by Roger Taylor
Atlon, recognizing the sound, was the first to recover.
‘Sorry about that,’ Dvolci whispered in his ear. ‘It was all I could think of.’
Atlon nodded, then knelt down by Pinnatte. The young man was himself again, his face confused and concerned. The guard was swearing violently while Rinter was pale and shaking.
‘What was that?’ he asked in between the guard’s oaths.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Atlon lied, trembling himself from the remembered vision of Pinnatte’s sudden ferocity. ‘And I don’t care. I’m just glad it frightened that dog off.’
He was helping Pinnatte to his feet. ‘Come on, get us out of here quickly,’ he said to the guard, who was having some difficulty in sheathing his shaking sword. ‘Before that thing decides to come back.’
The remainder of the hurried journey was completed in comparative silence, and within a few minutes the guard was ushering them into the clamour of the main entrance hall. One of the gates had been replaced, but the hammerers were in full song on the other so Atlon only caught part of the guard’s shouted remarks about ‘getting a team together,’ as he left them.
Pinnatte’s brow furrowed at the din. Atlon took his arm and began manoeuvring him towards the street. As he did so he became aware of his name being called. Looking round he saw the bulky form of Heirn, waving to him. The big blacksmith pushed his way through the confusion.
‘I didn’t realize we’d been in there so long,’ Atlon shouted.
Heirn did not reply, but began clearing a way through the crowd for them like a huge plough.
‘You look awful,’ he declared as they reached the street. ‘Are you all right?’
‘A bit shaken,’ Atlon said. ‘We just had a little excitement with the dog that escaped last night – but no harm’s been done.’
He introduced Pinnatte and Rinter. Heirn eyed them both narrowly and greeted them with a courtesy that was obviously an effort. At the same time he gave Atlon a look not unlike that of a father finding his son in scapegrace company but unwilling to embarrass him publicly.
Atlon caught his mood and sought to retrieve himself. ‘Rinter I met at The Wyndering. He was kind enough to bring me to the city. Pinnatte’s the man who opened the gate at the Jyolan last night.’
Heirn’s manner changed perceptibly – at least towards Pinnatte.
‘A brave thing you did there, young man,’ he said, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Mind you, if there’d been no one in there in the first place, it wouldn’t have happened. Still, it was well done.’
Rinter considered an indignant retort to this but, noting Heirn’s size and his obvious concern for Atlon, he thought better of it.
‘Is there anywhere round here where we can just sit and relax?’ Atlon asked, still anxious to get Pinnatte away from the Jyolan.
‘And eat,’ Rinter added.
Heirn pointed. ‘There’s a small park over there,’ he said. ‘Just a few minutes’ walk.’ He recollected something. ‘Oh, I think there’s been a little problem with your horse.’
Atlon’s face darkened and, without comment, he pushed past Heirn and made towards where he had left his horse tethered. People stepped aside from his purposeful advance. The horse was standing patiently, apparently untroubled, though its tethering rope was hanging free. Atlon stroked its neck and whispered to it. Then he saw a ragged individual sitting propped against the building. He was holding a bloodstained kerchief to his face. In front of him was another man, sprawled face down. As the seated man met Atlon’s gaze he began talking earnestly, if unintelligibly, into the kerchief and gesticulating towards what was apparently his fallen comrade. Atlon cast a searching and cold eye over his horse, then, satisfied, bent down and checked the prone figure. Almost reluctantly, he manoeuvred the man’s arms and legs and deftly rolled him on to his side so that he looked like a child in bed.
‘What’s happened?’ Heirn was standing by him. The man against the wall began talking again and waving his free hand wildly at Atlon and the horse.
‘They tried to steal the horse. Or from it,’ Atlon said. His voice was as cold as his look.
The bloodstained man’s protestations became indignant, though they were still unintelligible. Abruptly Atlon’s face creased into rage. He spun round and snatched the weighted staff that hung from his saddle. It was a swift and practised gesture and Heirn stepped back in surprise, as did most of the gathered crowd. Atlon pressed the staff against the man’s chest.
‘Don’t call my horse a liar,’ he said, with a seriousness that robbed the word of any incongruity. The man stared at him wide-eyed and silent. ‘Think of this as a lucky day. The horse didn’t kill you for what you tried to do, and so far -so far – I’m not inclined to.’ He drew the staff back. ‘But I may be, if I see you again. Do you understand?’ The man nodded his head. ‘And you won’t forget to explain this to your friend when he wakes up, will you?’ Atlon threw the staff into the air, and caught it with the other hand. The man nodded again, desperately.
As they walked away, Heirn bent forward and asked softly, ‘Would it?’
‘What?’ Atlon said, replacing his staff.
‘Would it have killed him?’
‘Of course,’ Atlon replied tersely. ‘If I hadn’t asked it just to defend itself when I left it.’
It was not an answer that Heirn had expected. ‘And you?’ The words were out before he could stop them.
Atlon stopped, lowered his head for a moment then looked at him. ‘I understand almost nothing about this city of yours, Heirn. I’m trying to be careful all the time – making allowances – adjusting. But you can’t understand about my people and horses either. In my country, stealing a horse, or from a horse, is to risk being killed. It’s that simple. Always has been. It never happens. And I can’t answer your question.’
‘I think you just did,’ Heirn said.
Atlon frowned and waved a hand to signal an end to the discussion. He did not want any reminders of his home, so starkly contrasted as it was to Arash-Felloren. ‘Something bad happened in the Jyolan – very bad. I need to think about it. And I need food.’ He smiled in an attempt to banish the incident further. ‘Thanks for coming to look for me.’
‘One hour to sunset I said, and one hour to sunset I meant.’
The park to which Heirn led them was indeed small – scarcely two hundred paces across – although, following in miniature the pattern of the city, it contrived to have no less than four small hills in this space. It was surrounded by buildings but they were substantially hidden by trees, and though much of the grass had been burned off by the prolonged summer, giving the place a worn and tired look, it still formed an unexpected haven away from the busy streets.
Today it was deserted.
As soon as the four men passed through the ornate metal gates, Dvolci jumped out of Atlon’s pack and ran off at great speed, whistling noisily. Rinter twitched nervously as his fighter-to-be disappeared from view. Atlon released his horse, which trotted off after Dvolci.
In the shade of a large old tree near the centre of the park, a little grass still survived. The four men sat down on it and ate the food they had purchased from a street vendor. None spoke. Each was preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Rinter was restless, his dominant concern being the whereabouts of Dvolci and, following that, how he might set about finally luring Atlon into putting the felci in the Pits. His considerations were not made any easier by Dvolci’s occasional appearances as he careered recklessly and at great speed about the park. He fought with a constant urge to pester Atlon – ‘He will come back, won’t he?’ – but, having witnessed the scene with the two men that the horse had injured, he determined that in future he should not be too sanguine about Atlon’s apparent naivety.
The same incident was occupying Heirn. Atlon’s anger at the men had surprised him. He had no difficult in accepting the virtues of summary justice – few in Arash-Felloren had – but he did not know what to make of the th
reat that Atlon had made to the injured man. It was quite different from the confrontation that had resulted in the death of the Kyrosdyn. There, Atlon’s response, mysterious and frightening though it was, had been unequivocally defensive. This time he had been openly aggressive. It was difficult. Atlon did not impress him as a man who would say something he did not mean; yet equally, he did not impress him as being naturally aggressive, still less maliciously violent. Quite the reverse, in fact. Atlon almost radiated gentleness.
‘You can’t understand about my people and horses,’ he had said.
I don’t understand anything about you, Heirn decided resignedly. Walking around with a fortune in your pocket, with strange invisible powers at your command, and a head full of terrifying tales. Not to mention a talking animal for a companion. It occurred to Heirn that he might be dreaming, or worse, going mad. But the idea did not last for long. There was a palpable solidity about everything around him and everything that had happened which denied him the luxury of such an escape. And escape, he realized suddenly, was what he wanted. But why? He wasn’t bound. He could walk away from the man at any time if he so chose. Surreptitiously he glanced at Atlon, now lying flat on his back, half in the shade, half in the sunlight. His hands behind his head, he was staring up at the sky through the motionless leaves of the tree.
How far from home are you? Heirn thought. How alone in this bewildering, alien place with your terrible knowledge and your deep fears?
An image formed in the wake of the questions. This seemingly ordinary and simple man was like a tiny, distant cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, that might grow to fill the sky and envelop and deluge the whole city, carrying all before it. Heirn felt afraid – very afraid.
Another image came, familiar and reassuring in the trembling confusion – that of iron changing its very nature as it was heated and worked. The idea seemed to possess him. Then he was the iron and the change was stirring deep inside him, deeper than could ever have been reached by any conscious decision. It was almost physical in its intensity. Whatever Atlon was, and oddly frail though he seemed to be, he was more a beacon of hope than despair. The change completed itself. Though he could have given no reason, he was resolved now to help this stranger – protect him, if he could, from the many ills that Arash-Felloren offered. Somehow he could do no other. A pledge blazed with trumpets and pageants could have been no truer.
Heirn closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree. He felt more at ease than he had for a long time.
Pinnatte, also leaning against the tree, wiped crumbs from his mouth. That the pie he had eaten had been bought by Ellyn’s freely given gift gave it a peculiar savour he had never known before. He had eaten it very slowly. This stranger, Atlon, with his healer’s manner had been right – the short walk, the food, and lounging idly in the sunshine had made him feel calmer, less torn.
But what was – had been – tearing him? Memories of the previous day and night were fresh and vivid, yet it was as if they had happened in another time, in another place – even to another person. The flight from the Kyrosdyn, the strange mark on his hand, the resolution to change his life, to leave Lassner. Then the many disturbing responses he had had in the Jyolan. More settled though he was now, these still troubled him. Too much excitement, he tried to convince himself, but unsuccessfully. The blood frenzy he had felt and the feeling that the place and its rituals were precious, even holy, should not have happened. They were obscene. He wasn’t that kind of person – delighting in the suffering of others, even animals. Yet they had happened. And even now, part of him took relish in them. The events returned to him, unbidden, culminating in the arrival of the creature. He dared not close his eyes for fear that he would see it again, bowing in homage to him. For that is what it had done. In some way, it had known him.
And he, it.
Like a sudden bitter wind, the memory of his nightmare was all about him. He drew in a sharp breath and wrapped his arms around himself involuntarily.
Atlon noted the movement. Despite his relaxed manner, he had been watching Pinnatte constantly. So much frightening strangeness hung about this young man. He desperately wanted to question him, but that would not be possible while Rinter was with them and, in any event, it was something that would have to be approached very delicately. Through half-closed eyes, he caught a glimpse of Dvolci, brown and sinuous, tumbling down a small slope. A gleeful whistling reached him. Then his horse came in pursuit, shaking its head. The freedom of the two animals washed over him. Guilt followed it. They deserved better than being constrained in this awful city with its hard, crowded streets and abrasive, mistrustful people. He could rightly say that, like him, they were free creatures, here of their own choosing, but that would be only partly true. None of them was truly free. Knowledge would bind him the instant he tried to walk away from what he had found here. The horse was bound to him, and he to it, by ancient bonds which neither of them could, or would wish to, break. And Dvolci, the freest of them all – who could say why he was here? Had he been asked, he would probably have said it was in fulfilment of the felci’s ancient duty as guardians of the less gifted species – the human race. Then he would have laughed. As if echoing his thoughts, Dvolci’s laughter floated across the park. The horse whinnied.
Atlon brought himself back to the present. He must concentrate on the matters in hand; the first thing to do was to get Pinnatte alone and trusting him. He levered himself up on to his elbows.
‘After you’ve been to Jyolan tonight, where will you go?’ he asked Pinnatte.
The question drew Pinnatte back from the memory of his nightmare. He shrugged. ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘If Barran’s got anything for me, he might be able to find me somewhere for the time being. If he hasn’t… then I suppose I’ll go back to Lassner’s.’
Atlon looked thoughtful. ‘I’d like to keep an eye on you. I don’t think there should be any problem with the bang you took, but head injuries are queer things. You could get bad dreams, disorientation, dizziness. You need to be with someone who understands these things. And I’d certainly feel bad if I just walked away from you.’
Heirn, sitting behind Pinnatte, scowled but, meeting Atlon’s pleading gaze, reluctantly nodded his permission. Pinnatte glanced at Rinter, who could scarcely believe his good fortune. Atlon being the keeper of Dvolci, and Pinnatte being his renewed contact with Fiarn, with perhaps the chance of meeting Barran himself, keeping them both together would be ideal. He affected a casualness he did not feel. ‘Seems like a good idea to me,’ he said. ‘I can’t invite you back to where I’m staying, it’s too small. And I imagine it could be awkward if you go back to Lassner’s right now, couldn’t it?’ He did not wait for an answer but gave his final push. ‘And even if Barran can use you, he won’t be too impressed if he has to start finding accommodation for you – him being so busy.’
It swayed Pinnatte enough. He had no desire to meet Lassner again until everything had been resolved. He certainly didn’t want Lassner approaching Barran with a proposed Deed of Transfer in the hope of a large commission. If Barran wanted him, it was far better that his people approach Lassner about the traditional Guild formalities. And if Barran didn’t want him…? He shied away from the thought. He’d never have a better opportunity – he must make sure that Barran took him on. Rinter was right: it certainly wouldn’t help if he immediately went whining to him for somewhere to stay.
The decision made, the four men left the park. Before he parted from them, Rinter, though relieved by the return of Dvolci to the safety of Atlon’s pack, nevertheless confirmed several times the hour at which Pinnatte would return to the Jyolan that night. When he had gone, the others set off for Heirn’s home, walking at a leisurely pace through the early evening streets, transformed into strange canyons by long, dusty shadows and hazy shafts of yellow and gold.
Reaching Heirn’s, Atlon casually looked at Pinnatte’s hand. He had examined it carefully in the park and pronounced it satisfactory, but that had
been a lie. The graze was healing normally, but the turmoil that he saw emanating from the dark green mark, albeit less than it had been in the Jyolan, was unequivocally present, and all the more frightening for being clearly visible away from the Jyolan’s pernicious influence. What it was, or how it could have come about, defied him. It took him a considerable effort not to interrogate Pinnatte immediately.
‘It’s all right,’ Pinnatte said, tugging his hand free from Atlon’s grip. It was a categorical statement, full of implications that further inspections were not only not needed, but would be refused.
‘It’s better,’ Atlon said gently, offering no opposition. ‘But let me know if it starts to trouble you.’
Pinnatte dropped down into a chair and stared into the dead fire grate. He was uncertain about Atlon again – his moods kept shifting for no apparent reason. Why this interest in his hand? It was nothing to do with him. It was only a graze.His graze. And why had Atlon brought him here? He seemed all right, but…?
He pressed his injured hand to himself.
And Heirn didn’t like him, that was for sure. He glanced at the blacksmith lighting a lamp. His posture was stiff and formal. But at least he knew where he was with Heirn. He was the kind of person that he normally avoided. One who would have very little in his purse and yet be permanently on the alert for street thieves. And probably faster than his size indicated. Generally shrewd and dangerous.
‘Where do you come from?’ The question came out unexpectedly, surprising Pinnatte as much as it surprised Atlon and Heirn.
Heirn was on the verge of telling him to mind his own business when Atlon answered him.
‘From the north,’ he said, sitting down opposite him.
Dvolci clambered on to Pinnatte’s lap. Atlon could see by his twitching snout that he was unhappy there.
‘Some people say there’s only Arash-Felloren,’ Pinnatte went on. ‘That there’s nowhere else except perhaps the Lowe Towns and the Wilde Ports. That it goes on for ever.’ There was a hint of childish petulance in his voice.
