The Executioner's Cane (44 page)

Before he faints, he hisses at the blacksmith
who can hear nothing, but Ralph is honour-bound to say it. “Do not
kill the man I have pledged to protect. You are a fool to try
so.”

Then the darkness returns to him but this
time it is different and somehow comforting.

Annyeke

This time, she knew it, the battle was truly
over. The mist vanished and she could see the world again. It was
not her own world, but she was nonetheless glad it looked as it
should. That, at least, was something, though in itself not a sight
which heartened her. The Lammas village lay in ruins, only one or
two houses remained standing.

Ignoring the pain in her hand, she made her
way as swiftly as possible from person to person, checking if any
were alive and if so what she could do to help them. For the time
it took to begin one of their ancient legends, she was the only one
conscious, perhaps because her mind-skills were greater and the
blood flowing within her was full-Gathandrian, and she had to hold
back tears at each death she found. How this grief had risen
amongst those who had already drunk their fill of suffering. She
wondered if she could have protected them but she could not see
how. She had been here, during this battle, and for their sakes she
was glad. But for herself she could not be glad, as nobody should
have to face this scene without companionship. Every step pulled
her to the earth, it seemed, with each discovered death a failure
and each man or woman she found still breathing a small success.
She started with Simon, and found him not dead, thank the gods and
stars, but as pale as a winter stone. With her unscarred fingers,
she hunkered down on the side furthest away from the mind-cane and
dared to stroke his hair. It did not wake him, but she could feel
his thoughts coming to terms with what had taken place, and with
his own part in saving them. Words hummed beneath his skin and they
made her smile, but briefly.

Finding nothing to cover him for warmth, she
had no option but to rise, or rather stagger upright, and continue
her search for life in those around her. As she swayed before
recovering her balance again, she felt the brush of great wings
against her face and had to stop herself falling. The snow-raven
paid her no heed. Instead the bird hopped through the devastation
towards Simon’s head and spread its wings so that they formed a
covering over him. Trying to regulate her breathing and unclench
her hand, Annyeke acknowledged the bird’s action would at least
keep him warm as he slept although its presence unsettled her.

So she nodded once and could have sworn the
raven did likewise to her. But she had no wish to prolong the
moment, especially when those around her needed what skills she
could offer.

By the time she finished her search for the
living, Annyeke could barely stand. At each man or woman who still
breathed, she crouched down and touched their foreheads gently,
giving something of her own mind-strength to each. She trusted it
would be enough to keep them alive until someone else should wake
and help her carry them to shelter. Should there be any such left
in the village.

The first of them to do so was the Lammas
Lord.

Ralph

He coughs himself into consciousness, the
ache in his leg rising like fire through the rest of his body. He
is lying on his side, pressed up against flesh which smells of
blood and sweat and iron. It is the blacksmith and Ralph pushes him
away, the aroma of death making his gorge rise. He staggers to his
knees and spits out bile as he surveys the scene.

The treacherous mist has gone and he can feel
his memories come drifting back. That, as Simon would say with the
half-ironic tone he has learnt to love, is something to be grateful
for in the midst of this destruction. Every sense alert to any
other threat and danger which might arise, he looks for Simon but
sees at once the great raven is there before him, vast wings
spread. For a moment, and with a beat of his heart he has no time
to dwell over, he is ready to protect the scribe once more but the
bird is not the enemy and indeed has been more of a friend to Simon
than he has been. He will not disturb whatever magic it might be
performing. He only hopes its work will be successful.

He glances round again and sees the First
Elder. She is crouching beside someone on the opposite side of the
path. He sees a flash of orange leap from her hand and disappear
into the body next to her, and at once he is up on his feet
again.

“What are you doing?” he shouts at her,
though it is more of a harsh whisper than a shout as he almost
falls again.

She hears him somehow and, may the stars
bless her, hurries to his side to offer support. He is pleased to
find he is not too proud to accept it though he does not lean on
her for long. What kind of soldier and lord would he be if he
does?

Annyeke smiles. “I forget how traditional you
Lammassers are. I think there are many other things you could
rebuke yourself for apart from that, Lord Tregannon.”

That makes him blink and he removes his hand
from her arm. He cannot gainsay the truth of her words, but she has
not yet answered his question. “What were you doing? I saw colour
go from you.”

“I am doing enough to give your people, who
have somehow survived this battle, strength as they come to
themselves again,” she answers with a slight twist to her mouth. “I
don’t believe you can charge me with the crime of murder.”

No, he cannot. It is simply a soldier’s
instinct for treachery and the almost overpowering urge to protect
his people has for a moment or two obliterated his better
judgement.

“I know it,” he says quietly, glancing again
at the snow-raven but its position is unaltered. “Forgive me.”

She nods and then, after a short pause,
smiles. “Accepted, my lord. And now, if you are able to bear it, we
have work to perform.”

Indeed they do. Until the sun begins to sink
in the sky, he and Annyeke carry those few who live but are not yet
awake to the old well where they make them as comfortable as
possible and find bracken and light branches to cover them for
warmth. For a while Ralph wonders if the power of the emeralds has
protected him from the worst of the mist’s attack, but in truth it
does not matter. He is glad to help those under his rule as best he
can. They leave the dead for now. They are beyond helping.

Finally, the meagre few left to them are
gathered by the well. Ralph sits down abruptly and wipes his hand
over his face. Despite the chill, he is sweating, and Annyeke
likewise. Her skin is red with exertion but her expression keeps
its customary determination.

“We have them,” she pants. “There are no more
to save.”

“Except Simon,” he whispers, and she
nods.

“Yes, except the Lost One.”

Ralph stands up, slowly. “I need to see
him.”

When Annyeke places herself in front of him,
there is compassion in her eyes as well as strength. “You need also
to care for your people, Lammas Lord.”

“And I will, I swear it,” he leans forward,
catching her gaze so she may fully know his purpose, with no
secrets hidden from her. At the same time, several realisations
meld together in his thoughts and he is more himself than he has
ever been. “I will do so. Believe me, First Elder, I have learnt my
lesson well. Here there is no mind-executioner to deceive me with
his promises and I understand power is nothing at all without
mercy, no matter what my father believed. You have promised me an
alliance between our peoples and though these things are strange to
us all, I will learn from you and do what clear honour, honour
without manipulation, requires of me. My people will live and this
land will thrive again, no matter what comes against us. I swear it
to you and the gods and stars above, may they hear me and believe
my words and my heart. Trust me in this at least, if you can trust
me in no other fashion. But while the remnants of my people are yet
to wake, when it comes to Simon, there I will do what my blood
demands, although there is honour too in it.”

His words are finished and he breaks his gaze
from the First Elder’s, waiting, not quite patiently, for her
response. She can, he imagines, conquer his purpose with the power
of her own mind, with the skills she evidently has, but he trusts
her enough to understand she will not do so.

Finally, she steps back and this time when he
looks at her, the smile she carries is broader.

“You men are a law unto yourselves,” she says
though he is not entirely sure what she means by it. “As you wish,
Lammas Lord, as you wish.”

Simon

The Lost One felt comforted. Yes, that was
the word which best described his current state. There had been a
battle, he knew. Then someone had died and that he did not wish to
remember, though he was unable to strike the image from his
thought: the castle cook; the mind-cane; death; then darkness, and
now the comfort of feathers.

He longed to stay in this place, but that was
not the way of the earth or indeed the sky. The gods would not
permit it. And in truth neither would he. Simon had hidden from the
reality around him for too long in the past. So he reached out and
touched the feathers around him, drawing in the snow-raven’s
strength of purpose but not denying his own.

I must leave you, but I give you my thanks,
he said, not speaking aloud but letting his mind take the words to
the raven.

Is it your flying time?

How good it felt to hear the great bird speak
again, even though his language was couched in the images of his
race. In Simon’s physical exhaustion, it took him a moment to
interpret.

Yes, I believe so, he said.

A pause followed and then the feathers began
to withdraw from around him. At the same moment, he heard the sound
of hobbling footsteps and Ralph’s voice.

“Simon.”

The mind-cane leapt once in his hand as the
Lammas Lord came to a halt in front of him and fell to his knees.
Behind him, Annyeke hurried up, a frown lining her face, but the
Lost One could pay her no heed. His attention was gripped by
Ralph’s agonised expression, the way his hands danced patterns in
the air around Simon but did not dare to touch. “Simon. Are you
well? The raven …”

“Has not hurt me, Lord Tregannon. I am well
enough. Perhaps he has restored me with those magical feathers of
his.”

Simon’s voice was rough and his throat ached,
but his limbs were sound and, with the help of Ralph and Annyeke,
he managed to stand. The snow-raven kept his distance and the
mind-cane was silent, though he felt the bird’s heat soothing his
skin. “The battle?”

“It is over,” Annyeke replied. “You defeated
our enemy, Lost One. I thank you for it.”

“But there is much to do,” Ralph added, his
gaze breaking with Simon’s and taking in the village and the people
around them. “We must finish what you have started.”

Before he could reply, Annyeke hugged him,
and Simon felt the colours of her thoughts flowing easily alongside
his own. Over her shoulder he glanced at Ralph and smiled. After a
heartbeat or two, the Lammas Lord nodded and held out his hand,
this time steadily. Simon took it, felt the promise it held for
them all.

It was enough.

Epilogue: Three moon-cycles later

Annyeke

In the first light of morning, the
Gathandrian First Elder stood by her beloved lemon tree and
stretched both mind and limbs to greet the sun just beginning to
warm the land. The action reminded her of the day-cycle, not so
long ago but seeming a lifetime, when she had padded out to enjoy
her garden whilst everyone else was asleep and seen the first hint
of new growth on her tree. Everything had started then, and now it
was finished. Or rather the land and the people were experiencing a
new beginning and she was grateful. Even the tree was in full
blossom, its leaves the deepest green and the colour they should
be. No messages from the gods for her this morning, apart from the
blessings of bright air, sunlight and safety.

Since the day when the Lost One had fought
the Battle of Silence, as the people were beginning to call it, and
won them back their stories, the land had changed, for the better.
All the lands. Back then, once the Lammassers had begun to waken
after the fight, and seeing Ralph and the Lost One assuming control
of the aftermath of war, working together she noted, Annyeke had
stepped away and, using the two emeralds she had in her possession,
taken her leave of them.

She would have preferred a less bumpy journey
back to Gathandria, but not everything could be perfect, or how she
might like. A terrible admission for a red-headed woman to make,
but it did not matter as she would not be sharing this thought with
others. Except perhaps Johan, one day soon. At the time she had
landed with an undignified thump in the middle of the public
square, next to a startled Talus and a more than relieved Johan.
When her beloved had helped her to her feet, he had hugged her
until she thought she would never breathe again before smoothing
down her hair and wiping what must have been smudges from her
face.

She had hugged him back before turning to
speak with her people gathered there and those more distant in the
city. Holding Johan’s hand tightly in her uninjured one and with
her other arm around her foster son, she had told them her
thought.

The battle is won, she had said. The Lost One
and our own courage have saved us. The lands are safe in truth. Now
we can live again.

After that, she had all but fainted – oh the
shame of it – and Johan had carried her home, Talus tugging eagerly
on her skirts as they strode through the streets.