The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

injured leg, but he will come after him. That much the Lammas Lord does understand.
    Outside, Ralph sees his steward. He has almost forgotten Apolyon and curses himself for his lack of wit. The boy will be useful.
    “The fields are burning,” he says. “We must rouse the village and those few dwelling in the woods beyond to help us if any are left who are minded to do so. Bring the drums with you. You know where they are.”
    He doesn’t wait for any response but makes his way through the water and runs to the village. He ignores the pain. May the stars give him the strength he needs to fulfil this task.
    The path to the village contrives to slow him down, but the sense of urgency drives him on. Behind him, he can hear the boy begin to beat the drum even as he must be running to catch his master, and this obedience is a further encouragement to his speed. Finally he arrives at the old well and yells out his message to any remaining few who might be minded to hear him.
    “Fire in the fields, come out, my people, if any of you remain here, and let us fight it!”
    Above him he glimpses a cloud of whiteness floating over the ruined houses and it takes him a heartbeat or so to understand it is Simon’s snow-raven. The great bird plunges towards the earth and Ralph raises his arms to avoid the attack, but he is not the raven’s quarry. The bird flies past him and he catches the soft warmth of feathers on his fingertips. To his surprise, it carries the colours of Simon’s mind, blue and a hint of gold, and he wonders how much the scribe realises this. No time to ponder the meaning, as the raven attacks the house nearest the well, destroying part of the standing wall and bringing the fragile stones tumbling to the earth. The noise brings out a meagre scattering of figures from the shadows, just as Ralph understands the bird is drawing the villagers’ attention more effectively than any of his shouted commands.
    He doesn’t waste time but begins to run towards the fields still yelling his warning whilst the great white bird continues to rouse what people there might be who take shelter here at night from the terrors of the wood. With the noise of the drum swiftly nearing them adding to the fracas, there is no room for anyone to sleep.
    He is ready for it. Because, throughout it all, the wild race to the village and now to the burning fields which are thick with smoke and acrid smells, the Lammas Lord’s blood is up and his heart is racing, his injured leg merely an irritation to be dealt with later. This is battle indeed, of a sort, the fire an enemy to strive against, a physical act he can grasp, not the mind-wars which have left him so foolish and weak. He is a soldier, despite or perhaps because of his father’s best efforts, and he delights in the role.
    At the field, he takes stock of how much damage has already been done and the direction the flames, wind-driven, are sweeping in. Jemelda has started the fire at the south end where the soil is driest but she must have taken fire-oil from the castle or village supplies as flames are even now licking across the field. She has been cunning and he cannot help but admire her. It is not the open plains of battle, no, but it is a good strike at their walls of survival.
    Not only that but the fire is no ordinary fire, even though he cannot understand it. The flames are singing. All the while Ralph has been running here, he has been aware of the faint humming accompanying him and getting ever louder but he imagined it was the wind or his own blood pulsing through his body. He had no idea it was this.
    The boy, Apolyon, reaches him first. The drum he continues to beat draws the villagers after them as, by the stars, the instrument always has the power to move or terrify any Lammasser. Ralph is sorry he has had to use it, but this is war.
    “Do you hear it?” he asks the boy, signalling him to cease the noise he makes with a click of his fingers.
    Apolyon stops at once. “What, my lord?”
    “The fire’s music.”
    Ralph doesn’t wait for an answer. This close to his one remaining personal servant, he can sense his confusion already. The song must be for him alone then but he cannot interpret it. Besides his small band of villagers is coming close behind and he must show them how to act, by deeds not words.
    He darts forward, sweeping the heaviest part of the cloak he carries across the burning soil. The song rises but he shakes it out of his head, quickly