The Executioner's Cane (39 page)

For a long moment, silence. Annyeke held her
breath, and kept her senses back from exploring what their
reactions might be. Although in this close proximity, some of the
feelings were obvious, the greatest of these being, of all things,
surprise.

It was Frankel, the cook’s husband, who
finally answered her. When she thought it might have been the
night-woman.

“We have always hated the mind-manipulators,”
he said, “but nobody has ever asked us for our consent before.”

“I know.”

Another silence, then, “I will do it, First
Elder.”

The others followed Frankel’s lead, and even
Apolyon nodded.

“Thank you,” Annyeke said. “Sit down and take
hold of each other’s hands. That will build up the strength you
have between you. I think we will have need of it.”

Quickly, she spun a mind-net round the small
hovel. She had no real idea if this would work against something
which was in essence nothingness but there was no harm in trying.
Then, she made her way around each person in the group, using her
skills of touch and thought to link with them in her own mind. She
found first of all despair mixed profoundly with anger, the red and
the black drifting like smoke through her senses. She could almost
smell the acrid darkness of it. Next, fear, distrust and last of
all determination. With the latter she could use the rest. It might
be enough.

When she’d finished, she saw the light in the
room was brighter but it did not seem like the sun. Anxiety at this
strange new development tugged at her thought, its thin strands
threatening to break the veneer of control she clung to in the face
of the unknown. By all the gods and stars, how she hated her own
ignorance. She should be braver than this. And where, by the stars,
was the Lost One?

Simon

The words are mine.

If that were true, he thought, then he would
write them against the whiteness, push back its consuming horror
until it could do no harm to him or those in his care. Those the
Gathandrian Spirit had given to his protection. So Simon the Lost
One took the mind-cane and spun it into shapes in the air before
him. The sparks from the cane fired out gold and mauve and pink and
silver. They were a counterpoint to the white even though they were
not yet words that spoke but those that listened, to his blood, to
his mind, to the snow-raven’s song.

The snow-raven: a whiteness behind this other
deeper emptiness. Perhaps he could use it. As the fiery nonsensical
words danced in the blank air, Simon gazed upwards and around him,
searching for evidence of the great bird’s presence. Yes, he could
hear the song but he could not see where the raven might be and,
with all his soul, Simon knew he needed him.

“You saved me once,” he cried out, “when you
looked to destroy me. Come now, when I need you again.”

At least that was what he wanted to say, his
mind and his tongue combining, but the meaning was swallowed up by
meaninglessness, and the dancing words of the mind-cane were not
enough for him to be heard.

Please, please, the snow-raven, he begged
no-one, nothing and himself.

Then, shockingly and suddenly, the bird was
there, with him. Simon could feel warm wings against his skin and
the whoosh of feather and flight rush past him. With his free hand,
he grabbed for the raven, but the shape of it passed through his
fingers like water. And still the cane-words sparked and shimmered
their brief fire into the air. By the gods and stars, this was what
he had come for and he would not be denied it.

Then from his mind, his heart-words sprang: I
am the Lost One. Come to me.

The snow-raven dipped his wings and halted
his flight at once. Simon could see the sudden banking in the
bird’s wild course and then the raven was returning, responding to
his thought-command. The next moment, the bird’s wings were
sweeping over his head and he reached up with the cane and poured
his energy, all he could give, into the artefact. It took it,
willingly. Silver fire sprang from the carving, upwards into the
raven as he flew and downwards into Simon, pouring like fiery honey
into his mouth and through his skin and flesh.

He thought it might kill him. It did not. It
could not, because he was the Lost One, he was the words and the
silence behind them, he was the story. Now all he needed was the
means to tell it. Part of that, he knew, would be found in the
Lammas village, with the people he had sworn to protect. The other
part of it was not for the telling, yet.

The urgency now lay in reaching Annyeke and
all the others wherever they had hidden. Feeling the silence and
the words both heavy within him, he began to walk. Ahead of him, he
could see the white emptiness surge forward, outracing him utterly,
although he did not think he could run. In spite of his foolish
plans and pointless courage, such as it was, the vacancy had
outmanoeuvred him, by the gods and stars. He spat a curse from
under his tongue in the old Lammas language, as Ralph himself might
have done, and quickened his pace. It did him no good and, besides,
the sudden flow of memory linked to the Lammas Lord held him back,
bright fire heating his blood and mixing too much with his onward
purpose.

He needed something else, if he was to be in
time for his people. He needed the snow-raven once more.

Even before he reached out, the bird was
there, swooping across him at chest level and sparking again that
strange silver fire which linked them. As the great feathers passed
over, Simon could sense open skies and the smell of the trees, the
rush of air beneath his feet and the golden song in his body.
Before he knew it, the mind-cane leapt up, pulling him with it, and
even though it was impossible because of the speed of the raven,
Simon and the cane were on the bird’s back, flying as one through
the silent whiteness.

Like this, they might yet outrun the terror,
he might reach the village in time. By the gods and stars, he
prayed so. And, still, underneath it all, the fierce knowledge of
Ralph lay deep within him.

Ralph

The Lammas Lord keeps up a fast pace, the few
men with him sometimes stumbling as he makes his way through the
outer shades of the wood, but he cannot afford to wait for them too
long. His pace is sure; he has known these woods so well all his
life that his feet seem to find their own way. Perhaps he should
have ridden his horse, for speed, but Nightcloud’s hooves are not
made for snow and ice, and the winter clings to the land. But
something is about to happen, he sees it as clearly as if Simon had
linked their minds together in the way they had used to do. And
damn him for a fool for thinking such things now. He must be a
warrior, not a lover, although in truth he isn’t sure how far he
has ever been able to take that title when it concerns the scribe.
Had he ever been more than master to him? He cannot tell. And it is
not important. What matters is to find Jemelda and to bring her
threat to a stop, before the land itself rises up in anger against
them all.

It must be peace, or death. There are no
other options.

He wonders if he should have first searched
the old caves, but that would be the most obvious hiding place for
the rebels, and if he has learned one thing, it is that his cook is
both brave and cunning in her revolt. If she has been there, then
she will, since the destruction of the crops, have moved on by now.
By the gods and stars, she thinks like a soldier and he cannot help
but admire it. If only she can accept Simon and what his return
will mean, then all will be well.

How he understands it will not be that
simple. Nothing ever is. Which is why he is making his way, with
his small band of troops, to beyond the woods. If it had been him
instead of Jemelda in the position of would-be freedom fighter,
this is where he would go. It is true what the old men used to
whisper at the ends of stories, only half-joking: women are more
dangerous than men.

Nevertheless he will find her and he will
win. That is his role as the Lord of these people, it is at his
deepest core. The realisation that something about himself he has
thought lost has only been lying dormant, waiting to reawaken when
the time-cycle is right, makes him set his feet even more firmly
and fast in the direction he is going.

The resultant crunch of ice and the panting
breath of the men who follow him all but drown out the sudden
slither of shadow and snarl in the edge of the field beyond the
wood.

They are being tracked and how long it will
be before the wolf decides to attack he does not know. Ralph draws
his hunting knife from his belt and urges his men onward. He
doesn’t have to be a mind-sensitive to see the fear in their eyes,
and know they must reach their destination soon or it will be the
worse for them. If Jemelda and her group are there, all the better.
When it comes to fighting wolves, even one wolf, there is safety in
the greater number.

He grabs the nearest man, who has an air of
gravitas about him, a faint echo of earthy brown in his mind which
Ralph hopes he can trust.

“Lead the men to the place beyond the woods,”
he says. “I will cover you.”

The man nods, a mere shadow of the kind of
respect he is used to. Then the men are quickening their pace
towards where the trees thin out and the wild regions begin. Ralph
pushes through the layer of trees to his right, nearer to where he
can see the wolf’s outline, and continues to match the speed of his
men. He curses the fact none of the villagers carry knives, but it
can’t be helped. He’s not sure but he thinks there’s only one wolf.
Unusual in itself but he will not mock any advantage the gods may
give him. If this beast’s mate is near at hand, then they will deal
with it. They have to.

For a few moments, the wolf merely tracks
them but then a sudden howl brings a sharp cry from one of Ralph’s
people, and the animal darts to the left towards them.

Ralph lunges after, shouting and waving his
knife, determined to distract the wolf. The fact he is separate, on
his own, should be enough, and, as he hoped, the beast turns and
snarls in his direction.

“Go,” he shouts, commanding his men as if in
battle. “Find Jemelda! Restrain her till I come.”

Then he pulls off his cloak and, knife in one
hand and cloak in the other, breaks through the lightest of the
trees and runs towards the wolf. It snarls once more at him and he
sees the glitter of teeth in the weak winter sunlight. Along its
body the ribs stand out – by the stars it has been a hard winter –
so he knows it will be hungrier and more deadly than the wolves he
has encountered before. Whatever happens, he must survive. The wolf
leaps towards him. He flings the cloak across its jaws and the
beast howls, a muffled sound through the cloak’s fabric, and
tumbles to the ground. Its claws slash into his arm as it falls and
Ralph cries out at the pain, falls with it.

For one wild heartbeat, he remembers once
more the dogs on the mountain and Simon’s terror, and then there is
no time for memory as the beast is upon him, biting and scratching
and snarling, its hot breath a foul gust against his face as the
cloak drops away. Ralph grips the knife more tightly in his right
hand as he struggles to keep clear of those deadly jaws with his
left. A piercing stab to his shoulder tells him the wolf has hit
home. Soon it will be at his throat and then his hopes and plans
will be as dust in an autumn-season breeze. He twists again, brings
the knife up but the animal’s fierce and frantic lunges slam his
arm away and the weapon falls with a thud to the earth.

By the gods he is done for, but he will go
down fighting. As the maddened wolf lets go of his shoulder and
goes for his throat, Ralph manages to turn towards it and punches
it right in the jaw so that the beast’s head ricochets back. There
is a moment when the power balance between them is up for the
taking and Ralph seizes it. He pushes himself away from the wolf
and leaps towards the knife which lies tantalisingly just out of
his reach. It’s not enough. As his fingertips touch the handle,
excruciating pain plunges into his already damaged leg and upward
through his whole body. Ralph screams, understanding the wolf has
him in its jaws and will not now let go until he is fully
finished.

The animal drags him backwards, releasing its
grip on his leg for one blessed moment before burying its teeth in
his flesh again. Ralph glances at the knife, even more distant than
it was before and curses his own slowness as bright stars and
blackness dance before his vision, a counterpoint to the pain which
threatens to overcome him. Then, suddenly he hears a shout and the
knife slides across the icy ground towards his outstretched grasp.
He can scarcely believe it but has not time to ponder on such
miracles. The handle fits in his hand perfectly, he pushes himself
off in the direction the wolf is taking him and before the beast
can even snarl in astonishment Ralph buries the blade deep within
the animal’s chest.

Hot blood spills over his fingers, the wolf
howls once and then falls away, silenced. Pain radiates across his
leg and he glances down to see more blood, his own, flowing along
his skin.

“My lord?”

He spins round, wiping the sweat from his
eyes. In front of him stands a figure stooped over him, breathing
harshly. For a moment or two, Ralph fails to recognise him but then
reason once more rises within him. It is the man he ordered to take
his people to the edge of the wood. He has come back. Disobedience
indeed but this time he is grateful for it.

“Did-did you give me the knife?” he stammers
out, ashamed of his weakness in front of this villager.

“Yes, my lord. You had need of it.”

That much is true, and Simon, if he were
here, would appreciate such humour. Ralph nods. “Thank you.”