The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

made his body shake and he wondered if he would fall, but the cane itself kept him upright. He felt the flames before he saw them, fire from the earth rising through the artefact, first by its heat and then in vast flashes of crimson and black. The fire-oil must have sunk deeper, a strange magic, and ignited the soil itself beneath the layer of seed. The Lost One clung on to the mind-cane, knowing instinctively this was his best chance of weathering the storm, as the cries of the people from the other side of the field came to his ears.
    There was more danger in Lammas than he had anticipated, but he was glad of it. Here was something he could do; he could drain the fire’s threat at the depths of the earth. So he kept on going, pushing the cane even deeper into the soil and shutting his eyes to the waves of fire and light flowing upward over his body and into the air.
    “ Simon.”
    He heard Ralph’s warning shout, already too late, in his thought before it came to him in truth, and knew the Lammas Lord’s deadly intent.
    No! Do not run to me. You will die.
    He doubted Ralph would obey, but he had no choice but to stay with the mind-cane. So he opened his eyes and searched the skies for the help he hoped he would find there.
    The snow-raven had already anticipated the need; the great bird was plunging from the heavens towards the group of villagers and towards Ralph. The Lammas Lord had barely taken two or three steps across the field when the raven reached him and knocked him to the ground with one sweep of his vast wing. Simon held his breath in case the shock of the jolt onto the earth might ignite some few drops of fire-oil the people had not yet doused but the snow-raven spread out his wings and opened his beak. A perfect orb of gold spun outwards with the snow-raven’s song and for a glorious dawn-lit moment everything in Simon’s mind was silent. The orb burst and a golden river flowed over the field and seeds, over the people and the wood. When it reached the Lost One as he continued to thrust the mind-cane deep into the earth, the fire and brightness turned to silver and then was swallowed up into air. The silence spread beyond his own thought and into his flesh and then it too was gone.
    He let go of the cane, landed with a thump on his back on the soil and stretched out, gazing at the sky. It took him a moment to catch his breath while he puzzled over what had just happened. The fire under the soil had been dampened, buried deep in the heart of the land where it belonged, a success achieved through the cane and through the bird. And through his own action also, he told himself wryly. The fire-oil was no longer a danger beneath them, he could sense it, and indeed the gold from the raven’s song had smoothed over the surface flame and the heat was already dissipating.
    How had the oil been able to sink so far? It should not have done so and it riled him he could not fathom its mystery. In his role as the Lost One of the Gathandrians, he should have been able to hope for some insight, but none came to him. He sat upright and struggled to his feet as Ralph and the villagers made their way cautiously towards him.
    He only spoke when the Lammas Lord and the people were near enough to hear his words.
    “The fire-oil shouldn’t have penetrated beyond the surface,” he said, “but some trick I don’t yet understand had enabled it to do so. We should be careful in this new battle, my Lord, but we are at least warned.”
    Ralph’s response was not what he had expected. The Lammas Lord strode up to him and gripped his shoulder, sending tremors of green and blue through Simon’s thought.
    “You should not have done what you did,” he said, his voice low and urgent, so only Simon could hear. “You put yourself in too much danger.”
    He looked as if he might say more, but the presence of the villagers brought him more quickly to that strong sense of his own role, no matter whether he failed it or not. He stepped away and gazed at Simon.
    “I am glad you are well, Scribe,” he said, more loudly. “It would have been a pity for you to die again, after our efforts to keep you alive.”
    That much, Simon supposed, was true. To die was inevitable, but once was enough for any week-cycle. He did not wish to experience such an encounter with what lay beyond for a long, long time. If the gods and stars wished it.
    They spent the length of a story middle ensuring the field was no longer in any danger and