The Executioner's Cane (25 page)

“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 want to step back but she
stopped herself. Then he turned away as if she were utterly
unimportant to him and recommenced his slow shuffling walk away
from the castle and towards the village.

Part of her wanted to pull him back and make
him choose, no matter what, but there was no sense in it; she had
to redeem the time-cycle she had wasted as soon her people would be
waiting for her at the edge of the houses where she had asked them
to be. Her task was still to complete. The old man could wait and
in any case if he spoke of what he had seen he looked foolish and
fond enough that no-one left would believe him.

Jemelda ran the rest of the way, the strange
encounter still pulsating in her bones. She knew him, but she did
not know him. It was a strange night for them all. At the castle
stream, she stopped her maddened flight and waded across as quietly
as she could. She felt hot even in this winter-cycle night, and her
blood was pounding in her head. Here was where her faithless
husband dwelt, and here were the supplies she needed to steal for
her mission: a terrible contradiction. Above all, she hoped Frankel
would be sleeping peacefully and would never realise she was
there.

At the kitchen, she lifted the curtain and
entered, her senses on the alert for any movement. She and Frankel
were accustomed to sleep in a small room next to the kitchen, but
her husband was a light sleeper and she would need to be careful.
Once the curtain fell back behind her, the moonlight was lost, so
she waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Not that she didn’t know every span of her own domain as she had
left it, but she could not guarantee Frankel would not have moved
something in her absence.

When she was ready, she made her way as
quietly as she could around the great table and towards the
firewood store at the far side of the room. A few small branches
were all she would need, along with the fire-oil which would make
the flame spark more quickly. They wouldn’t have a story-full of
time. Once on her knees and scrabbling amongst the wood, she
thought there were fewer branches than there should be but then
again they would have had to heat water to salve the murderer’s
wounds. She wondered where he was and if she might indeed finish
the task she had begun in a different way. But if death wouldn’t
hold the scribe, and he had the power of the mind-cane with him,
what would be the point? No, she’d been right in her original plans
and she would keep to them. Besides, within the castle and after
the law of their land had had its way and been found wanting, he
would be well protected and her time was not yet.

She gathered what she could, all the time
listening out for any stirrings from the bed-chamber. When she had
enough branches, she took three pots of fire-oil and tied them to
her belt, making sure the stoppers were fully in place. Then she
turned to make her way to freedom again, but this time something
stopped her. She couldn’t bear to be so near her husband, no matter
his betrayal of her cause, without at least glimpsing him again.
They had been joined for so long. Taking a breath, she laid her
burdens on the table, making sure she could gather them together
again easily, and crept over to the sleep-chamber. For a moment she
listened and caught the sound of quiet breathing. Frankel was
safely asleep. She edged the thin curtain aside and blinked until
she could see the blurred shape of him in the dark. He was lying in
his usual position: on his back with one gnarled arm flung out to
one side, his head turned towards it, away from her. With all her
heart, Jemelda wished it was possible to step forward, remove her
cloak and lie down next to him, safe at his side again. But it
could not be so; she had made her choice, and he his, and the two
of them must complete the decisions they had made, apart rather
than together. How she hated the wars that had brought them to
this, and most of all how she hated the scribe. He should never
have returned to them, no matter the reasons he might have had, and
he would die as soon as she could bring her mission to fulfilment.
No other options remained to her: the recipe was written and must
be made.

But this night at this moment compelled her
to be still and gaze. She longed to speak to Frankel simply for the
joy of hearing his voice in response. It didn’t matter what he
might have to say, all the wrongs he would no doubt accuse her of.
She wished she could persuade him to change his mind and follow
her, to lead her army into the battle they faced, but she knew
Frankel of old. She understood his decision, once made, would not
be lightly cast aside. If she woke him, he might even call for the
Lammas Lord and the villagers who remained, and cast her into the
dungeons, as the scribe had once been cast there. She had no wish
to become a prisoner and face an unjust judgement. She must go.

Before she did, she reached out and stroked
her husband’s cheek. His skin felt rough with the growth of
whiskers and she couldn’t help but smile. Odd how her face felt
wet, but she did not try to wipe the wetness away. Some scars were
honour-bound to remain, would likely never vanish. Her gesture did
not cause Frankel to wake, but she hoped he would remember
something of her presence, perhaps in a dream that would last into
this coming morning and all the day-cycles beyond it. She wanted it
to be something to soothe him in the hard hours ahead.

Jemelda said goodbye to him in the privacy of
her mind and turned to go. A slight sound caused her to turn back
again but no, she must have been mistaken as she saw no movement
and her husband did not challenge her. She knew if he were truly
awake, he could not have helped but speak. Swiftly, she gathered
her store of wood, checked the fire-oil bottles remained secure and
walked across the kitchen towards the outer curtain. For the sake
of her land, she refused to linger any more in this place where she
had lived and worked for so long, and instead, lifted the curtain
and entered once more into the night. The most dangerous part of
the mission was still to come and she would, by all she held true,
be ready for it.

Behind her, if she had but known it, Frankel
raised himself from his sleepless bed and gazed after her in utter
silence.

Simon

Something woke him in the night, but it
wasn’t pain. He’d grown used to a low level of that over the last
few hour-cycles and had even managed to sleep now and again, so the
Lost One was puzzled when he opened his eyes and stared upwards at
the broken ceiling. From instinct he glanced at the cane and saw it
glowed faintly in the darkness but it wasn’t moving or trying to
attract his attention. It was as if whatever it, and he, had sensed
was something it had expected to happen. Simon wished he knew what
this was, and he also wished he had not woken from a dream of Ralph
he blushed to recall. But it could not be helped; he was still a
man. He shook the memory away and gazed more fully at the
mind-cane. No, the glow had faded even in such a short space of
time and he was the only one awake in this star-forsaken hour.

He should turn to sleep again and for a few
moments he tried to follow his own advice. It did not succeed. So,
cursing softly under his breath, he struggled to a sitting position
on the pillows Ralph had somehow found for him. The warning,
whatever it was, pulsated in his head and he could not gainsay it.
Besides, if he was the Lost One and the only one awake, then he
needed to know what danger might lurk for them here.

Getting up took longer than he’d expected.
Each stretch of his limbs and even each harsh breath brought him
pain. As his foot finally touched the stone floor, he gasped at the
chill and at the sudden burst of crimson flooding his thoughts, and
the sound must have woken the mind-cane, if sleep was familiar to
it, as the next breath found the artefact trembling at his right
hand. Simon ignored it, unsure if any other movement might whirl
him to an inner darkness, and instead placed both hands, palm down,
on his knees.

I need to get to the window, were the
thoughts that sprang from his mind, and he knew the cane understood
them, I need to see what’s out there but in a moment or two when I
am stronger.

You are strong now, were the words that
returned to him, framed in silver and black.

So you say, but you do not have flesh and
blood as I do.

The cane hummed briefly, and Simon almost
smiled to hear the note of disapproval in its song. He gave himself
another few breaths to recover and only then eased his fingers
round the cane’s silver carving.

Come then, I can bear your help now.

Standing upright made him dizzy and he found
he needed the mind-cane for its practical support for the first
time he could remember. Still its shape in his palm warmed his skin
and he could feel the flashes of green and blue sparking between
them. His heart beat faster and he couldn’t help but wonder at how
natural the cane felt to him now, and in spite of the pain that
still dogged him.

He took a breath and began to walk, or rather
hobble, towards the window. No doubt by the time he arrived there
whatever it was which had awoken him would have vanished, but he
felt no sense of urgency. In fact he felt he had all the time in
the lands to do whatever he wished. Would that were true, even for
a heartbeat. At the window, the cold night air stirred his borrowed
undershirt and he shivered. He had not thought to reach for a
cloak, even if one were to hand.

He steadied himself on the broken frame,
managing to avoid the worst of the jagged stonework, and gazed
outside. Clouds covered most of their stars but the moon was full
and cast an eerie and shadowy light over the courtyard. He could
see nothing so perhaps he had been wrong and he should have hurried
to look outwards. No matter, what was done was done and he was
nothing but a fool. He sighed and was about to make the journey
back to the bed when the mind-cane twitched and a flare of heat
flashed upwards through his arm.