The Executioner's Cane (28 page)

“No.”

The conflagration of noise and fire spooks
the wolf, and the beast swings towards the wood, his tail sparking
flame where the fire-oil has brushed against it. The animal’s
howling pierces Ralph’s mind-wall but he pays it no heed. Because
the man has not stopped running, and Ralph doesn’t need to be a
mind-sensitive to know the fear of the wolf’s teeth and jaws drives
him. The Lammasser is still running across the middle of the field
when he should have taken the outer path for safety’s sake, and
Ralph can tell he doesn’t know the animal which terrifies him has
already been frightened away and is a danger no more.

Heart beating faster than he’s known for a
while, the Lammas Lord takes two or three paces towards the man. He
does not know what he intends to do for sure when he reaches him
but he knows he must try, by the gods and stars. The next moment,
something twists his legs from under him and he lands with a thump
on the smouldering ground. Without thought, he heaves himself back
onto his feet and sees the white sheen of the drum-stick broken at
his feet and Apolyon’s frightened eyes staring up at him.

He curses, just as the man running towards
them and nearer now than Ralph believes he would come loses the
luck which has blessed him. With the pressure of his feet on
boiling earth, the fire-oil ignites and a great sheet of flame
lifts the unfortunate man into the singing air where his limbs and
skin and hair explode into the all-consuming fire. His dying scream
echoes Apolyon’s shout, and Ralph grabs the boy and clutches his
small frame to him, covering his servant’s head so he cannot
witness how cruel death can be. By the gods he is too young, and
Jemelda has unleashed a terror all of them will be hard-pressed to
capture again.

Behind him, Ralph sees the villagers are
running for safety, but they are in no danger, though only the
stars know how they have survived it. The fire-oil has claimed its
victim and the flame will feast on the unfortunate man for a while.
He stands up, still clutching the boy to him, and shouts at their
fleeing backs. He doesn’t expect to be heard, but he knows he has
to try. This is battle in truth and he is their commanding officer,
he demands their allegiance, and their strength, no matter what has
passed before between them.

His voice is as clear as a hawk flying over
summer trees, finding that break in the roar of the flame he has
not thought to find. The men and women stop at once, as if he has
set soldiers on them upon pain of death, as his father has done and
as he too has tried, once, but he has learnt his lesson now. By the
gods and stars how he has learnt it.

“Return,” he shouts. “This is no time to run.
Return and fight these flames before our hopes and crops are
consumed.”

Then, knowing whatever happens he too must
perform this duty, he eases the trembling boy to the earth where it
is unscorched, and continues the task of beating the fire back
where it belongs, into the belly of the land. On his own, it will
take him till morning, but he is not alone. A moment later, a mere
heartbeat, something brushes his arm, and he sees Apolyon struggle
to his feet, seize a length of cloth where it has been abandoned
and begin to follow his master’s actions, shadowing the Lammas Lord
as if only at his side can he find safety. Ralph can see the marks
of tears on the boy’s cheek and the quivering glances he casts in
the direction of where the remains of the dead man lie but he does
not falter.

“Thank you,” Ralph finds himself whispering
to his young steward, and is rewarded by a flicker of a smile on
Apolyon’s face. It is the first time he has thanked a servant and
meant it so fully. The sensation and its newness are not
unpleasant.

After a few more moments, the handful of
people who have tried to run drift back. He can sense their
returning in the shadows around him and he hears the sound of
breathing next to him and further along the line also.

No-one speaks but it doesn’t matter. It will
be a long night-cycle but they are working together, he and his
people, in a way he cannot remember having occurred before. He
hopes it will last. He hopes too that Simon, if he could see him,
would be proud.

Simon

He knew the instant he had erred in his
judgement as the mind-cane tumbled him from sleep, its warmth on
his arm almost piercing skin. In his thought, at the forefront so
he could neither deny it nor shake it loose, was a vision of Ralph
surrounded by fire and pain. With the Lammas Lord was a small boy
Simon didn’t recognise, but the whole picture appeared to him to be
so real he could have reached out and felt the heat and flame.
Still, he should be used to the connection of Ralph and fire, damn
the man, as recent experience had set the two in close relationship
to each other far too many times, with Simon as a reluctant
participant.

Nonetheless the Lost One knew this was no
dream and he cursed his inability to go to the man, his body being
nothing but a weak vessel his mind could not fully command.

What do I do to save him?

He spoke in his thought to the mind-cane, but
he already knew the answer. Help me then. You say I am strong but I
am weak.

But when you are weak, then you are as strong
as the sky and the earth and all that dwells within it.

The cane’s response made him blink, but he
did not falter. He sat up and, bringing the artefact to his face,
pressed the silver carving to his forehead. He knew instinctively
he needed all the power he could get from its mystery and so a
light touch would not be enough. He wanted it to burn him, to the
core. He needed it. At once, the silver world of the mind-cane
exploded into his own world. It was the sun and the moon, earth and
air and water. It was all the journeys he’d ever taken and those he
had not.

You, he found himself breathing as the
overwhelming power plunged through him. You.

The Lost One thought he had died in truth and
for a final time, but he was more alive than he’d ever been. When
he opened his eyes, his own understanding of himself had gone where
he could no longer sense it but it did not matter. He was who he
was intended to be, as if every puzzle and maze inside himself had
slotted into place and there was nothing before him but level
plains and a wide, smooth path. The fact of it, the very sparkle of
silver flame at his fingertips, made him laugh. He took the cane
where it lay trembling against his forehead and kissed it.

You.

Yes.

And those were the only words he needed to
think. Beyond them, he sensed only colours: a bright rainbow of red
and green, blue and the pure white of snow on mountains on a silent
morning. The rainbow swirled and settled in front of him and he saw
it was a corridor, like the one he and his fellow-travellers had
walked through in the Kingdom of the Sky. How long ago that seemed
to be today, so much had he experienced since that moment. But it
allowed him to know what to do without hesitation. Feeling the
solid stamp of the mind-cane melding with his hand and thought, he
stepped forward into the shifting colours, his pace neither too
hurried nor too slow but steady as a man with purpose who knows he
will fulfil it. Because the time-cycle, as it had always been, was
perfect.

At the end of the corridor he saw a layer of
silver mist. The colours around it did not meld with its strange
shimmer but formed an unbroken frame that held it in place. The
Lost One wondered for a moment if he should step through to the
other side, but he was no god or sky-star, he was only a man and it
would be wise for him to remember it. His own foolishness made him
smile.

Look, the mind-cane spoke directly to his
thought, and the Lost One obeyed. He gazed through the mist at the
scene beyond. He could see the Lammas fields burning up almost as
far as the woods. For a heartbeat, it was impossible to understand
and then he knew, as clearly as if the Gathandrian Spirit had
spoken directly to his heart, that this was what Jemelda had
planned and this was what she was hurrying to do when he glimpsed
her. He had no sure knowledge of the ways of farming although he
had spent much of his life gleaning what nourishment he could from
the fields and leavings of farmers during his travelling life. But
he understood only too well how the seeds sown before the snows
came were the lifeblood of the people, and this year-cycle there
couldn’t have been many because of the war’s horrors.

Jemelda had struck a blow at the heart of the
life the Lost One was trying to reclaim for Ralph’s people. If the
villagers were left to starve, what would that mean for his mission
to save them? Simon cursed under his breath at the cook’s cruel
cunning, and the mind-cane twisted in his grip. Look again.

Throat dry, he did so. Someone was running
across the field and the weight of the man’s fear slapped across
his belly as if he felt it himself. Wolf. Simon cried out,
stretching forth his hand towards the mist before snatching it back
again as searing heat from the cane pierced him. He could not help
the man, but how he wanted to. Some things remained impossible no
matter how much you tried.

The fire pursued the fugitive across the
burning field and the Lost One held his breath, hoping some miracle
from the stars themselves might yet occur and the villager would
not be consumed. Something else caught his attention at the edge of
his vision: a dark-haired man beginning to run towards the one who
was doomed. No. If one man must die, why should another perish? The
moment he understood the man intent on rescue was Ralph, he cried
out a jagged warning which could never be heard, but already the
scene had reached its terrible conclusion. The fire oil consumed
the unfortunate villager, and Ralph and the young lad gripping his
cloak were flung backwards onto the earth. Simon’s mind shook with
dread, but he felt nothing in his thoughts that spoke of a final
separation from the Lammas Lord. Injured or not, Ralph was alive
still. How had he felt when Simon had died? By the gods, there was
a question he did not wish to dwell on, neither for Ralph’s sake or
his own.

Even as he forced himself to ignore this
puzzle, the vision in front of him melted away and he could see
what was happening in the corn fields no more. He gripped the
mind-cane harder, willing it to connect with him and bring back the
events he needed to know.

The gifting of sight can only be borne for a
story’s start, not for its full completion.

“Yes, so you say,” Simon spoke aloud,
surprising himself. “You are full of wisdom, but now is the time
for action and not for meditation on whatever deep mission you and
our gods are drawing us towards. But no matter, I must go to the
people. Whatever occurs, I need to be with them, whether they want
it or not.”

His own impassioned words, like the
mind-cane’s, were all very well and good, and Simon meant them, but
though his thought was sure his limbs were weak. He needed to get
to Ralph and the villagers, but he needed to find another way than
by walking. The cane gave him no answers but then he had it.

He leaned out of the window, the crisp night
air sending a harsher chill through his bones, and scanned the
star-bright skies. “Where are you, great air-lord? Come to me, I
have need of your strength tonight!”

Simon held his breath to listen for what he
longed to hear, but the silence held court over the castle. He
closed his eyes and conjured up the vision of the snow-raven,
feeling the feathers and whiteness and strange unknowable warmth in
his mind. Come to me, I the Lost One command it.

A whoosh and displacement of air, and when he
opened his eyes, the great white bird was floating like a ghost
from the corner of the roof towards him. His heart beat faster. He
did not relish his journey but it was needful. He reached out to
the raven but the bird fluttered away from his grasp, its wings
brushing against his face before they eased away. He took a breath
and waited for the raven’s flight path to bring him near once more.
When it did, Simon reached further out of the window and tried to
catch those vast wings, but again the raven eluded him. He cursed
to himself, knowing he had no time to waste. He must be with the
people if they would ever accept him amongst them. If he let them
down a second time, why should they learn to trust him? What did
the snow-raven want and what prevented the bird from fulfilling his
command?

In his hands the mind-cane lurched, and the
memory of his journey to Gathandria flooded his thought: the
mountain; the wild dogs; the path to the air-kingdom where the
ravens dwelt. A time when his desperation had unaccountably turned
to courage, of a sort. A time when he had needed to prove his
heart’s true path, or its beginning.

Simon nodded. He understood. He must then
launch out into the deep once more and the time for proof was not
yet over.

He scrambled up so his legs balanced
precariously on the crumbling window ledge. Let the snow-raven do
what it might, he would fulfil the test the bird gave him, and more
if he could. Yes. You know it. Ignoring the piercing pain
overpowering his body, the Lost One launched himself from the high
castle window with a shout. An instant of plummeting down to
certain injury and a likely second death, and then something soft
and strong caught him, snatching him upwards in the air. He did not
know how the raven had reached him when the bird had been at the
outer section of the courtyard when he fell, but Simon clung to
feather and talon nonetheless, still somehow holding on to the
mind-cane. He could do no other. By the gods and stars, the three
of them would soar or topple together, so it seemed.

The raven kept to no earthly route, but
danced the sky-path’s song so their journey was a mere jotting of
the time-cycle it would have taken Simon to traverse it, even
without the pain. He could smell the fire before the ravished field
came into view, a sultry acid tang of burning the wind carried to
him. By the stars, how fire and its cursing had harried him since
he met the mind-executioner, and now it had risen again to haunt
him.