Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  But the pit of his stomach felt cold and hard.

  As he and Heirn set off again, he consoled himself as best he could. Circumstances were allowing him few choices against fearful odds. There was no saying in what way directing the Tunnellers against the true cause of their trouble would change these choices, but change them it would, and where there was change, there would be opportunity.

  ‘Well done,’ Dvolci said to him quietly and very gently. ‘It’s at times like this that I’m particularly glad that I’m not a human.’ It was a remark that Dvolci frequently used, but this time its usually biting tone was replaced with genuine compassion. Atlon felt a little easier.

  As they walked along, Heirn kept looking nervously over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry about the Weartans,’ Atlon said. ‘Listening for horses is something I’ve been doing all my life and I’m good at it. I’ll tell you when they’re coming.’

  Heirn gave him a nod of acceptance, then automatically looked over his shoulder again.

  As Heirn had declared, it was indeed a long and complicated journey to the Vaskyros. Most journeys tended to be thus in Arash-Felloren, with its endlessly winding streets, its complicated and confusing junctions and its rambling, open spaces. From time to time, Atlon thought that he sensed some kind of pattern to the whole, but it defied easy discovery and he did not pursue it. Nevertheless, he studied the route that they were following with great care, frequently, like Heirn, though for different reasons, looking back at where they had just come from. It could be that he might have to travel it again and at speed. Each time he did this, thoughts of his horse came to him and he had constantly to set aside regrets at having to leave it at Heirn’s. It was a pain he had not anticipated.

  Gradually, he was becoming accustomed to the hectic activity that typified most of the city; under other circumstances, he would have welcomed an opportunity to study this remarkable place and its people. Now he was in a street like a deep canyon, hemmed in by high soaring buildings which darkened the sun and directed the flow of the people and traffic below like ominous shepherds. Then he was looking over the parapet of a bridge, flying high above level upon level of streets and buildings far below, and offering a panorama of at least part of the city. Confusion was everywhere: bustling alleyways, high galleries, arcades, the derelict and the decaying shouldering equally the new and flamboyant and the old and sedate. And there was the occasional, almost incongruous burst of greenery, where some parkland or growing plot was being assiduously protected from the withering sun.

  But these were impressions that Atlon registered only in passing. His brief vision of the old battlefield had focused his resolve and he clung to it, grim though it was. With each step he used this and the disciplines of his training to prepare himself. Whenever he felt his concentration drifting he intoned inwardly: ‘This is not a bright and sunny day in a strange and fascinating place. It is still the battlefield…His battlefield.’ The absence of smoking entrails spilt from hacked bodies, the awful sounds of the wounded, the stink of terror, of voided colons, of burning flesh, of earth churned with feet and hooves and rain and blood – did not change this. His presence was everywhere – faint and tenuous, but real nevertheless. And such havoc would always be His ultimate legacy.

  Seeking other sources of courage in his inner trial, Atlon returned to the short time he had spent with the Queen’s elite troops. He had learned little from them in the way of fighting skills, save that he was no warrior, but he had picked up a simple directness of thinking that had stood him in good stead many times since in arenas not associated with combat. Above all, they had taught him that he should not be afraid to be afraid – that fear was a necessary thing for him if he was to survive any threat.

  ‘Mind you, nobody says you have to enjoy it.’ The long-forgotten memory of this rueful observation, uttered as he had crouched trembling behind someone’s shield, floated up into his mind and made him smile.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Dvolci asked, sensing his mood.

  ‘Bad, but I think I’ll be ready,’ Atlon replied.

  ‘Good,’ Dvolci said. ‘You can do this, Atlon. Don’t let the natural uncertainty of your inquiring nature cloud your measure of your true ability.’ He was unusually serious. ‘When you stood with the others that day, you faced a power and a will far beyond anything these people can offer. It forged you into someone stronger by far. You take no pride in this, but youdo know it! And all the years since have strengthened you further. The Atlon before that day could not have contained that novice, or what Pinnatte did, could he?’

  Atlon did not reply but could do no other than ask, ‘There is no other way, is there?’

  ‘No.’ Dvolci’s reply came without hesitation. ‘Whatever’s been done to Pinnatte is turning him into something that shouldn’t be possible, according to everything we know. Perhaps these Kyrosdyn, these… crystal meddlers… hoped to control him in some way, but I agree with you – I think they don’t know what they’ve done. I can’t conceive of anyone – not even humans – even trying to do such a thing deliberately. Such a… creation… could no more be controlled than the turning of the globe. He’s already wildly dangerous and he must surely get worse. And rapidly at that. We’ve no time to go home. We have to go to the heart of this – and that’s the Kyrosdyn. They mightn’t know what’s happened at the moment, but they will soon enough. And at least they know what they did to him.’

  Atlon reached up and touched the felci’s head. Dvolci’s use of the word ‘we’ cut into him. ‘A very human trait, selfishness,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. How are you?’

  Dvolci grunted. ‘Ready enough, you know me.’

  ‘Bad taste in your mouth again?’

  ‘Afraid so.’ Dvolci shook his head noisily.

  They fell silent and the clamour of the city closed about them as they continued on their way.

  After their encounter with the Tunnellers, it seemed to Atlon that they had all quietly disappeared into the bustling morning. Slowly however, he became aware of an increasing tension in the air. Heirn, more used to the nuances of the city’s moods, had already noticed it – and its cause.

  ‘There are Tunnellers all over the place,’ he said quietly, as though afraid some might overhear him.

  Looking round, Atlon began to notice them again. Their characteristic shabbiness was to be seen everywhere. A tide of ragged greyness was gradually pervading the street, draining the colour from the city and its inhabitants like the touch of a baleful sun.

  ‘Is it true there are more people below the city than actually in it?’ Atlon asked. In their short acquaintance, he had never seen Heirn look so uncertain when he replied.

  ‘So it’s always been said. But then we say all manner of things without thinking about them, don’t we? Now you ask me, I have to say I don’t know. I doubt anybody does. There are whole areas of the city above ground that no one knows anything about, let alone underneath it. Oh!’

  They had turned a corner into yet another square. Diagonally opposite them was a broad avenue which rose up and curved out of sight to the left. Rising above the buildings Atlon saw the towers and spires of the Vaskyros. He knew it for what it was immediately, its jagged outline impinging on him almost physically with its strangely violent symmetry.

  The cause of Heirn’s exclamation however, was not the building, but the straggling crowd of Tunnellers wandering along the avenue. He was about to say, ‘Your troops, General’, but even as the jibe came to him its injustice repelled him and he thought about shaping it into a dark joke. Finally, he left it unsaid.

  Instead, Atlon said it for him, though his mouth was dry when he spoke. ‘Did just those few words do this?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ Heirn said, inadequately.

  As the initial impact of the sight faded, practical considerations returned. Heirn was looking around again. ‘I’ll hear the horses,’ Atlon repeated reassuringly.

  ‘I’m surprised there are none here already,
’ Heirn said. ‘They must know what’s going on by now.’

  ‘Unless there are just too many Tunnellers in other parts of the city.’ It was Dvolci. ‘There are far more here than we saw. They must be coming out all over the place.’

  ‘Could be,’ Heirn agreed. ‘Could be a host of things, not least some political quarrel between the Weartans and the Kyrosdyn, but whatever it is, it’s not good.’

  ‘Explain,’ Atlon said tersely, his eyes fixed almost hypnotically on the Vaskyros.

  ‘Rightly or wrongly, people just don’t like Tunnellers,’ Heirn replied. He gave an encompassing wave towards the distant crowd. ‘This isn’t going to be tolerated for long. If the Weartans can’t or won’t deal with it, then the Trading Combines, the Guilds, the Noble Houses, any of them and a score of other groups, will send in their own mercenaries sooner or later. And they’re even less disciplined than the Weartans.’

  Atlon nodded, recalling the same observation from the previous night. ‘And if we get caught up in any of it, we’re just as likely to be victims as any of these.’

  ‘We are indeed,’ Heirn confirmed.

  Atlon’s eyes narrowed. ‘If they come on foot, you protect me. If they come on horseback, I’ll unseat one and protect you. Is there another way to this place?’ He flicked his hand towards the Vaskyros, as though reluctant to mention it by name.

  Heirn looked at him sharply, involuntarily answering his question before asking one of his own. ‘Yes, I think so. What do you mean, you’ll unseat one and protect me?’ His tone was incredulous.

  ‘Precisely that,’ Atlon replied, motioning Heirn to lead on. ‘I’ve seen plenty of people on horseback since I arrived, but I haven’t seen a single rider so far. The majority don’t ride much better than Dvolci here. There’ll be no difficulty unseating someone. It’s verging on the miraculous that most of them manage to stay in the saddle at all.’

  There was an undemonstrative but absolute confidence about Atlon’s manner that left Heirn with nothing to say, though the remains of his jibe leaked into his acknowledgement. ‘On foot I look after you, on horseback you look after me? Fine, General.’

  The square too was cluttered with Tunnellers, all unknowingly following Atlon’s guidance which had spread through them like a virulent disease. While they all seemed to be intent on reaching the Vaskyros, their presence was being loudly resented by the locals, particularly the small traders who littered this square as they did every other in the city. As he followed Heirn, Atlon heard the angry voices that he had heard in the street the previous night. Noisy, vicious quarrels were springing up everywhere.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ Heirn said.

  Atlon felt a sense of relief after they passed the avenue and the Vaskyros disappeared behind the buildings fringing the square, but as they came to the next junction, Heirn paused. Five roads came together in a typically confused fashion, and Atlon could see that some way along, each one branched into several other roads.

  ‘This way,’ Heirn said, after some thought. ‘I’m not too familiar with all the streets around here. This isn’t an area I’ve had cause to visit all that often. The difficulty is that the Vaskyros is built into the side of a hill. One side’s a sheer drop, and there’s a whole maze of little roads round here that just peter out into nothing.’

  The street was narrow and dusty, constructed of smaller, more uneven stone blocks than most of the others Atlon had seen. Grasses and weeds were growing between joints, restrained only by the effects of the long hot summer. The road was obviously very old, and little used, though ruts running along it indicated that it had once been frequently used by heavy carts. The houses on one side stopped abruptly as a rocky outcrop intruded. Those on the other side changed suddenly after this point, becoming smaller, simpler and more functional in appearance. Atlon could see no sign of any gratuitous decoration. Save for the variations made necessary by the sloping ground, they were also identical. Built from a stone similar to that of the road, they too were obviously old. Some were still occupied, some were empty, and one or two were patently decaying. At regular intervals, equally narrow streets turned off at right angles to reveal rows of other identical houses. The whole made an oddly dismal impression despite the bright sunshine. The thought came to Atlon that they were servants’ quarters, or perhaps accommodation for low-ranking Army officers or civilian employees.

  He turned away from their dun monotony and looked up at the rugged rock-face which now formed the opposite side of the road. He could see nothing, but he knew that on top of it would be the looming bulk of the Vaskyros. And even as he thought this, the rock began to fall away to be replaced by a high wall. Atlon walked over to it and examined it closely. The stones that formed it were very large, and the joints between them were so tight that it would have been difficult to insert even a fine blade. No grasses and weeds found haven here.

  Looking up, he saw that the wall curved outwards. It was giddying perspective and it made him step back.

  ‘Fine workmanship,’ he said to Heirn.

  ‘I’ve never really looked,’ Heirn replied.

  ‘Military engineers built this,’ Atlon went on. ‘Good ones at that. I’ll wager there are ramparts with anchorages for all manner of siege defence devices up there.’

  Heirn could not work up any enthusiasm. ‘I thought you were a scholar, not a soldier.’

  ‘I’ve had cause to study wars and fighting, amongst other things. Tragically, many great achievements have come about through war. People’s minds are uniquely focused when their survival is at risk. Failure to learn from their suffering is to make their battle doubly futile and to risk having to fight it again.’

  Heirn followed his gaze and stared up at the wall. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, still unenthusiastic. Then he frowned. ‘You really make me look at my city through a stranger’s eyes. Some of it’s been a revelation, but I’m not totally sure I like some of the things you see.

  Despite his preoccupation, Atlon smiled. ‘The greatest protection you can ever have is to see things the way they are, rather than as you think they are, or as you think they ought to be.’ Heirn gave a non-committal grunt.

  The street grew steadily steeper, making the two men slow down. They had passed no one since they entered it, though now, occasionally, as they plodded by, someone would peer through a window and stare at them curiously. As they neared what appeared to be the top of the slope, the sound of an angry crowd reached them.

  Chapter 27

  On the edge of panic, he lay for a long time staring up at the ceiling before he slowly began to remember who he was. The panic receded only partly as it took him almost as long to remember where he was.

  The night had been a black and turbulent torrent, buffeting him between stark horror and manic elation. The high-pitched whine that had drawn him to the small opening in the wall had held him there, immobile, while it coiled itself through and around him until it was all he was. What he had been, all that had brought him to this point, was gone as if it had never happened. There was just the flickering darkness through which he was plunging, filled with the rich heady scent of prey. And their song – long and irresistibly alluring. Thoughts pervaded him that were incoherent and alien, save that they were alternately terrifying and rapturous, though there were faint remembrances among them that told him of a great loss, and a flight from a terrible, glittering foe. Dominating these however, was the dull ache of an endless empty exile in the barren darkness.

  Pinnatte screwed up his eyes then opened them wide, as though trying to force the light of the solitary lamp into the lingering remains of that darkness. He was trembling. The events of the night, jumbling and fragmenting now at the touch of his wakening mind, were already slipping away from him. But events they had been. It had been no dream. Not only did he never dream, there was an undeniable reality about what had happened. For at times he had drifted apart from the will that had held him and drawn him into its killing frenzy. He had been briefly himse
lf, aware of the horror of what was happening, aware of people – men, women, children – fleeing terrified and screaming through the darkness. The recollection sent a spasm through him. Waves of both delight and appalled disgust washed through him.

  Shocked, he struggled into a sitting position, each movement helping to distance him from this unwanted flood. He looked round at the room, forcing himself to think of other things. This was his room now, chosen by him but given to him by Barran, no less. Yet even as he looked at the age-stained walls, he knew that terrible things had been done beyond them, terrible things that he had been party to. And too, he knew that they were continuing.

  Still, it was of no account – for what was a little bloodshed along the way of his unfolding future?

  The callousness of the thought jolted him again, and accusing echoes of the terror and the screaming cascaded into his mind. Yet even as they did, he realized that they were only of his mind. His body felt no such repulsion, no shame at what had happened. Deep inside, his body had relished what was happening. Even now, it longed – desired – for…

  For what?

  He pressed his hands to his temples as his inner conflict washed to and fro.

  Slowly, a clinging presence slipped away from him. As it did so, the longing began to fade. And thoughts came to calm his mind. What had happened had been beyond his control. He had neither sought nor encouraged it. It wasn’t his fault! There was a feebleness about these that reduced them to the level of mere excuses, but they sufficed to make him feel more whole again, all turmoil sunk below his awareness.

  It had been the creature, he knew, as the reality of the room finally closed about him, banishing the last of the shadows. Its touch was unmistakable. It had bent its knee in obeisance to him when it entered the arena and, once again, it had reached out and drawn him into its awful hunt. How such a thing could be was beyond him. As was the question why? But it had been so, nevertheless.