Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  A swift movement at the edge of his vision made him look up. It was an arrow streaking into the crowd. Another followed it. The archers on top of the wall were shooting at random. He could feel the panic of the Kyrosdyn guards. Whatever discipline they had seemed to have evaporated utterly, but that merely heightened his anger at this senseless act. His anger was as nothing compared with that of the crowd surging through the gate, however, and even as he watched, a high-pitched scream gave him the measure of this as one of the archers crashed on to the rocks at the base of the wall. The sight and the sickening sound reached him through the din and jolted him back to his present needs.

  Looking round he saw that the Weartans had reached the square and were fanning out into a ragged line. He could not forebear sneering. ‘I’ve seen cows ridden better,’ he muttered.

  ‘At least they’ve stopped herding the Tunnellers,’ Dvolci said. ‘Presumably someone’s had the wit to see what they’ve actually achieved.’

  With the end of the Weartans’ advance and the clearing of the gateway, the press in the square had eased a little and fewer Tunnellers were now running past Atlon. Indeed, some of them were beginning to do as Atlon was – watch. Then they were running back down the road towards the crowd.

  Atlon gritted his teeth. ‘Go back to Heirn,’ he said to Dvolci. ‘I’m going to try to get in.’

  * * * *

  High on a narrow balcony, Imorren looked down on the developing conflict in the square. With each movement of the crowd she could sense years of carefully garnered control slipping relentlessly away from her. How could such a thing have come about so suddenly? An actual assault on the Vaskyros was beyond the memory of anyone living, and when one had occurred in the past, it had invariably been preceded by a long period of growing tension between the Kyrosdyn and some other power in the city. But this…! And from Tunnellers! It made no sense.

  Yet her anger was tempered by other considerations. That it was the Tunnellers acting thus, indicated that it was not part of some more serious plot she had failed to detect. And too, Tunnellers generally regarded as being less than human, whatever justification they had to offer would not be listened to, and whatever action the Kyrosdyn took against them would go substantially unremarked. Also, in the confusion that must inevitably follow such an event, she, as the injured party and by virtue of her talent for such matters, would be better placed than anyone else to make political gains. She would certainly extract a great deal from the Prefect about the Weartans whose conduct had provoked the breach of the main gate.

  For a moment she allowed herself to relax and savour the bloodletting that was going on far below. There was little danger that the Tunnellers would get too far into the Vaskyros. It was a complex building seemingly designed for dealing with such an assault, and she had kept under constant review the plans that the Kyrosdyn had always had for its defence; plans which assumed the attackers would be professional soldiers, not a mindless mob. It was irksome that good guards would be lost in the fray, but Arash-Felloren was never short of such people and it would be a salutary lesson in the virtues of discipline for those who survived.

  A crash brought her out of her reverie. She leaned forward to see that a large scaffolding tower had been knocked over by the crowd surging around the outer courtyard. Several people had been hurt. Her anger returned, or rather her irritation – her usual mood when dealing with anything that involved the builders and artisans who were needed to service her plans for the Vaskyros. She would have to intervene before even more damage was done.

  ‘Where is the Highest?’ she demanded as she strode into the Audience Hall. The Acolytes and Novices abandoned the windows around which they were gathered and, after some brief but frantic confusion, lined up in front of her, their heads bowed.

  ‘He’s in the city, Ailad,’ one of them replied. ‘With Gariak and two other guards.’

  Imorren nodded. That was not good. Whatever had disturbed the Tunnellers it would be naive to imagine that their anger would be confined to the Vaskyros. And most of the Lesser and Higher Brothers were out looking for the Anointed. There was no saying what the consequence would be if one of them were attacked and had to use the Power to defend himself.

  Damn those Weartans!

  This must be ended, and quickly.

  ‘Find the Captain of the Guards,’ she snapped. ‘And have one of the Tunnellers brought to me immediately.’

  Imorren made her way to the seat from which she conducted much of the Order’s daily business. She knew that the performance of so simple and familiar an act would reassure the others. She looked at them and allowed herself a slight smile, as if the turmoil surrounding the building was nothing unusual and not worthy of any other acknowledgement. With a kindly gesture she singled out four Acolytes, and said quietly, ‘Stay with me. I will need you to carry messages. The rest of you continue with your normal duties.’

  They had scarcely left when a Novice returned with the Captain of the Guards dragging a bloodstained figure. Imorren beckoned him forward and motioned the others away, out of earshot.

  ‘I was bringing this one to you, Ailad,’ the Captain said, bowing. He kicked the Tunneller brutally behind the knees, making him drop to the floor. A powerful hand bent the man’s head forward. ‘Show some respect for the Ailad, worm.’

  Imorren had read the Tunneller’s face as soon as he came into the hall. Stupidity riven with terror. Pushed too far, he probably wouldn’t be able to remember his own name, still less explain what was happening.

  ‘Gently, Captain,’ she said. Her tone was mildly reproachful but her look made the Captain step back smartly. ‘These people obviously have some serious complaint to attack us like this. We must hear it.’ She bent forward. ‘Please, look at me, sir,’ she said coaxingly. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here. You must tell us what’s brought all this about.’

  Slowly the man looked up. As he met her gaze, she smiled radiantly and gave an encouraging nod. It was a look that had destroyed the will of sterner men than the wretch now before her. ‘Why are your people doing this?’ she asked, her voice soft and a little tremulous.

  The man, transfixed, did not appear to hear. The Captain raised a hand to strike him but a gesture from Imorren stopped him. She repeated the question, adding, ‘We’ve done you no wrong, surely? You must tell me what’s happened so that we can talk about it properly. People are being terribly hurt. Do you understand me?’

  The man licked his lips several times, then swallowed and nodded. ‘It’s that thing… that animal… whatever it is,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘The one you brought up from the caves for the Pit.’ He began to plead. ‘It’s killing everyone. Just killing them. On and on. It…’

  Imorren had heard enough. Her smile vanished and she was again cold-faced and upright in the chair. The man reached out to her. ‘Ailad…’ He fell suddenly silent and began clawing at his throat and gasping, as though there was a band tightening about it. The four watching Acolytes each took an instinctive pace backwards, as did the Captain. Though she had given no outward sign, they knew she was using the Power against the man.

  Imorren was satisfied. The actions of the Tunnellers were now clear to her. She even conceded that the assault was probably her own fault. Flush from the slaughter in the Loose Pit and the contact she had had with the Anointed at the Jyolan, she had sent the creature to feed. But she had forgotten its true nature, the nature that He had so assiduously bred into its original sires countless millennia ago. Forgotten or underestimated. It seemed that its appetite for the terror it caused in its victims was truly without limit, as it was meant to be. Unlike any other animal, it would kill and kill without pause unless controlled.

  A noise disturbed her reflection. It was the Tunneller. He was on all fours, retching as he struggled for breath. Imorren cast an irritable glance at him, then as suddenly as he had been attacked, he was released. He collapsed on to the floor, gasping and twitching. ‘Get him out of here,’ she sai
d to the Acolytes. ‘Take him to the dungeons.’

  As the man was being dragged from the hall, Imorren moved to the window. It overlooked the main courtyard which was filled with struggling Tunnellers. ‘Your men can hold the second gate?’ she asked the Captain without looking at him.

  ‘No,’ the Captain replied. ‘We lost several in that first rush, and we’ve got too many out in the city on personal escort duties. But we’ll hold the third. They’ll soon get tired of dying in front of that, then we can start getting them out without too much trouble.’

  ‘They’ll do a great deal of damage if they get past the second gate.’

  The Captain could read nothing in her tone or her posture. That was normal. He put his faith in the estimate of his worth to her that he had formed long ago – she needed the benefit of his fighting experience. That and that alone, clearly stated. ‘We can’t hold it,’ he confirmed unhesitatingly. ‘There’s too many of them and too many ladders and platforms lying about there. If we make a stand, they’ll outflank us and move directly to the third gate.’

  Imorren nodded. ‘I have complete faith in your judgement, Captain. Do what you must to get rid of them. Keep me advised of events.’ She turned and looked at him. He met her grey-eyed gaze. Like most in the higher ranks of the guards, he was tied to her by bonds he could not begin to understand. ‘Take as many prisoners as you can. We’ll have need of them later.’ The Captain bowed and left.

  Imorren looked down into the courtyard again. Who’d have thought the Tunnellers had such spirit in them? Suddenly, she felt good. The damage that they might do would be an inconvenience, no more. In return she would have captives whose life energies could be taken without question. No one was going to ask questions about missing Tunnellers. And the creature – the Serwulf – His blessed harbinger – was indeed as powerful as the old writings had said. What an asset it would be. It could perhaps even be used to track down others of its own kind – for there must be others for this one to have survived. A pack could be bred. They would be trained and ready for when He returned, perhaps even improved upon, if that were not a heresy. Then an idea came to her. It amused her. If the creature had driven these people from the tunnels, then it could be used to drive them back – or at least out of the Vaskyros. She would enjoy watching it work, and in the panic it induced there would surely be many wounded to be taken as prisoners. She must find the Keeper and have it recalled.

  Faint echoes of the conflict outside followed Imorren as she descended into the lower depths, but she scarcely heard them. Her mind had leapt beyond the disturbances of the present and was vaulting into a new future.

  She came eventually to the cages and stalls which held the strange and tortured creatures that the Kyrosdyn had bred or captured in the depths, for experiments and use in the Loose Pits. As it always did, the feral stink pervading the place roused her, touching the deep hatreds that sustained her. She bared her teeth in response to the cacophony of barkings and mewlings that greeted her, but walked on without pause.

  Coming to a small circular cellar, she called out, ‘Keeper!’

  Her voice echoed several times and the lamps lighting the place seemed to waver at its touch, but there was no reply. Puzzled, she looked into a small antechamber which served as the Keeper’s living quarters. It was empty.

  Slowly she began walking around the circular room. Except when at the Loose Pits or guiding an expedition into the caves, the Keeper never strayed from either here or the animal pens. A rare survivor of an early experiment with the Anointing, he had emerged from it silent and enigmatic, but with a strange ability to control the Kyrosdyn’s grotesque menagerie. He it was who had found the Serwulf. It had always quailed before Imorren’s power, but it responded to the Keeper like a fawning dog. Though she would not have admitted it, his dark presence was almost as solid and reliable as the memory of the One she served. He was an unknown pillar in her life. Even less would she have admitted that she had an affection for him, but that he was not here disturbed her.

  Then she found him. He was lying across the threshold of one of the doors that led down into the tunnels. His eyes were wide with surprise when they met hers. Normally focused on some place that he alone could see, their expression startled her more than the gaping wound across his body which had killed him.

  She knelt beside him, partly out of some long-forgotten habit of concern and partly to avoid acknowledging to herself that her legs were buckling. The scent of the Serwulf rose up from the Keeper’s body, filling her with those overpowering responses that only scents can evoke, and darkness and pain closed over her. Not since the news of His cruel defeat had she felt anything like such distress.

  She remained thus for a long time, giving no outward sign of her pain other than her hand resting on the Keeper’s – cold now. It was as well none of her many enemies came upon her, so defenceless was she.

  But the old shadows of her former self could not survive in the cold glare of the woman she had become, and gradually they faded. As she recovered, she crushed the remains of her feelings and turned to matters of the present. The death of the Keeper had implications far more serious than a crowd of Tunnellers assailing the Vaskyros, though it took her longer than usual to order her thoughts.

  Then, a terrible realization exploded in her mind, and threatened to take her legs from under her again. If the Serwulf had killed the Keeper, it must have found a new master. And only one could fulfil such a role. It had joined itself to the Anointed.

  Long-laid plans and schemes wavered like reflections in a wind-stirred pool under the impact of this revelation. The Anointed was to have opened the Ways by which He would return, but what had been created was an abomination, a thing that should not be, a thing unfettered that both used the Power and opened the Ways. And now it was joined to a Serwulf rapidly coming to the height of its own powers. Who could say what awful Ways would be opened across the worlds, what chaos and anarchy would come from this fearful coupling?

  And who was there who could stop it?

  Chapter 30

  Heirn had been horrifically correct, Atlon freely conceded. He had followed a small group of Tunnellers returning to the square and had almost immediately been sucked into the crowd’s fearful tide. A lifetime of riding enabled him to keep his balance and to avoid the temptation of opposing the forces that were moving him, but to be so out of control had frightened him badly. Far worse however, had been the panic and mindless anger of the crowd which threatened constantly to overwhelm and possess him. That had been truly terrifying.

  He was swept through the main gate to find himself in a spacious courtyard. Builders’ materials and equipment lay all about and those Tunnellers who were not already armed were improvising with whatever they could lay their hands on. The mood of the crowd was becoming increasingly violent.

  The crush lessened in the wider space, but still Atlon could do no other than yield to the crowd’s momentum. He was drawn on through a second open gate. Though there was no opposition there was a ripple in the crowd as bodies were tripped over, telling Atlon that there had been some fierce fighting before the gate was yielded. When he himself nearly stumbled, it was over the body of a guard, though such others as he encountered were all Tunnellers.

  Then, like a wave striking a rocky shore, the rush foundered. Unlike the first gate, the second opened on to a semi-circular court which led the crowd into a confusing array of covered passages. Several of these swung round, returning to the courtyard, causing groups to collide in the near darkness and resulting in many Tunnellers being injured by their own kind in the consequent fighting. Others were joined together confusingly, causing similar problems, while a few became increasingly narrow and dark, eventually bringing all progress to a halt and forcing people to turn about – very much nervous individuals again.

  When at last Atlon was carried through to the far side of this maze, he found himself in a narrow, gloomy chasm, bounded claustrophobically by high, menacing walls. The pres
sure behind carried him across to the inner wall, where he managed to manoeuvre himself into the lee of one of the buttresses that protruded from it at regular intervals. He slumped against the wall and, gasping for breath, closed his eyes for a moment. Immediately, disorienting impressions swept over him. This was a terrible place he had come to. The wall at his back was older by far than the outer one, and an ancient malignity pervaded it. He could feel its roots plunging deep into the rocky heart of the hills over which, much later, Arash-Felloren had sprawled. They went far below anything that was needed for stability or for the frustrating of burrowing sappers. The image reversed itself. It seemed to tell him that the wall had not been thrust into the rock, but drawn up from it.

  A spasm of vertigo jerked open his eyes. He shook his head to clear the images from his mind. This was neither the time nor the place to ponder such things, however vivid and powerful. He looked up at the narrow strip of bleached sky high above. It was perforated by the black silhouettes of carved creatures jutting out from both walls. Though he had never seen such a place before, he had studied warfare enough to know what it was. It was a killing ground. Anything could happen here. It could be flooded, hot coals and blazing oils could be dropped into it, archers and spearmen could make sport from high windows and balconies, wild animals could be released into it. And anyone who retreated into the passages would find them sealed or filled with cruel-eyed soldiers and waiting steel. Whatever it had been once – and that was no thing of light – the Vaskyros had become, and was now, a fortress designed to keep out the most determined of enemies.