The Executioner's Cane
Read The Executioner's Cane Online
Authors: Anne Brooke
Tags: #fantasy, #sword and sorcery, #epic fantasy, #fantasy series
The Executioner’s Cane by Anne Brooke
Table of Contents
Chapter Two: An Unexpected Guest
Chapter Six: Prelude to a Death
Chapter Seven: Despair and Hope
Chapter Eight: Beginning Again
Chapter Thirteen: A Voice from the
Past
Chapter Fifteen: Battles and
Silence
Chapter Sixteen: The Power of
Death
Chapter Seventeen: The Music of
Words
Epilogue: Three moon-cycles later
The Executioner’s Cane is the final book in
the Gathandrian Trilogy fantasy series. The first of the series is
The Gifting, and the second is Hallsfoot’s Battle.
Simon Hartstongue, accompanied by the
mind-cane and the snow-raven, must travel back to the land he came
from to offer support to the people he once tried to kill. From
Gathandria, Annyeke Hallsfoot endeavours to help him but her
attentions are focused on rebuilding the city after the wars.
Alone and faced with the anger of his people
and hindered by the fragility of Ralph Tregannon's leadership,
Simon has to find a way to bring healing to a dying country and to
renew his relationship with Ralph. But the odds and time itself are
stacked against him.
The Executioner’s Cane
By Anne Brooke
Published by Anne Brooke at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 by Anne Brooke
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system without the written
permission of the author, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may
quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all
other inquiries, contact Anne Brooke at
[email protected]
.
First edition
August 2013
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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The Executioner’s Cane by Anne Brooke
FAITH
Simon
Simon Hartstongue landed with a bump and a
muffled gasp on something not as soft as he’d hoped for. It felt as
if all the breath he possessed had been expelled from his body and
was not anticipating returning soon. It was evident he had not yet
perfected the art of travelling by means of the emeralds, whether
they were the original ones or the two new ones formed by the war,
but at least it was better than travelling by sea. He hadn’t
enjoyed that experience at all.
He staggered to his hands and knees just as
something warm brushed over his cheek. He sneezed, and a raucous
whistle rewarded his daring. When he blinked, he could see the
large outline of the snow-raven hovering only a few fingers’
breadth from his eyes. At once, he backed away. Although the great
bird appeared, for the moment, to be on his side, and had been so
through all the recent battles, he could never be entirely sure of
its intentions. He couldn’t help but notice the raven looked
utterly unscathed by the recent travelling ordeal, but then that,
he imagined, was the gift of flight. He himself was dusty, shaking
and bruised.
When he tried to kneel upright, jagged stone
pierced his skin and he cursed and rolled away. One glance told him
he’d landed at the end of the Lammas village, near the old well. By
the gods and stars, a few paces to the right would have put him in
the centre of the well itself and he shuddered at the thought;
swimming was not one of his talents.
Still shaking his head at his lucky escape,
Simon gathered together the emeralds that had enabled him to
journey here and placed them in the bag at his belt. This took a
while but he quickly found there was nothing he could do about the
way his fingers trembled. Then, skin still glowing green along his
hands, he crouched in the shadow of the well stonework and gazed at
his surroundings. It seemed a long time since he’d been here, at
least as a free man. That in itself was a rare experience and he
hoped it would continue for a while to come. However, what he saw
made his jaw tighten. The Lammas Lands were not as they had been,
even from only a little while ago when he had last visited here.
The mud around the well was churned up and the stones the people
had used as a makeshift path were scattered in all directions. The
trees he could see at the edge of the wood were blasted as if a
great fire had swept through them. He even thought he could smell a
hint of smoke and darkness in the air, but wondered if that was
merely his own suggestion. The small houses of the poorer villagers
themselves were no better – instead of the partially-destroyed
structures of his memory, all he saw were piles of shattered stone
and rubble. Had so much further chaos ensued as a result of the
Gathandrian mind-battle, even adding to the damage he had seen here
before? Simon groaned and brushed a shaking hand through his hair.
If so, the task he had set before himself would be so much the
worse. Well then, come what may; he had made his decision. He would
hold to it.
A faint humming at his side caught his
attention. It was then he remembered the cane.
The moment he called it to mind, the cane
itself leapt towards him and eased itself into his hand. As if it
had been waiting purely for his remembrance: a vibrancy of black
and silver. Simon realised he didn’t feel scared of it this time.
Aware yes, but the fear that had crippled him for so long had gone.
As he gazed at it, its intricate carving glowed in the morning sun.
He held his breath, sure something was about to happen – perhaps
the cane would communicate with him by fire as it had in the past –
but it remained almost inert and instead he turned his mind to
other matters.
He was at last in the same country as Ralph
Tregannon, without the threat of immediate war to flurry the waters
between them. Such waters indeed as they were, may the gods and
stars help them both.
However, he had come here for one main
purpose and, no matter what his blood whispered to him, such a
purpose did not include the Lammas Overlord. At least not directly.
He had come here to help the Lammas land itself to heal, if he
could. The stars above knew the debt he needed to pay to the people
was a vast one, but he could not rest until he had begun his
mission.
Which, by the looks of it, needed to start
soon. The blasted trees, the ruined dwellings around him had not
yet given rise to any sense of movement, or people. It was morning,
just after the time of the fast-breaking, by his calculation of the
sun. The men should be leaving for the fields and the womenfolk
caring for the children or doing the thousand and more tasks left
to them. He could smell no baking and hear no talk or even
laughter, if laughter were possible. Where was everyone?
For a while he explored the village,
stumbling over broken stone and the remains of what the villagers
had abandoned: half-eaten and rotting vegetables; scattered herbs;
a torn cloak, small enough for a child. This last he picked up and
held it to his face for a moment before placing it back down on the
ground. He needed to find someone – anyone – and he needed to ask
them exactly what had happened. How bad the mind-wars had been.
Yes, he had seen the destruction when the mind-executioner, Gelahn,
had brought him here before, and he saw it again now. But he needed
to hear a Lammasser speak. There was of course no guarantee they
would wish to speak to him. After his near hanging in Lammas, it
was only the good will and courage of the Gathandrians which had
saved him at all.
Not a pleasant memory indeed, for a variety
of very good reasons.
In Simon’s hand, the cane suddenly felt
warmer, and at the same time the snow-raven spread his wings and
rose into the air. That great bill opened and from it a single
sphere of gold and black fell into Simon’s outstretched fingers. He
didn’t grasp it but let it settle in his palm. For two heartbeats,
the beauty of it pierced his skin and then the colours flowed away
and nothing remained. Still he knew what the colours meant, or at
least what they meant to him. The livery of Ralph’s army, the
insignia of the soldiers. The thought of it made him shiver but
when he looked up the raven was circling, the beat of his wings
pushing the great bird further away from where Simon stood. Towards
the Lammas castle.
“As you wish then,” he muttered. “I will go
to the castle. Though I fear it is not there my search should
begin.”
Nonetheless, when Simon turned and set his
face towards Ralph’s home, he noticed the warmth in his hand
inspired by the cane spread upwards over his skin, and his
heartbeat quickened. He was still a fool then, as he had always
been. But this time, at least greater matters were at stake. The
matter of repairing the damage done to Lammas, damage he himself
had in large part brought upon their heads.
The path from the village to the castle was
not usually an arduous one, in spite of the climb. In the past
Ralph Tregannon had enjoyed an eagle’s eye view over his subjects
from his home, but the distance between village and castle had not
been great. Now, however, Simon found himself scrabbling for a
foothold, slipping backwards in mud and becoming entangled in
thorns. Overhead the raven released a harsh cry into empty air,
whilst the mind-cane hissed and fizzed in his grip. Simon cursed
and released it. If it wasn’t going to help him at this point, then
it could fend for itself. It always had before. The cane’s silver
top sparked and the artefact began to hum. Simon scrambled away,
slamming his back against a ruined tree which creaked ominously at
the weight of him, but no further threat transpired. He should stop
being so nervous. He was part of the cane and it was part of him.
He understood that now. He should not be so afraid, but a
lifetime’s cowardice did not fade away quickly. He needed time.
“Which I probably do not have,” he muttered
again, wondering if he would in fact ever meet another person to
engage in conversation or not. “Nothing in these wars has ever
happened in the way we planned it.”
The cane quivered and Simon stood up, trying
to brush mud from his cloak but succeeding only in smearing it
further downwards. Annyeke, the new Gathandrian First Elder, would
not be happy if she saw him like this; the cloak had been one of
the parting gifts she had offered when he left the city and he had
been pleased to accept it. He was not a man used to needlework. He
filled a space in his mind with the knowledge he would have to
clean his clothes before he saw his Gathandrian friends again, or
all the gods and stars would never be able to rescue him. Not that
he seemed to have much control over the way the emeralds allowed
him to travel in any case. Thinking about this brought Ralph to
mind once more; the emeralds belonged to the Tregannons. Simon
should in all decency return them, even though he was likely to
need them later.
