Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  Pinnatte suddenly went cold. What had happened to the woman with the hood? Was she caught in that awful melee? Foolish fantasies of an heroic rescue flitted through his mind as he peered urgently over the balcony. But she was gone. As were her companions. He did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He slapped his hands down on the parapet.

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Rinter looked at him in exaggerated alarm. ‘And run into that thing, taking chunks out of everything it comes near?’ He motioned Pinnatte back to the wall. ‘No, thank you. Let’s watch the fun from up here. When someone’s caught it or killed it, that’ll be soon enough to go down.’

  The fun, however, did not last a great deal longer, though the dog was neither caught nor killed. It simply disappeared from view.

  Rinter and Pinnatte joined the slow-moving queue that was leaving the balcony. There was still a great deal of commotion rising from the terraces, but this was mainly injured and shocked people shouting for help, and of little interest to watch.

  ‘Serves ‘em right, rich bastards,’ someone said behind Pinnatte. The remark was greeted with cries of approval.

  * * * *

  The Jyolan’s twisting passageways, gloomy in the poor lamplight, were crowded with swaying figures shuffling unsteadily over the curved and uneven floors. Though a ceaseless babble of voices echoed all around him, Pinnatte noticed that no one in his immediate vicinity appeared to be talking. It gave him a strange, detached feeling – one intensified by the sounds which emanated from the many openings in the walls and which seemed to be trying to speak to him – urgent, hissing whispers, dark, rumbling gloatings, distant high-pitched screechings which wavered fearfully – sometimes even a clear voice speaking an unfamiliar language, or two or three words that made no sense – once, even his name – but each slipped away from him as he strained forward to listen.

  So absorbed was he that he started when a sudden rush of sound announced that he was near the entrance hall. Reaching it, he and Rinter found themselves confronted by uproar and confusion as a great crowd struggled to pass through a single narrow gate in the heavy iron railing that divided the entrance hall. The crush was being fed by streams of people from every archway, some blood-stained and wild-eyed. Here and there, Pitguards were struggling to establish order but, increasingly unable to move themselves, they were merely making things worse.

  Fear clutched at Pinnatte as the press closed about him and he felt himself being lifted off the floor. It threatened rapidly to turn into panic as he was carried forward. Then he caught the eye of a young boy clinging to a woman who was struggling to keep him safe in the lee of a stone column. His shirt was torn and covered with blood. The boy looked straight at him, his eyes filling the world – full of bewilderment and fear. Something in Pinnatte lurched back to his own childhood when, albeit briefly, the world had been happy and safe. The memory mingled with sights he had seen tonight – and the emotions he had felt – and a wave of nausea and shame passed over him.

  Through it, far away, he heard himself saying, ‘We must do something.’

  Then, desperately, he was pulling his arms free and reaching up to take the shoulders of two men in front of him. Trapped themselves, they could do nothing but curse as he began to scramble up them, painfully dragging himself free of the crowd. Then he was running across the top of the crowd, jumping from shoulder to shoulder, steadying himself occasionally against the stone ceiling or someone’s head. Rinter, pinioned now and fearful, watched open-mouthed as his new-found friend squeezed between the top of the railing and the ceiling and dropped down out of sight on the far side.

  Pinnatte, borne along by urgency rather than clear intent to this point, stared helplessly at the crowd in front of him, pressed against the railing. Hands were reaching out to him. Someone shouted, ‘The bar, lad! The bar.’

  Pinnatte dithered for a moment before he took in the words, then he saw the bar that was holding the main double gate shut. He swung on it. But it would not move – the pressure of the crowd was wedging it tight. He bent down, put his shoulder underneath it and thrust upwards, his legs straining.

  Let them struggle and squirm, flawed worthless things that they are. Let them fall and grind one another into the dirt. It is the way it should be. It is the way it will be.

  The thought rang in his mind, cold and malevolent and hideously clear.

  It stunned him. His strength drained away.

  Then another thought filled him – just as powerful. He must atone for what he had felt tonight.

  And he was pushing again, his legs throbbing and the bar cutting into his shoulder.

  For a timeless time, there was only pain. Pain that had been for ever and would be forever. In his shoulder, in his legs – everywhere.

  Then a rending screech cut through it and the bar swung upwards, out of its housing.

  The gate burst open, hurling Pinnatte to one side. Only chance saved him from being crushed against the railing, so violently did the two halves swing back. As it was, he fell awkwardly, scuffing the back of his right hand on the rough floor and banging his head.

  A dizzying blackness came and went many times. The din of the crowd came and went with it, roaring and echoing in his ears. He was vaguely aware of trying to stand and of his legs not obeying.

  Then someone was dragging him to his feet.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  The voice was proprietorial. Rinter’s face slowly came into focus. There was someone with him. Someone large.

  ‘Saved us a lot of problems with that stunt, lad,’ the figure said. ‘What’s your name?’

  Pinnatte grimaced and put his hand to the back of his head.

  ‘It’s Pinnatte,’ Rinter answered on his behalf. ‘Friend of mine. Oddly enough, he was asking if he could meet you earlier, Fiarn.’

  Rinter’s face blurred again, then the blackness returned to swallow it completely.

  Chapter 18

  Heirn sat bolt upright, wide awake, his mouth gaping. He had been about to cry out in terror in the tangling depths of a dark and vivid nightmare.

  Not since he had been a child had he known such a dream.

  Yet, on the instant of waking, it fled. And, with each pounding heartbeat, its black tattered shadows flickered further away, beyond any hope of recall.

  But still he felt compelled to remain motionless – some lingering fear telling him that they might mysteriously return if he moved too soon.

  Gradually his breathing eased. He reproached himself for a fool as the familiar night sounds of his home enclosed him. There were faint hints of music coming from an inn in a nearby street, the occasional unidentifiable bump echoing through walls and floors from some other occupant of the building, and the usual intermittent clatter of night-time traffic – footsteps, voices, rumbling wheels. The sounds from outside were a little louder than usual because he had left the window wide open in an attempt to keep his room cool in the unusual and persistent heat that marked this summer. It had little effect. Even when there was a breeze silently searching the streets – which was not the case tonight – it was rarely sufficient to disperse the heat that had been assiduously stored by the brick and stone buildings during the day and which they released each night.

  The dream had left him sweating and clammy. Rooting through the folded bedclothes at the bottom of the bed, he found a solitary thin sheet and, lying down, pulled it over himself. He made no effort to sleep. It would have been to no avail anyway; he was too wide awake now – indeed, it surprised him that he had slept at all after what he had seen and heard that night.

  * * * *

  At Atlon’s request, on leaving the forge Heirn had taken a detour which led them through deserted alleys and across open derelict sites. It was not a way he would have chosen, but it should have been safe enough at that time of day, and both Atlon and Dvolci seemed convinced that the Kyrosdyn who had accosted them at the forge was following.

  They were walking quickly along
a narrow cobbled road between two windowless buildings, Atlon leading his horse, and Dvolci trotting along beside them.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ Heirn said, looking round yet again. His new companions’ seemingly obsessive concern about the Kyrosdyn was beginning to disturb him.

  ‘He’s there nevertheless,’ Atlon replied. He glanced significantly at Dvolci who ran off down the alley.

  ‘So what?’ Heirn asked impatiently. ‘He’s only one man. And low in the Order, I’d say – probably a young novice judging by his manner. If needs be I’ll thicken his ear for him.’ Atlon did not respond, causing Heirn to raise his voice. ‘Why would he follow you? To rob you? They’re a peculiar lot, but they aren’t street thieves.’

  An angry voice behind them forestalled any reply.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  Atlon stiffened. ‘Keep moving,’ he said urgently, taking Heirn’s arm and increasing his pace.

  ‘I said, stay where you are!’

  The voice had the same petulant arrogance as when its owner had addressed them in the forge and it was suddenly too much for Heirn. It was bad enough that he should be subjected to that kind of attitude in his own forge where possible customers might be allowed a little licence. But in the street – with friends!

  He turned round angrily.

  ‘No! Come on,’ he heard Atlon say, but he pulled free from his grip and raised a hand, both to reassure him and to tell him to continue on his way. This was a matter between two locals, it wasn’t something for outsiders.

  The Kyrosdyn was striding purposefully towards them. Heirn held out his hand as if to slow his progress before he came too close.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to like that?’ he shouted.

  Without breaking step, and even though he was still some distance away, the Kyrosdyn waved his arm as if to brush the irritating impediment aside.

  Something struck Heirn, sending him crashing against the wall.

  Even as he was staggering backwards, he took in the sight of Atlon turning, his face alive with anger and fear, his mouth forming the word, ‘No!’ At the same time, he saw the horse, seeming to mimic its owner, rearing and backing away, white-eyed, its hooves clattering noisily on the cobbles. Then he struck the wall, and for a few winded moments he was unaware of anything.

  When he recovered, the Kyrosdyn had reached Atlon and was confronting him. Furious, and though he had no idea what had happened to him, Heirn made to lunge at the hooded figure. But he could not move. Something was holding him against the wall.

  ‘Who are you?’ he heard the Kyrosdyn demanding of Atlon, his voice muffled and distant. ‘And who has taught you to dabble with the use of crystals?’ He stepped forward menacingly.

  Atlon reached out and held him at arm’s length. He indicated Heirn. ‘Let him go,’ he said.

  The Kyrosdyn looked down at the hand on his chest. ‘You dare touch me – one of the Chosen?’

  ‘Let him go,’ Atlon repeated, his face suddenly grim.

  The Kyrosdyn closed his eyes and his face became tense with concentration.

  Atlon stepped away from him. In stark contrast to the Kyrosdyn, he seemed to be completely relaxed and calm. ‘No,’ he said, with a menacing softness that made Heirn stop struggling against his unseen bonds. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  Then the Kyrosdyn’s eyes were wide and his hands were extended towards Atlon. It would have been an absurdly theatrical gesture, had it not been for the malice that his posture radiated. Heirn felt the force restraining him falter and shift, but not enough to allow him to move. Atlon leaned back a little and turned away with a pained expression as if a blustering wind had thrown dust in his face. As he did so, the Kyrosdyn staggered back several paces and collapsed on to his knees.

  Then Heirn was free.

  His immediate instinct was to seize the Kyrosdyn and beat an explanation out of him, but before he could move, Atlon seized his arm with an unexpectedly powerful grip and began dragging him along the alley.

  ‘Quickly, run.’ He slapped his horse, which set off ahead of them, then he let out a piercing whistle. Heirn tried to remonstrate, but Atlon’s urgent tugging kept him off-balance.

  They had gone barely twenty paces when a high-pitched shriek reached them. Resignation filled Atlon’s face as he stopped and turned. The Kyrosdyn was clambering unsteadily to his feet. To Heirn it seemed that the man was shimmering; it was as though he were looking at him across a scorching landscape.

  Atlon stopped and lowered his head. ‘Go on, Heirn,’ he said, his voice soft again. ‘There’s nothing you can do, and you could well get hurt.’

  Heirn backed away from him hesitantly. Born and bred in Arash-Felloren and having prospered honestly, he was neither fool nor coward, but Atlon’s initial desire to flee, and the now awful resolution in his quiet voice left him floundering. As he hesitated, he looked again at the swaying Kyrosdyn. There was a manic quality about the man which contrasted so starkly with Atlon’s calmness that it gave him the truth of Atlon’s words. He had no explanations but he knew that something terrible must surely flow between two such opposites. And there was nothing he could do.

  Nevertheless, he would not leave.

  Something brushed past his leg, making him jump violently. It was Dvolci.

  ‘Do you want me to deal with him?’ he asked Atlon, baring his teeth.

  Atlon, without taking his eyes from the Kyrosdyn, shook his head. ‘The state he’s in, there’s no saying what might happen if he tried to fight you off. Or who else might be drawn here. I’ll try to calm him, but speak to the horse – he’ll attack if I go down. Tell him to guard Heirn. And get them both away safely.’

  Dvolci replied with a reluctant grunt and backed away. ‘Stay by me,’ he said forcefully to Heirn as he passed him. ‘And if I say run – run! Don’t argue!’ He clambered up on to the horse and perched himself on its head. Though still obviously frightened, the horse not only made no attempt to dislodge him but quietened a little as he bent forward and whispered to it. It edged sideways a little, towards Heirn.

  ‘What’s happ…?’

  ‘Shh!’ Dvolci slapped down Heirn’s pending question. Even as he did, Atlon was straightening up and holding out both hands to the Kyrosdyn, palms upwards, as if greeting a friend.

  ‘Turn away from this,’ he said, very gently. ‘No harm’s been done so far, and there are other, wiser ways for you to travel through your life.’

  ‘He’s wasting his time,’ Dvolci said, as much to himself as to anyone else. ‘The man’s corrupted beyond redemption. Too little skill for the Power he’s using, and even less judgement.’ He hissed angrily.

  The Kyrosdyn did not reply but reached out with both hands, as he had before. This time, Atlon did not move other than to open his arms wider. Heirn could see nothing passing between the two men, but where before the Kyrosdyn had staggered a few paces, this time he was lifted into the air and thrown back twice the distance. He landed heavily and lay still.

  Atlon started towards him.

  ‘Leave him,’ Dvolci cried. ‘Let’s get away while we can.’

  Atlon hesitated, looking from the fallen figure to his friends then back again.

  ‘We can’t leave him,’ he said finally. ‘He might be hurt.’

  Dvolci muttered something viciously under his breath then ran after him. Curiosity overcoming his fear, Heirn followed them.

  ‘Leave him,’ Dvolci said again as they reached the fallen man. ‘If he’s dead, he’s dead – and no loss. If he’s alive, he’s still lost.’

  Atlon however, paid no heed, but knelt down and began examining the Kyrosdyn. He pulled the man’s hood back and reached out to check his throat pulse. The Kyrosdyn’s eyes opened and his hand seized Atlon’s wrist.

  Despite himself, Heirn stepped back, startled by the suddenness of the action and the expression on the young man’s gaunt face.

  ‘Thief,’ the Kyrosdyn said hoarsely.

  ‘No
,’ Atlon began. ‘I was just…’

  ‘Thief.’

  Still holding Atlon, the Kyrosdyn brought his other hand to the elaborate kerchief about his neck and pressed it tightly. Atlon frowned uncertainly at this strange gesture. Then suddenly, he cried out in alarm and started back, struggling to break the grip on his wrist. But it was too strong. His free hand shot out in front of Kyrosdyn’s face as if he was protecting himself from something. An image came to Heirn of himself making the same gesture in front of his overheated forge, though he could neither see, hear nor feel anything happening here.

  ‘No! No!’ Atlon was shouting repeatedly, as though he were trying to make himself heard over a roaring wind. ‘No! You’ll…’

  His words faded as the Kyrosdyn tightened his grip about his own throat as if some greater effort was needed. Then, abruptly, the man’s eyes were unnaturally wide and full of a terrible realization. Heirn turned away, unable to watch such pain. For a moment, the Kyrosdyn’s back arched and his mouth gaped in a silent scream, then he went limp.

  ‘… kill yourself,’ Atlon finished, almost whispering, as the man’s lifeless hand released his wrist. With a hasty gesture he drew the Kyrosdyn’s hood forward then placed his ear in front of the open mouth. When he sat up he completed the task that had brought on the attack; he reached into the hood and checked the man’s pulse.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he announced finally. He bowed his head.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Heirn demanded. ‘What did you…’

  ‘Find them!’ Dvolci’s urgency cut across the question and through Atlon’s distress. ‘Find the damned things quickly. I knew they were doing it. I could smell it in the air. I told you you were wasting your time. You could’ve been killed, then what? Anyone who uses the Power like that…’

  ‘All right, I know!’ Atlon blasted back at him furiously.

  Dvolci retreated a step and shook his head vigorously, as though dispatching the budding quarrel before it grew into anything worse, then he began tugging at the Kyrosdyn’s neckerchief. Heirn, fearing some atrocity on the corpse, reached down to take hold of him. But Atlon was already intervening. Carefully he unfastened a delicate clip that secured the neckerchief then gently removed it. As he turned it over he let out a resigned breath. Neatly worked into the pattern of the kerchief was a row of small green discs. Dvolci chattered his teeth as he bit back some comment. Heirn gasped. Though, on his own admission, he knew little about crystals, as with those that Atlon had shown, so now he recognized the brilliant green sheen that was glistening even in the gloomy alley.