Arash-Felloren

by Roger Taylor

  Many fears began to make themselves felt. Underscoring all of them was the dark nature of the whole place, but more pressing were those concerned with his immediate fate. Surely even in Arash-Felloren a massacre such as he had just envisaged would not go unremarked? But little he had learned so far about the city made him confident of a hopeful reply to this. Coming in the wake of this was another fear. So far he had managed to keep himself safe by his own wits, but if some atrocity threatened, then he would surely use the Power to protect himself, if only out of instinct, and who could say what the effects of that would be in this place?

  He looked around for inspiration. Buttresses lined both walls and, between them, as well as the exits from the maze of passages, there were many small doors. Groups of Tunnellers were beating loudly on some of them, but they were made of iron and set deep into the walls in such a way that no bars could be inserted nor leverage applied. He noted too that he was now near the edge of the crowd. Most of the Tunnellers had moved some distance away. Stepping out from his shelter, he saw that they were gathered about a large gate in the inner wall. Some of them had managed to drag a substantial baulk of timber through the passages and were using it as a battering ram. It made a resounding noise as it struck the gate, and a great deal of shouting accompanied each blow, but there was too little space to move it properly, and their effort was as fruitless as those who were banging on the doors.

  And all the time, more Tunnellers were pouring into the narrow space.

  Increasingly concerned about the outcome of this venture, Atlon decided that he would be best advised to move still further away from the crowd and await events. He slipped back behind the buttress. As he did so, he saw one of the doors in the wall opposite open. Before he realized what was happening, four guards had rushed out, seized the two nearest Tunnellers, and dragged them back through the door. Their action was so swift and silent that no one other than Atlon noticed what had happened.

  Shaken by the speed and determination of the seizure, Atlon took a step backwards into one of the deep-set doorways. Just as he realized where he was, a hand closed over his mouth. The gloomy daylight of the chasm abruptly became darkness as he was dragged roughly through the door – and then he was aware only of violent hands moving him and keeping him too unbalanced to resist. Finally there was a jarring impact as he was slammed into a wall.

  ‘Keep quiet, Tunneller, and don’t move or you’ll get this.’

  Atlon’s eyes slowly focused on a mailed fist immediately in front of his face. He nodded. The fist moved away but its owner still kept a hand firmly against his chest, ensuring that the command would be obeyed. Atlon risked a quick glance to each side. He was in a dimly lit passageway busy with guards running to and fro. The sound of the crowd outside was barely perceptible, though occasionally there was a dull thud which Atlon identified as the improvised battering ram.

  ‘Another one here,’ his captor called out. There was a shouted exchange full of both anger and cruel laughter, then Atlon was being kicked and prodded along the passage. He emerged into a room in the middle of which stood a group of sullen Tunnellers. Several guards were lounging around the walls, watching them indifferently.

  Despite his confusion and alarm he wondered why the guards were taking prisoners. The hand that had clamped across his mouth could just as well have cut his throat for all he had been able to do about it. Further, there was no real need for anyone to venture beyond the wall. From what he had seen, the assault was losing its impetus and it was only a matter of time before it was completely spent and the crowd dissipated naturally. Ironically it made him feel easier. Perhaps somewhere in this benighted city there was some legal authority and individuals were being seized to be taken before it as token ringleaders.

  A powerful hand propelled him into the Tunnellers, ending his conjecture. As he recovered his balance he became aware of a sudden angry commotion amongst the guards.

  ‘You idiot, that one’s still got a sword!’

  Seeing two guards suddenly moving towards him, weapons drawn, Atlon raised his hands and, with as much authority as he could muster, voiced the excuse he had prepared for this or some similar contingency.

  ‘I’m not one of these people. I got caught up in the crowd. I’m a traveller here to see the Ailad on a crystal matter.’

  The advancing guards paused but did not lower their swords. A third guard stepped between them and looked at Atlon closer. His manner, as much as the different insignia on his uniform, identified him as an officer of some kind.

  ‘Well, you don’t look like a Tunneller, for sure,’ he conceded eventually. ‘Watch him,’ he said to the guards, then to Atlon, ‘Keep your hands up.’ The swords came forward with him as he intensified his scrutiny. ‘Not at all like a Tunneller, now I look at you. Where are you from?’

  ‘From a land to the north. Far away.’

  ‘Outlander?’ Surprise and suspicion.

  ‘If that’s what you call people from outside the city, yes.’

  ‘What are you doing with this lot?’

  Atlon met the officer’s gaze squarely and risked a hint of anger and a lie. ‘I told you. I got caught up in the crowd and couldn’t get away. It was dreadful. Is this a regular thing here? My companions were going to the Prefect’s Palace. Do you think this trouble has spread there as well?’

  The officer faltered slightly, quickly disguising the response by half-turning to one of the guards. ‘Fetch the Captain.’

  ‘My arms are getting stiff, may I put them down?’

  A combination of politeness and command in this request unsettled the officer further. ‘Yes,’ he replied curtly, after a brief hesitation. ‘Wait over there.’ He indicated a bench at the far end of the room then whispered something to the other guard who immediately moved to accompany Atlon.

  In the interval that followed, Atlon took firm control of his breathing and waited as patiently as he could for the trembling in his arms and legs to pass. He knew enough about himself not to argue with this response, even though he did not like it. His body was readying itself for conflict and it was in his best interests to trust it. The trembling would relax him more than any of his formal exercises. Don’t be afraid to be afraid, he reminded himself, several times. Look squarely at what you’ve done. You’ve committed yourself now. The only steps you can take are forward. He had no desire to face any Kyrosdyn skilled in the use of the Power and aided by crystals, but circumstances had left him no alternative; he must pursue his search into what had happened to Pinnatte and his connection with the Serwulf no matter where it led.

  Gradually the trembling faded, seeming to diffuse itself through his entire body.

  He was fully in command of himself when the Captain of the Guard arrived. Again, it was the man’s demeanour that identified him as he entered the room. As the guard standing next to him jumped to attention, Atlon used the opportunity to stand up confidently and offer his hand.

  The Captain’s position as protector of the Kyrosdyn made him as much a schemer as most of them, and far more of a diplomat, and habit made him take the hand before he realized fully what he was doing. Seeing his momentary discomposure, Atlon pressed home his advantage. He would have to strike for the centre now. ‘Your men rescued me from the crowd, Captain,’ he said, with just a hint of being someone used to talking down to senior officers. ‘They were a little rough, but it was bravely done and I’m grateful. I’ll see that the Ailad hears of it.’

  The Captain tried to assess this strange individual but found that he could not. The man was a little dishevelled but he was obviously not a Tunneller and he had a presence which marked him as being above the common crowd. Particularly disturbing however, was the fact that he spoke with an unusual accent… an accent which had hints of the Ailad’s own in it. Caution raised its banner.

  ‘The Ailad is busy with many things,’ he said, taking Atlon’s arm and directing him towards the door. As he reached it, he turned and looked at the Tunnellers gathered
in the middle of the room. ‘The Ailad will want more than this,’ he said to the guards. ‘A lot more. See to it.’ He signalled one of the guards to follow him.

  ‘Looking for the ringleaders, Captain?’ Atlon asked.

  The question caught the Captain by surprise and he stammered slightly as he said, ‘Yes… of course.’ He picked up his previous remark and made to reassert his authority. ‘The Ailad’s very busy, as you’ll appreciate. She cannot give Audiences to everyone who arrives at the gate.’

  Atlon plunged on into the darkness. ‘I understand, Captain. But perhaps you would tell her that I am here and that we have two serious problems in common – the Serwulf, and a man abroad in the city whose wild Power could destroy us all.’

  The Captain stood and stared at him then, still cautious about this stranger’s status; he motioned the guard to step back so that he would not hear the rebuke that he was going to have to deliver before they went a single step further. Before he could speak however, Atlon laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Tell the Ailad I left you no choice.’ For an instant, the Captain felt himself pinioned. Something was binding his every muscle. He knew the touch. This man could use the Power. But only the Kyrosdyn could use the Power. Who was…?

  Almost immediately he was free, but the shock of the revelation made him stagger. Atlon’s hand sustained him.

  ‘Take me to the Ailad now,’ he said.

  Struggling just to contain his shock, the Captain nodded and motioned Atlon to follow him.

  Atlon felt no triumph at what he had done. Indeed, he was trying to feel nothing at all. He knew that he must concentrate absolutely on things as they happened, seeing them for what they were and not allowing his responses to be clouded by what should have been, what might have been, what might yet be, and all other imponderables. Though he had used the Power only slightly and very briefly, it had been a frightening risk and he was well aware that he was forcing events.

  The long corridors of the Vaskyros both heartened and repelled him. Pictures, statues, elaborate carvings were everywhere, brilliant crystal designs swept over ceilings, walls and floors. All of them demonstrated workmanship of a high order and, even to Atlon’s eyes, they gave a clear measure of the Kyrosdyn’s great wealth and power in Arash-Felloren. But the ornate and complex symmetries also disturbed him in ways which he could not clearly define. The whole seemed to be the work of a cold and deeply obsessive intellect – at once inhuman and all too human. Abruptly, the images around him became one with his memory of the outside appearance of the Vaskyros. The entire building had a purpose beyond that of a mere dwelling place or citadel for the Kyrosdyn. Just as crystals could draw in and transmute the Power, so too, this edifice had some similar function. The realization shook him profoundly, and though no logic or reason guided him, he knew that the Vaskyros was intended to be the focal point, the key, the bridge to the Ways that would return Him to this world! Knowingly or unknowingly, the Kyrosdyn were working to draw together the scattered shards of His being, spread now across a myriad other worlds.

  I must survive this! The inner cry rose out of the turmoil which followed this revelation. No matter what the cost, others must know what was happening here. At the very least he had to get back to Dvolci and tell him what the Kyrosdyn were doing so that the message could be carried home.

  For a moment, he was on the battlefield again, shoulder to shoulder with his Brothers, facing the power of His lieutenants. Deflecting it, returning it, to protect the hastily gathered army from certain annihilation, thus leaving the conflict to sword against sword, resolve against resolve, courage against courage.

  Scarcely a day passed but what he remembered some part of that scene.

  It must never happen again.

  He had walked barely two paces in the course of this learning, but he walked in another world now. One of clear needs and desperate urgencies.

  Yet he knew too, that albeit strong and vigorous, the Kyrosdyn’s intent was only a continuation of the ancient purpose of this building. The events of the present were different. Pinnatte, the Serwulf – the reasons why he was here – did not belong in this scheme. They were an unexpected and unknowable threat – a great boulder loosed finally by the least of breezes and crashing down through forests and villages, threatening all alike.

  Against them, both he and the Kyrosdyn had common cause!

  ‘This is the Audience Hall, sir. Would you wait here, please. I must announce you properly.’

  The Captain’s now-deferential voice cut across Atlon’s shock at his conclusion. He gathered himself together sufficiently to manage a nod.

  As the Captain leaned forward to open the double doors of the Audience Hall, they opened in front of him, leaving him gaping awkwardly into the face of Imorren.

  ‘Catch as many as you can, then get the rest of that vermin away from here,’ she said, walking past him. The tone of her voice and a slight gesture were sufficient to send the Captain running down the corridor, all concerns about Atlon dismissed.

  Atlon stared into Imorren’s face. She was very beautiful. He had not expected that. He flushed slightly.

  Imorren noted the signal, but she sensed his knowledge of the Power also and the shock overrode her judgement. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, coldly. Atlon held her gaze and she cursed herself inwardly as she saw the magic slipping from his face. A different tone, a hint in the eyes and this man, whoever he was, would have been hers so easily. Now it must be handled another way.

  ‘My name is Atlon.’

  ‘I mean, who are you? What are you? Where are you from?’

  ‘From the same land as you, by the sound of it.’

  Imorren did not respond, though her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you think to hide your paltry skill from me? In this, of all places?’

  Atlon’s fear threatened to overwhelm him. This woman was so dangerous. But his resolve sustained him. He must survive. And while he might perish facing this woman, he certainly would if he tried to fly from her.

  He reached two conclusions. He must try no deceit against her, she would smell it and it would weaken him. And he must keep her unsettled, emotional. In calmness she would gather resources beyond him for sure. He sneered. ‘Do you think to frighten me with yours?’

  Imorren’s eyes widened. She lifted her hand. Atlon copied the gesture. ‘It’s possible you might destroy me with the bloated perversion you’ve made of your gift, but you know nothing of me. Take care. The consequences may not be what you expect.’

  Unused for many years to anything other than abject obedience, Imorren’s control evaporated. Her eyes blazed and her mouth drew back into a snarl. Atlon felt the hairs on his neck rising, but he braced himself and continued to hold her gaze.

  ‘Who are you!’ she hissed.

  ‘Someone looking to undo the harm that you and your minions have let loose. Tell me about Pinnatte before this entire city and perhaps the whole land is engulfed by what you’ve made of him. Perhaps together we can stop him, and deal with that damned Serwulf you’ve released.’

  His voice was shriller than he had intended, but the content of his words was sufficient to steady Imorren.

  ‘Pinnatte?’ she echoed.

  ‘The man you experimented on. The man you’ve made into something that cannot be. What in the name of sanity were you thinking of?’

  ‘The Anointed,’ Imorren whispered softly.

  ‘The abomination.’ Atlon’s voice was full of a terrible menace now. It jolted Imorren.

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ she said, abruptly defensive. ‘Nothing indicated such an outcome.’

  ‘Nothing indicated!’ Atlon burst out. ‘You’ve mastered the mathematics of infinities, have you? You can peer into the heart of such wild extremes – such instabilities – and predict? You must have known the risks you ran.’

  ‘They were not this,’ Imorren protested, still defensive. ‘They were calculated, tested, known. The crystals, the formulation
s, the pulse meridians, the energy, the manner of the Anointing. All were…’

  Her voice faded. For a moment, Atlon felt the awful doubts of a fellow student. Someone who had done everything thoroughly and conscientiously and yet found herself facing an outcome that could not be, but which perhaps might have been anticipated had the obsession been less and the vision broader. But how? He could feel her mind rolling endlessly backwards and forwards over everything that had been done and still finding nothing wanting. Despite himself he wanted to reach out and comfort her – tell her that incalculable chance had taken its toll – that it was Pinnatte’s injury and Ellyn’s simple drawing ointments that had marred her work. He crushed the impulse. The truth would ease Imorren’s burden, enable her to still her confusion, help make her whole and balanced again – and unbelievably dangerous.

  She must remain as she was if he was to stand any chance of dealing with Pinnatte, the Serwulf and her, and surviving.

  ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘You can tell me what you did while we go to him.’

  Imorren did not reply.

  ‘Where is he?’ Atlon repeated, fiercely.

  Imorren looked at him. Her expression filled him with both terror and pity. He wanted both to embrace her and to draw his sword and strike her down.

  ‘The Serwulf has taken him as its master,’ she said simply. ‘It is one with him now.’

  Silence floated into the glittering corridor. There was not the faintest suggestion of the fighting beyond the walls. Two frightened people stared at one another.

  ‘Where is… where are they?’ Atlon said, very softly.

  Imorren shook her head.

  Atlon closed his eyes. What was he doing in this awful place?

  He should just turn and walk away – let the Vaskyros, the whole of Arash-Felloren burn in whatever damnation Pinnatte and the Serwulf would unleash. It would be an end to the threat that the Kyrosdyn posed, at least.

  But it was not an alternative. Countless tiny bonds held him to what he must do. Heirn and the thousands like him, who asked no more than the right to pursue their own lives, seeking their own quiet ways, burdening no one. That they offered this right to others less benignly disposed to their fellows, and then found themselves trapped as helpless observers, was a failing shared by most people. It was its own punishment, but it did not warrant death.