed by a harsh intake of breath. Lammasser then, not wolf. Jemelda crouched lower, and strained her eyes again in the direction of the noise. At first she continued to see nothing, only hear, but then suddenly as if it had always been there but she hadn’t had the wit to mark it, the shape of a man, stooped over, came into view.
    From the way he was walking, she knew he was old, his grey beard glowing a paler shade in the moonlight as he slowly passed her. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it, the memory slipping from her head as she struggled to remain silent. When he was directly alongside her on the path, he standing and she as close to the earth as she could get, he paused, sighed and looked directly at her. For a heartbeat or two of madness, Jemelda was set to run, away from the old man and perhaps even further than that, away from the village and the fields, her army and the task she had set herself. How she longed for Frankel. Then the feeling vanished and she stared right back at the traveller, daring him to accost her.
    An owl screeched a hunting cry above them, and the shadow of wings flashed over their heads before disappearing into the dark. The old man sighed and shook his head, as if he had judged her and found her wanting. When in fact what she was doing was the bravest act of all. He was nothing but a fool and she despised his cowardice, and his age also though it could not be far from her own.
    Standing at last, she took a step towards him and she thought he flinched but it might have been a cloud across the moon. She would act the leader, no matter what.
    “So,” she said, her voice cutting through the blanket of the night which stood between them, “are you one who will fight with us to save Lammas or are you a traitor who stays with our old Lord and his murderous scribe? This is your time to decide.”
    The old man did not answer. He merely continued to stare at her as if he was seeing something else entirely. The force of it made her