Hallsfoot's Battle (8 page)

Annyeke swallowed, the sound of it clogging
her thoughts. The raven gave a low-pitched whistle and she realised
at once what she’d been forgetting.

“Johan,” she faced him, leaning over the
table, capturing his eyes and not letting them go. “I need you to
prepare the people for war in the physical realm. You have battled
recently with Gelahn, you know his strategies. You are the one to
teach our people to fight. Really fight, with weapons and bodies,
not just with their minds. Please, will you do it?”

His first thought was no. Annyeke sensed that
as clearly as if he’d shouted across the room at her. After all, he
was Chief Advisor to the Sub-Council of Meditation, not a soldier.
Gathandrians hadn’t used physical skills in battle for generations;
they hadn’t needed to as their mind-skills had been more than
enough protection. Until now.

“Really?” Simon’s voice made her jump, and
she realised that the scribe could hear Johan’s thoughts just as
well as she could. “Those mind-skills aren’t doing you much good at
the moment, are they, Johan? Your city is all but destroyed, and
both the Elders and Annyeke are convinced there’s another battle to
come. I know I’m not the bravest person in the lands, but in the
days before I came to the Lammas Lands, I would do anything at all,
physical or mental, to stay alive. You have led me here across
mountains, sky, desert and sea, which surely shows you have
physical courage. If anyone of us must take the role of soldier,
then it’s you. Yes, if you feel it necessary, I can help a little
with the skills I saw in Ralph’s military, but you’re the best
leader, I think.”

Faced with the combined forces of his
friends, Johan couldn’t help but smile, albeit briefly.

“I see I’m outnumbered,” he said, “so yes, I
will do it.”

Talus gave a sudden yelp and grabbed Annyeke.
She could feel the fizz and sparkle of the boy’s mind dancing, and
the sheer energy of it made her blink.

“Can I help Johan?” he said. “Please,
Annyeke, can I?”

She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so, if Johan
agrees. You’ve proved how brave you are already, Talus, when you
followed me to the elders’ Library. But, if I’m to allow it, you
must promise me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“This is no game, Talus. This is real. So
whatever Johan or Simon or I tell you to do, you must do it, at
once and without question. Will you?”

The boy nodded, his eyes still eager, then
glanced up at Johan. For a reason she couldn’t quite grasp, her
colleague looked distinctly uncomfortable and she saw him swallow.
Talus tugged at his tunic sleeve, the question still in his
eyes.

Johan coughed and shuffled his feet.

“All right,” he said. “I’m happy to accept
all the help I can get, from any source, no matter how…how…”

Annyeke drew in her breath and her heart beat
fast. She’d never suspected before that her overseer had no idea at
all how to talk to children, but right now he looked as if he’d
rather be fighting the mind-executioner single handedly than being
in front of a young boy asking to help. She was about to step
forward, but Simon got there first. The scribe hunkered down next
to Talus instead of towering over him, as Johan was.

“…How unexpected and also welcome is what my
good friend means,” Simon said, touching the boy’s head with his
fingers so thought could more easily be shared. This gesture was
not Gathandrian etiquette, but Talus didn’t object. Neither did
Annyeke. “I think that in the days ahead all of us will need some
unexpected, welcome events, won’t we?”

The boy smiled and nodded, confidence
restored.

“Good,” Annyeke said, bending down to pick up
slivers of pottery from the floor next to him, mainly in order to
hide her smile. “In that case, what we should do first is tidy up,
and then we’ll begin our tasks.”

Duncan Gelahn

There is much that is pleasing to the
mind-executioner about Tregannon’s private bedroom, much that he
has not experienced in his battle to take back what is his. The
curtains are made of the richest green velvet, decorated with the
Tregannon insignia, a gold star split by a black sword. And,
between the sconces, the wall hangings show scenes from the land
beyond the castle, from a time before the war destroyed much of
what Lammas possessed—the woods in summer, a riot of dark green
against a rich blue sky, a view across corn pastures to the distant
mountains and a harvesting party.

Ralph’s bed is the centrepiece of the room.
The linen is embroidered in gold, the pattern an interpretation of
all the stars to be found in the Lammas skies. It is the intricate
carving of the headboard that draws Gelahn’s eye most. A long fox
is caught by the sculptor padding across the grained oak. The
executioner can see each strand of fur and every rippling muscle,
and the rays of sunlight streaming through the window make the
creature’s eyes seem alive. Odd how, for a sophisticated man,
Tregannon favours nature and the star legends. The fox is the
Overlord’s sign, cunning and swiftness of thought.

The Lammas Overlord now possesses neither of
these attributes. Instead, he looks beaten by what has happened and
his mind is jagged with despair. The mind-executioner cannot help
but smile at this as he runs his finger along the body of the fox;
it is always best for one’s companions to be weaker than oneself.
Without hope or purpose, Ralph Tregannon will be easy to
manipulate. And if he is not…well, because of the Scribe’s words at
the end of the recent battle, Tregannon cannot be harmed, but he
can be made to suffer. That should be enough. All he wants from the
Lord Tregannon are his military skills, the minds and bodies of his
soldiers and the weapons at their disposal.

Now, Tregannon stares at him, his eyes wide.
Gelahn can sense his thoughts well enough before the man actually
speaks.

“A physical war?” he says, taking a step
back. “You plan to fight Gathandria by force of arms and men? How?
The land is so far away. Will you take my whole army, what is left
of it, and fly them to the magical city?”

Gelahn spits his anger out. “There is nothing
magical about Gathandria, believe me.”

“I thought it was the most beautiful place I
have ever seen—a land of tall glass and stone, although damaged,
from the little I glimpsed of it.”

“Beautiful or not—and if you have seen the
parts of it I have seen, you would not call it thus—we will fight
it and we will win because the evils it has perpetrated do not
allow it to survive. There will be a reckoning, and beyond that, a
turning of fortunes. For when Gathandria dies, and it will, your
people and your lands will live.”

A silence. The mind-executioner can sense the
Lammas Overlord’s longing for his people’s protection and his
land’s renewal. It is so strong, he could almost stretch out his
hand and touch it. Tregannon is concerned for his own safety and
position, too, naturally—what man or woman is not?—but, strangely,
not as much as he was before. What has changed? As Gelahn waits for
his companion to respond to his enticements, he performs a quick,
unnoticed search through the Lammasser’s mind. Even though
Tregannon is a Sensitive, the mind-executioner is skilled enough to
do this without discovery. He needs no mind-cane for that. A
Gathandrian child could do it.

Tregannon’s eyes are clouded. And there is a
hint of…something green about him. What is it? Gelahn spins his
thoughts through the man’s mind again but finds nothing. He is only
imagining it. Tregannon has nothing the mind-executioner cannot
conquer, or use for his own purposes. Even now, his companion is
speaking and Gelahn withdraws from his thoughts. Speech can
sometimes reveal secrets of its own.

“My lands,” the Overlord whispers, as if
speaking only to himself, as if he no longer realises who is with
him, “will not be the same again. It will take the power and mercy
of whoever comes after me to make us what we once were.”

In only three strides, Gelahn is face to face
with Tregannon. He reaches out and grabs the Overlord’s tunic,
still stained and crumpled from his recent ride, and shakes him.
Tregannon holds his ground, doesn’t cry out, in spite of the
burning sensation Gelahn knows is sweeping through his shoulder and
up over his face from the mind-executioner’s touch. For a moment,
Gelahn even allows himself to be impressed by that; he will need
such small courage in the days ahead before Tregannon’s inevitable
and long drawn-out suffering.

“No,” he says, searing the word like a deadly
fire through the other man’s thoughts. “There is no room in our
mission for such thinking, because, together, the two of us have
fortitude and lust enough to destroy forever any opposition that
dares to fight us. Believe me, Tregannon, against such things, the
mind-cane has no law and no strength. The army we create between us
will be such a conquering force as Gathandria has never seen. Our
future—your future—will be glorious. Nothing can stop it.”

Annyeke

It was time. She hadn’t prepared for this,
but she’d known all along it was inevitable. The heat of a
Gathandrian mid-day cycle, even in winter’s approach, shone down on
the middle of the Square of Meeting. Around her, she could see the
destroyed glass towers of the Council buildings, the sun sparking
off the jagged fragments, lightening the stone to a near silver.
Lining the wide shattered streets were the withered husks of the
once glowing orange and lemon trees. How she longed for the scent
of them now and to hear their soft song. Three hour-cycles since
the snow-raven had arrived and she was here at last. Had the bird
sparked off something in her? She didn’t know and now wasn’t the
time to ponder it.

She had decided to gather the people of
Gathandria together and to talk to them. She’d had enough of
distant voices making plans and subjecting her to them. The elders
had done too much of that. She wouldn’t follow in their footsteps.
Not if she could help it, anyway. She’d explained her ideas to
Simon and Johan. Now it was time to explain them to the rest of her
fellow-citizens. A bead of sweat trickled down her face. It had
been a long three hours. Just long enough to send out a string of
mind-messages across the city to ask people to come. Some, of
course, wouldn’t. Trust in the elders had been destroyed during the
recent Wars and Annyeke fully understood the doubts she’d sensed
about her own leadership, such as it was. Those absentees were, of
course, the people she most needed to speak to.

No matter. From a brief glance across the
Square, with its background of poplars framing the park, she
estimated that about five thousand men, women and children were
here, a quarter of the Gathandrian survivors, enough for the
message to be conveyed to those who’d remained behind. Not enough
to make up for the twenty thousand plus who didn’t have the choice
of being here, though. Annyeke’s eyes filled with tears, but she
brushed them away. She couldn’t afford to cry. She had to convey
something to give these people hope. She had to learn, in so swift
a time, to begin to be a leader.

If only she’d thought of what she should
say.

Next to her, a shadow and a light touch on
her hand. She blinked, turned and it was the scribe, of all people.
Behind him, she could see Johan’s troubled frown.

“I don’t know what you intend to do,” Simon
whispered, leaning towards her, “but I think getting your people
together like this is a good beginning.”

For a beat of her heart, she stared at him
and then she nodded. Yes, she supposed he was right. Even this was
better than nothing.

Placing her hands together in front of her,
she focused herself so what she would say would be carried to her
listeners, not only in sound but also in their minds, because few
would hear her aloud but all would be able to hear her words and
her truth in their thoughts. She hoped there would be truth.

“Our land was once a land of harmony,” she
began, feeling the words vibrate deep within. “That is the meaning
of our name and our purpose. We have fallen far short of that in
recent time-cycles, not that we should hold any one individual
blameworthy for that. The wrongdoing is, as it has always been for
us, a collective one. We choose those who govern us, and when they
make unwise decisions then the blame is ours also. That is the way
we live. Now, many of us have perished in the wars. Our homes are
destroyed and our great city a shadow of its former glory. Beyond
us, our neighbours also suffer, and that, too, is our
responsibility and our shame.”

Annyeke paused, tears filling her eyes. She
could sense the despair, grief and anger flowing over her from the
assembled crowds. For a moment, she found she couldn’t breathe, and
the inner purpose she’d managed to hold steady in her mind all this
time trembled. She couldn’t go on. All her words, all her hopes
were as a pine sapling battered by a summer storm. Glancing down,
she could see Talus’ fingers curled around hers, but she couldn’t
grasp what he might be thinking. What was wrong with her? Why
couldn’t she connect to him?

Annyeke.

Her name spun out of the chaos of her
thoughts like a strong hand reaching to save her from drowning.
Johan. When she looked at him, he was gazing straight at her and
she could almost see the echo of her name on his lips, although the
word had been offered directly to her mind only. It was enough to
bring her to herself and she nodded her thanks before turning back
to the people again.

This time, their feelings did not cut her
down.

“But that is not the end,” she continued.
“Because we are more than the sum of what we have done wrong.
We—all of us—are greater than that. In spite of all we have
suffered up to this point, we are not defeated. No. We have been
hard pressed on every side but we are not crushed. We have been
struck down but we are not destroyed. This is because each of us is
more than we seem to be. We always carry within us the Spirit of
Gathandria and that Spirit will never desert us.”