Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  The whining became clearer. It was coming from far away. As he listened, though he could not identify any part of it, he knew what it was.

  It was screaming.

  Many people.

  Screaming.

  It was good.

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, the atmosphere at Heirn’s was strained. Atlon was still set on his intention of going to the Vaskyros, though sufficiently unhappy about the prospect to be unable to eat anything save a little bread. Heirn was still anxious to prevent him, though loath to press his objections knowing the dilemma that Atlon was facing. Even Dvolci was subdued.

  As was Heirn’s way, Atlon took refuge in stern practicalities. Dvolci was to accompany him and, should things go badly, he was to retreat to Heirn’s. The blacksmith would take him and the horse to the road that led north from The Wyndering, from where both would make their own way home. Heirn was then to do nothing except watch whatever events unfolded. Atlon gave him a simple phrase that would identify any of his colleagues should they feel it necessary to come to the city themselves. Heirn too, was to look after the crystals.

  Unable to dissuade Atlon, Heirn accepted these conditions, though he was uneasy about keeping the crystals and positively unhappy when Atlon said he could sell any of them if he needed the money. He did however, make a personal resolution to discover the fate of his new friend should need arise, though he kept this to himself, knowing that it would serve no useful purpose save to disturb Atlon further.

  One thing he was insistent upon. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the Vaskyros. It’s a long and complicated journey.’

  ‘Well, it will save me getting lost, I suppose,’ Atlon rationalized gratefully. ‘But you’re to come only as far as the street, or the square, wherever this place is. Under no circumstances must the Kyrosdyn associate you with me.’ He looked at Heirn squarely. ‘I stand a chance in there if I’m careful, but you’d be snuffed out like a candle.’ He rolled his thumb and fingers in imitation of the act.

  There was no hint of drama or foreboding in his voice, and the very calmness unnerved Heirn. He nodded a reluctant agreement. ‘I’ll watch from nearby.’

  The first part of the journey took them along the streets they had walked the previous night. Atlon looked up at the aqueduct as they approached it. It was a robust, well-made stone structure typical of the area, simple in line and undecorated save for what the birds had contributed. In a tawdry echo of the vivid image he had seen before, a dirty, ramshackle barge eased into sight. An equally dirty, ramshackle individual was leaning over the side. As the barge reached the middle of the span, the man sniffed then spat, lifting his head back so that his offering would land in the road below rather than the canal.

  Noting the action, and already unsettled by what he was doing, Heirn’s response was uncharacteristic. He raised a clenched fist and regaled the man with a series of well-chosen oaths. The man made an obscene gesture and spat again as he slid from view.

  ‘Sorry,’ Heirn said uncomfortably as they continued on their way. ‘I’m just a bit…’ He did not finish.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Atlon said. ‘Better out than in, I’d say. And I don’t think you did him any lasting damage.’

  Despite his anxiety, Heirn chuckled at the remark.

  Shortly after passing the aqueduct, Heirn turned off the route they had taken the night before and Atlon found himself in a street that, no different from many others he had seen, was lined with an arbitrary assortment of dwellings and businesses. Quite different from anything he had yet seen was the other side – which crumbled into a wide open space littered with rubble and the remains of derelict buildings. Trees, bushes, and generally dense undergrowth indicated that the area had been in this condition for a long time.

  Atlon was too preoccupied to be particularly curious; though it did occur to him briefly to ask what had happened here, he did not speak. Heirn however, unusually sensitive to his companion’s actions, followed his gaze. Then he stopped and frowned. This did prompt a question.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Those people,’ Heirn answered. He strode across the street. Atlon followed him. As he reached the edge of the abandoned area he saw that much of it was below street level. The overgrown remains of tumbled arches and shattered walls indicated that there had once been cellars there. And streets, he realized, noting expanses of buckled pavements. Then he saw what Heirn was looking at. At first he thought there were only two or three people wandering about, but as he looked, he saw many more, almost indistinguishable against the mottled background of the ruins and the deep-rooted and still green vegetation. There were also a great many temporary shelters.

  ‘Tunnellers?’ Atlon asked, recalling the generally wretched appearance of those he had seen the previous night.

  ‘They certainly look like it,’ Heirn confirmed. ‘But what the devil are they up to, camping here? They must know the Weartans will shift them.’

  ‘Why?’

  Heirn looked at him. ‘They just will. They even clear parts of the Spills from time to time. You said yourself you’d seen a “renewed” area when that idiot of an animal trainer took you into one. Ostensibly it’s at the behest of the local businesses, or the residents, or anyone, to stop the Spills from becoming too established, but if you ask me, they just enjoy it.’

  ‘But this place must have been abandoned for years – look at it.’ Atlon swept an arm across the site. ‘Surely they’re not doing any harm just staying there.’

  Heirn was both angry and fatalistic. ‘Probably not. But the Weartans will still shift them as soon as they hear about it. They’ve even less love for Tunnellers than Spill dwellers.’

  Atlon had to force himself not to inquire further. He knew by now that Arash-Felloren would provoke at least two more questions for every one he had answered, and he must concentrate on the task ahead of him, much as he would have preferred not to. It gave him a little comfort that what he was intending to do would quite probably relate to the fate of the Tunnellers, for he had no doubt that they were emerging from their chosen habitats because of the Serwulf, and that was surely linked to the Kyrosdyn and their schemes.

  He was about to move away when he noticed a group emerging through the bushes which fringed the wall that marked the far boundary of the site.

  ‘Where are they coming from?’ he asked.

  ‘There’ll be an entrance over there.’

  ‘Are there many entrances?’ Atlon knew that he was merely postponing what he had to do rather than seeking information.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ Heirn replied with a rueful look. ‘Almost every cellar in the city has got a bricked-up opening. There’s one in Elda’s building, and two in mine.’

  A shout drew their attention back to the Tunnellers. They were gathering around someone.

  ‘Come on,’ Heirn said. ‘I’ve no idea what they’re up to, but we don’t want to be around if the Weartans come.’

  As they set off however, it became apparent that it would be no easy task to be clear of the Tunnellers, for groups of them were emerging on to the road further along. Then the casual traffic became a steady stream. Moreover, they were heading in the same direction as Atlon and Heirn.

  Heirn quickened his pace. Atlon looked at the Tunnellers. Dirty and unkempt, and far from sweet-smelling, they were an even more intimidating sight than they had been in the garish night-time streets. The intimidation lay mainly in their appearance however, which was in sharp contrast to most of the other good citizens of Arash-Felloren pursuing their business in that street. Certainly they were offering no one any actual threat. Their dominant mood seemed to be anxiety to be away from this place, and they were paying little heed to anyone else. The converse was not the case: passers-by were paying them considerable heed. Like Heirn, most were beginning to hurry along, although some of them were taking shelter in doorways in the hope that the growing flood might pass. The response puzzled Atlon at first, then it occurred
to him that, amongst other things, the Tunnellers were walking reminders of the fate that lay in store for those who faltered before the city’s relentless challenge. Like I’m faltering before mine, he thought guiltily.

  Heirn stepped closer to Atlon and took his arm protectively. Atlon noted him reaching into his pocket with his free hand. ‘I don’t think you’re going to need your knuckles,’ he said. ‘Not with these people. Look at them – they’re scared out of their wits, and there’s as many women and children as there are men.’

  Heirn grunted an uneasy acceptance of Atlon’s comments and his hand emerged from his pocket empty. But he did not relinquish his hold on Atlon’s arm, nor lessen his increased pace.

  ‘If you hear horses coming, speak up, and get ready to run for it,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  There was some impatience in Heirn’s reply. ‘Because it’ll be the Weartans, that’s why. Trust me, they’ll just ride into this lot regardless. And they’ll not pick and choose targets once they start swinging their damned cudgels.’

  Atlon’s eyes narrowed angrily but he only asked, ‘Where do you think these people are going?’

  ‘If you’re lucky, they’ll be going to the Vaskyros,’ Heirn replied, though without humour. ‘But it looks as if they might be going to the Prefect’s Palace.’ Anxiety broke through on to his face. ‘They must be crazy! I’ve never seen anything like this. Whatever’s driving them, they’ll get no help up here, least of all from the Prefect. There’s going to be bad trouble sooner rather than later. We must get away from them.’

  Dvolci whistled softly in Atlon’s ear. Atlon grimaced then said, ‘I was just thinking the same.’ Gently he pulled himself free from Heirn and, after a brief hesitation, ran forward to catch the arm of a large man who had just passed him, striding out purposefully.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, what are you doing? What’s made you all leave the tunnels?’ he said, quickly releasing the man’s arm as he turned with a start. He repeated the question before the man could speak, adding, ‘I don’t come from this city but my friend tells me it’s very dangerous for you up here – especially for women and children.’ The man stared at him uncertainly. His eyes were a mixture of fear and anger. ‘He says they’ll turn horsemen on you. Did you know that? People will be hurt?’

  ‘Hurt?’ The man echoed the word scornfully. Then he gave a cold laugh and his face was suddenly alive with despair. ‘Better hurt than dead! We can’t stay down there. Not while that thing’s loose.’ Equally suddenly, the despair became anger and he raised his voice. ‘If the Prefect doesn’t want us here, he’ll have to go down there and kill the thing himself. Or send his precious horsemen, if they’re feeling brave. If he sends them after us they’ll get more than they bargained for, I’ll tell you. I’ll face a score of mounted Weartans before I’d risk coming within a thousand paces of that thing. Eh, lads?’

  Voices rose up in support and Atlon found that he was becoming the mobile centre of a growing group. He was aware of Heirn close by him again, trying to catch his attention.

  He lifted his hands in surrender. ‘You’re risking facing the Weartans because of an animal?’ He kept his voice balanced between surprise and incredulity. ‘It must be something particularly nasty. What’s it look like? Can’t you trap it? I’ve seen some strange creatures on my travels, but I’ve never seen anything that couldn’t be brought down with a little determination or cunning. Nothing that’s worth facing a cavalry charge for, believe me.’ Heirn’s estimation of Atlon rose once again. Somehow his tone had robbed the words of any hint of challenge. Nevertheless, he kept his hand through his iron knuckles.

  ‘Then you’ve never seen anything like this,’ the man replied, stopping to face Atlon. The crowd came to a ragged halt with them. The man grimaced. ‘And you’ve certainly never heard anything like it.’ There was a chorus of agreement. ‘When it howls, the sound’s like nothing you could even imagine. It’s something out of your worst nightmare. It goes right through you, churns your insides… turns your stomach and your legs into water. You daren’t move. You can’t move.’ The man had lowered his voice, almost as though talking about the creature might in some way bring it down on them.

  Atlon wondered what kind of a person he was talking to. An inadequate presumably, to have been driven beneath the city, but there was a power in his simple telling that would have eluded many a learned man. The crowd around him was still and silent, and he could feel the dank presence of the tunnels hanging in the air despite the bright sunlight warming the street.

  ‘It came barely a day ago, but it feels as though it’s been there for ever. There’s dead everywhere.’ The man slumped a little and his eyes became distant. ‘When I was…’ He faltered. ‘Before the tunnels, I had a growing plot – nothing much, but enough. One night a fox got into the chicken coop. Killed them all. Didn’t eat them – just killed them.’ Atlon was looking once again into terror. ‘That’s what we are down there – chickens. Squawking and helpless. We could no more hunt that creature than my chickens could’ve hunted that fox.’ He bent close to Atlon, a prodding finger raised. ‘I saw it open a man up with a single blow.’ He made a cutting gesture from his shoulder to his groin. ‘Lift up another, half as big again as me, and shake him like rat. His arm was torn clean off… it flew fifty paces and landed at my feet… his damn fingers were still moving.’ He mimicked the movement. ‘Then it was gone. So fast.’ He clapped his hands explosively. Then he began shaking. Hands reached out to comfort him.

  ‘It’s just killing for killing’s sake,’ another man said. ‘And it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even seem to get tired.’ He put his hands to his ears. ‘Everywhere you turn, you can hear it howling and people screaming. Far away one minute, close by the next. And all the time you’re thinking, what’s that in the shadows? Is it my turn? Will it be me making that awful noise next?’ He shook his head violently. ‘I’ll take my chance with a Weartan truncheon, but I’m not going back down there.’

  ‘The Prefect’ll have to do something about it. We can’t,’ someone else cried out, to a clamour of agreement. ‘We’re staying here till he does.’

  Atlon reverted to his first question. ‘What does it look like, this creature?’

  Several garbled descriptions were given simultaneously. It was bigger than a man, smaller than a man. It was like a large dog, it was like a large cat. Its eyes were red – green – yellow. It ran in a strange way – on two legs, on four legs – but it was very fast. That, everyone agreed upon. It was very fast.

  Atlon looked down, his vision filled with the ragged trousers and worn shoes of the Tunnellers gathered around him, and the dusty jointed stones that formed the road. What he was about to do disturbed him profoundly. He had no right to use people in such a way, especially the weak and the vulnerable. That these people were almost certainly destined for a bloody confrontation, that he was telling them the truth, gave him little consolation. But throughout, he had not lost sight of the terrifying problem posed by what had happened to Pinnatte. If that were not resolved, then the Serwulf loose in the tunnels would be as nothing to the carnage that might follow. For an instant, the shoes and the stones vanished to become a vision of the victorious battlefield he had stood on. All around him were sights that should not be seen. Sights which could not be seen without embedding themselves in the memory for ever and changing the direction of the life of the observer. He drove his fingernails into his palms until the pain returned him to the street.

  ‘The other night,’ he said, ‘there was a Loose Pit at the Jyolan. I didn’t see it myself, but the last animal to fight sounds like the one that’s killing your people.’

  He was suddenly aware that the group had fallen silent. All eyes were on him.

  ‘No one knows who owns it, but the rumour is that it belongs to the Kyrosdyn.’

  The mood about him changed perceptibly. The words ‘Kyrosdyn’ hissed all about him like a living echo as it passed through the crowd.

  Atlon
saw realization come into the eyes of the man he had first confronted. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘who else? They’re always sneaking about down there – going below into the depths – into the caves themselves. Going into places where people aren’t meant to go.’

  Then the whispered ‘Kyrosdyn’ was being replaced by ‘Vaskyros’. It soon rose to a shout and, abruptly, the crowd was moving away.

  Atlon had difficulty meeting Heirn’s look. ‘I hope somebody, somewhere, will forgive me for that,’ he said.

  Heirn looked round at the passing stream of Tunnellers. His face was pained. Honest and straightforward, what he had heard Atlon do appalled him. He wanted to walk away – return to his forge – forget everything he had seen and heard over the past two days. He half-turned. Yet he could feel Atlon’s own pain and desperation. He could not perceive this newcomer as a gratuitous manipulator of other people for sinister ends of his own. Nor could he leave him.

  His voice was gruff when he forced his words out. ‘You told them the truth. They’re destined for bad trouble anyway. Better it be at the Vaskyros where it belongs than at the Prefect’s Palace for nothing.’

  Heirn’s analysis chiming with his own, barely heartened Atlon. Somehow he would have felt better receiving an angry remonstrance. He gritted his teeth. He had seen others take decisions far more terrible. He would survive it, just as they did – he supposed.