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  Ralph

  He barely has time to take in Simon’s presence and to explain the lack of soldiers to Gelahn before the mind-executioner drives him to the ground. The solid earth forces its harshness into his skin and he gasps. At the same time, the scribe steps forward, a protesting cry splitting the air, but Gelahn stops his purpose with another flick of the cane.

  At his side, Ralph feels a sudden surge of warmth from the emeralds and his fingers itch to touch them, but he cannot move. Neither can he breathe. When he opens his mouth to gasp, he gains no benefit from it. The mind-executioner strides towards him, and the dark cane he holds spits bright flame. Orange and purple, the colours of betrayal. His eyes are as black as a winter night; the anger in them pierces through the falling snow. His enemy raises the cane and a bone deep agony tears through him. The Overlord collapses sideways, still gasping for breath. Grit digs into his cheek and all he can see is the executioner’s feet and the wild swirls of the cloak he wears. All he can hear above him is the strange shrill call of the snow-raven.

  You. Must. Not. Defy. Me. Again.

  Each word is a universe unto itself. Together, they subsume Ralph’s thoughts and memories until he is nothing but a world of unremitting pain. Behind his eyes, wild storms are born, rage and die, winters rise up and are swallowed by more winters, and rivers burst their banks so that seething waters sweep him away.

  He cannot speak and, within his mind, he can do nothing but plead. Gelahn has beaten him, taken him to a place of humiliation far more devastating than anything the Lammas Place of Execution can offer. All Ralph can do is yield. Over and over again, the words that come to him are only these: Please. I will not fight you. Please.

  Finally, after year-cycles of time have elapsed, or so it seems to him, the storms and flood begin to abate. Air fills his lungs once more and he opens his eyes.

  He is lying on the ground. He does not remember how he got there or what he is doing. It takes a while for the few poorly built hovels and a large white bird to meld together within Ralph’s mind so he can recall what has happened. His body feels sore, as if weary with fighting, or being beaten. He is panting and coughing. In his throat, nausea rises and he spews out dust and water.

  “Get up.”

  He blinks. The words of command are spoken in a way that brooks no disagreement and he struggles to obey. It takes a while. When, at last, Ralph is upright, he sees his clothes are in tatters and the skin on his arms is bleeding. A man is standing in front of him and in his demeanour dwell all Ralph’s secret fears. When this man smiles, the expression brings him no comfort. At his left, a pack of dogs lays waiting, crouched in readiness for an order he cannot begin to imagine. They are not as other dogs. They appear hewn from rock, their eyes glint with crimson and blood lines their jaws. Something in them calls to him, from a life he wonders if he once had. When he glances at the slight, almost nondescript man with the haunted eyes who stands in the falling snow, Ralph sees how beautiful he is, and everything he knows about himself returns.

  He is Ralph Tregannon, Overlord of the Lammas Lands and betrayer of his people. The man who has all but murdered him is the mind-executioner, Duncan Gelahn. And the man who stares at Ralph, horror and relief etched into his face, is both nearer to him than the pulse of his blood and further away than the skies.

  Now, he remembers. The only question is whether he wants to. For the moment, Ralph stands swaying in front of Gelahn. He can barely think, let alone talk. His enemy strolls towards him as if he has all the time in the land, that twisted smile still at his mouth. Ralph can’t help himself. He begins to shake.

  “Now you see how important it is to do my bidding, Lammas Lord,” the mind-executioner whispers, and Ralph can hear him as clearly as the morning river bird in full flight. “For we must do what the Gathandrian Spirit requires of us and we must do it quickly. But, see how I have spared your life and know my mercy for what it is. It is good to be here. Come, let us return to your castle and see the numbers of soldiers my powers can call to our great mission, because, believe me, they will come soon, and with more wonder than you can possibly understand. But first, you must give me the emeralds you possess, because they are mine to use now. Then the end of the battle will have begun.”

  There is still something left within Ralph that knows he should not allow this man to take so easily what is his, but he has no choice. Slowly, his fingers reach down to where the emeralds burn against his waist. It is as if Ralph’s hand has its own purpose and he cannot gainsay it. In the snow, falling more heavily now, he notices everything is silent, even the raven, even the dogs.

  He holds out the small velvet bag to the mind-executioner. His enemy shakes his head.

  “No,” he says, almost patient as if talking to a child who cannot hope to understand him. “Take them out. Let me see their number.”

  Ralph’s eyes are hot with tears, but he does not let them fall. Somewhere deep within, words flutter in his blood and he can sense the faint shadow of their meaning: First of all, be angry.

  Somehow, the very fact of this helps him. Gelahn waits as he rolls the shining green jewels out of their pouch, one by one. It takes a while as his fingers are trembling. When all seven of them are exposed, the executioner nods.

  “Thank you. Put them back and give them to me.”

  Ralph does so. His mind is numb. When he has done as bidden, the executioner secretes them within his cloak. Afterwards, he brushes past Ralph, striding ahead on the path back to the castle. The mind-cane fizzes and sings, but the executioner himself doesn’t even look around at the scribe or Ralph. He knows they will follow.

  All the time, they stumble in the mind-executioner’s wake, neither Simon nor Ralph look at each other and they do not touch. There is so much Ralph wants—needs—to say to this man, and he cannot even begin. The mountain dogs lollop between Gelahn and them, sometimes stopping to snuffle or paw at plants or small animals at the verge and, once or twice, they snarl, but make no effort to attack. The snow-raven beats heavy wings and floats above. He can sense Simon’s fear but has no strength to offer help, though the scribe never asks for it. Neither does he offer Ralph any comfort and the Lammas Lord is glad of it. Some kindnesses only destroy.

  When they enter the courtyard of his home, it is deserted. The snow makes the cobbles slippery and Ralph almost falls. Simon makes a slight move towards him, but the gesture is as soon cut off. Ralph is panting hard, barely able to draw breath, and he is not certain how long he can remain upright. With all his being, he longs for the warmth of the castle hall, somewhere to sit.

  But that chance does not come for the wanting of it.

  The mind-executioner swings round and surveys them. With one hand, he is clutching the bag of emeralds whilst the cane of power and death hovers in his other. And, somehow, Ralph knows what he intends the heartbeat before he acts. The Overlord cries out just as Gelahn flings the emeralds up into the wintry air. The next moment, his enemy sweeps the cane in an arc across the jewels and bright green fire leaps out into the night.

  The blast of it knocks Ralph off his feet and a great wind slams him into the bare stone of the castle walls. A sharp cry pierces his mind and he knows the same fate has befallen the scribe. He tries to fight against the strange storm that has driven him here, but he cannot. It is impossible to kneel or stand. But the feebleness of Ralph’s efforts has meant that he can see into the courtyard, he can witness what powers Gelahn has conjured from the air. He has nothing left to fight the executioner with, but still he wants to know.

  He needs to know when the end comes.

  Simon

  He did not see the sudden storm coming. His head had been too full of recent events to pay any heed to what was happening immediately around him—the journey through the emeralds’ tunnel, the unexpected return to the Lammas Lands, the threat and seducing power of Gelahn, and the lies the executioner has told him. But, beyond all these, in unaccountable measure, the fact and presence of Ralph had completely
unnerved him.

  In the Lammas Lord’s courtyard, he stood trembling as Gelahn stopped his frenetic pace at last. Standing a little away from him, Ralph was barely managing to keep upright. He could not tell what Gelahn intended; the Gathandrian seemed impenetrable in his certainty. What was the truth behind the emeralds Ralph had been carrying? Were they another ancient artefact like the mind-cane, or were they even more powerful than that? He could feel something pressing in his head, almost as strongly as he could feel the iciness of the day infiltrating his skin or the way the pebbles pushed against his feet. But he couldn’t get to it. Whatever knowledge he had and wherever it came from, he couldn’t access it, and neither could Gelahn. One of these was a curse, the other a blessing. How the gods and stars were playing with them now, he thought.

  He had no time to ponder these questions.

  Gelahn swirled round. The falling snow cut across his frame. Simon did not see the movement or what must have taken place, but green flames sprang upwards that could only come from Ralph’s emeralds. A dark, slim shape swept through their flight. The mind-cane.

  At that very moment, a roaring filled his thoughts and something hard and unforgiving hit him in the back. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was lying against one of the walls of the castle and gasping for breath. Ralph was further along, panting and struggling to sit up, to no avail.

  The wild wind was rising. With it came noise and chaos. Simon turned to stare back at the courtyard. The mind-executioner stood, arms raised as if conjuring the stars and gods to come to him. In the eerie light, he hardly seemed real. A great arc of green patterns shifting and changing with every heartbeat surrounded him. It was like a cage holding the executioner, or a place of safety where nobody could ever defeat him again. His right hand held onto the cane, which was gleaming silver all the way down the length of it. The scribe had never seen that before. It made his fists clench and his throat constrict. He tried to scramble backwards, but the wall behind him prevented any hope of escape. His hand touched something warm and soft. For a moment, he had no idea what it was. Some type of weapon to tear him apart at last? Another enemy not yet encountered? Then realisation came rushing in.

  Acting from an instinct that leapt up inside him, he buried both hands in the snow-raven’s feathers and hugged the great bird to himself. At once, a blue river flowed between them, small but visible against the white of the bird and the white of the snow still falling, even in the midst of such strangeness. The river began to circle both bird and man, reminding Simon of the mind-link that had saved Johan and himself from the executioner’s desert attack. He hoped that whatever the contact with the snow-raven had produced, the result would be the same now.

  Because the fire and the storm were one. The scribe could see Gelahn in the centre of it, his hands still outstretched towards the fearsome sky. The roars and cries that filled the air sounded more like men and women now, in pain beyond imagining. He wished he could cut out the sound, but it was not simply in the air—it was in his thoughts.

  Was this war always to be fought in both body and mind? Green tongues of flame shaped like accusing fingers flashed across the courtyard. They darted up to the mind-executioner, but the cane he held kept them at bay. They recoiled, springing around him as if to seek out something else to burn, something else to destroy. Simon could see shapes in the air, of people and strange beasts he couldn’t comprehend. The people were stretched out as if their bodies were suffering torments from which they could never be free, their faces etched with a shifting, dancing agony.

  He wanted to look away. He could not.

  The emerald fire slashed angrily against the fragile blue river, like a knife finding at last the kill.

  Ralph, he thought. Ralph.

  He could barely sense the Lammas Lord, Ralph’s mind nothing but a whisper on the edge of his consciousness. Another beat of his heart told him he’d had enough of waiting. As the wild storm continued and the flashing light continued to dance around the mind-executioner, Simon crawled a slow way over to the trembling Lammasser. The bird and the blue river came with him and the emerald fire did not overcome their defences.

  The moment he touched Ralph, the river flowed around his motionless figure also. The scribe could see cuts and bruises on the Lammas Lord’s body and face from where the fire had attacked him, but he seemed to be breathing. And the mind-whisper was still there.

  They had to escape, Simon realised. Somehow they would have to find refuge from the terrors Gelahn was summoning, or they would not survive this, with or without the snow-raven’s power. And, besides, who could tell how long that and the river would last? Without its protection, they would be lost.

  The scribe took a breath, weighed up the possible success of half dragging half carrying Ralph into the relative safety of the castle. Slim at the best, but by the gods and stars, he had to try.

  But just as he’d taken another breath and started to scramble to his feet, hauling Ralph with him, Simon realised everything had become silent. The storm vanished as suddenly as it had begun. At the same time, instead of being empty the courtyard was filled with people. For another second or so, the scribe didn’t understand who they were, then realisation kicked in. Ralph’s army. These were Ralph’s soldiers. The uniform they wore and the scattered helmets told him more clearly than if anyone had spoken the truth aloud. How had they got here? Had the mind-cane and Gelahn called them through the storm? Simon could think of no other explanation.

  Something about them niggled at his skin. They were silent. None of the men before him spoke, and they all faced Gelahn. Without wanting to, the scribe took an involuntary step backwards, still clinging to Ralph and the snow-raven. At once, the blue river vanished and the bird flapped its wings once, twice, coming to land a few hand-breadths away from him.

  The noise of this cut the silence like the howl of a wolf might break the stillness of an autumn night. The nearest soldier turned towards Simon.

  The scribe couldn’t help himself. He cried out, bringing his hand to his mouth to try and deaden the release.

  The soldier whose eyes he stared into was not alive, not in any sense Simon understood. The eyes were simply hollowed-out bone where an eye should be. Dried blood spattered strange patterns around the jaw and cheek bone whilst bare teeth grinned wildly at him. The scribe’s gaze skittered sideways from this vision of horror and found the same story in the other soldiers also.

  He fell to his knees, felt his skin burning whilst the snow-raven’s warning cry pierced all thought. Even as he realised the army of dead men was parting to let the executioner pass, Gelahn stood towering over him. The scribe did not know what to do, or how to react. It wasn’t necessary, because the mind-executioner simply smiled.

  “You see,” he said, as if finishing a conversation that had been interrupted and that they had both been pursuing. “You see, I have an army now. Today the last battle truly begins.”

  Chapter Eleven: The heat and sweat of battle

  Duncan Gelahn

  This is the best he has hoped for. Suddenly, everything he has ever wanted is here. All things have led to this moment. Through the aching year-cycles of waiting and waiting for what was always rightfully his, the Spirit of Gathandria is finally answering his prayers. He has put everything in place and the gods and stars of all things are acknowledging his faithfulness. The Lost One is with him, and he has the strange emeralds, the bird and the mind-cane. The land itself will soon be his.

  In the courtyard of Tregannon’s fortified home, the cane had spoken to him, its voice blending with the song of the emeralds and the colours hidden in the scribe. The way forward had been simple. Tregannon’s army were already there for the calling. They had been there all the time he’d needed them, but he had been too blind to see it or, rather, the right conjunction of time and place had not occurred until they arrived at the castle. Gelahn’s possession of the cane in their ancestral home must have enabled the emeralds to take on all the power they were heir
to. Only then had the executioner understood how he could call the army into being and how he could command them without boundaries or dissent.

  He had had no time to convey this to the scribe. Enraptured by the glory of the moment, Gelahn had raised the mind-cane high in one hand, flung the precious emeralds in the air and focused his thoughts on the victory to come.

  It was then that his army had gathered, spinning their darkness and half life into existence at his command. Bone and skull and armour combined. The perfect killing machine, for what could be more unstoppable than an army of the dead? He had laughed aloud at the realisation, not caring about the scribe’s terror or the bird’s protection of his two companions. No matter. Both would do his bidding now. He had no need for more mind-games with Simon Hartstongue. Neither was Lord Tregannon any kind of a threat with his destroyed thoughts and his weakened body.

  Everything around Gelahn had glittered and everything was suffused with the emeralds’ light, focused as it was through the mind-cane’s strength. He had known then what he was destined to do.

  So he strides through the army of the dead, back to where Simon is trembling. The scribe shrinks away at his approach, his lips opening and closing, but no sound comes from them. Indeed, Gelahn is gratified to see the scribe sink to his knees, pulling the half conscious Lammas Lord down with him. There is always time for fear, whether in an ally or a slave.

  He reaches forward and grasps Simon’s arm, hauling him upward.

  “The time is now,” he says, seeing the incomprehension in the other man’s face. “While the power and the means to take it is here, we will travel to the land destined as mine.”