by Roger Taylor
‘Wait. I need a moment.’
It was Rostan. He was leaning on Gariak and was breathing heavily. Pinnatte looked at him. He rubbed the mark on the back of his hand. It was hurting him now. All that had happened to him had happened since his encounter with this wretched, gasping man. It came to him clearly. He was the victim of one of the experiments that the Kyrosdyn were notorious for and, notwithstanding Barran’s protection, he would not emerge from the Vaskyros once he entered it. A terrible anger welled up inside him.
Rostan looked up sharply, his eyes wide with fear. Pinnatte’s anger became something else at the sight, something ancient and predatory. It drew in Rostan’s fear like the scent of a luscious bloom. When it breathed out, the Power went with it and Rostan was hurled twenty paces along the alley to crash into a wall. He had scarcely time to cry out, still less use his own Power to defend himself, between sensing Pinnatte’s intent and dying.
Gariak and the other bodyguards stared from Pinnatte to Rostan, stunned by what they had witnessed, but seeing no cause. Gariak’s hand hovered about his sword-hilt for a moment then he extended both hands in hesitant surrender and began cautiously backing away. The others joined him.
Pinnatte remembered the hand that had pushed his head under the water, and the Tunnellers who had been so casually and callously slaughtered.
It was the merest wave of his hand that brought down a section of wall and crushed the three offenders.
As he studied the results of his endeavour, a slight noise behind him made him turn.
Emerging from a basement doorway, eyes bright yellow even in the dull light of the alley, was the Serwulf.
Chapter 29
As the noise reached them, Atlon and Heirn stopped and listened. Dvolci ran up the road and disappeared into the grassy verge fringing the rocky outcrop that marked the end of the monotonous houses. Atlon signalled Heirn to remain where he was. After a little while, there was a low whistle.
‘Come on,’ Atlon said, setting off again up the slope.
Dvolci was standing in the middle of the road when they reached him. ‘Not good,’ he said.
Just beyond the rocky outcrop, the road petered out abruptly and untidily into a narrow path which vanished into a jumble of rocks that skirted the dominating wall of the Vaskyros. Atlon had anticipated some semblance of a panorama of the city, but he was disappointed again as the rocks obscured his view. Nor was there any sign of a crowd, though the noise was still all about them, echoing off the rocks and the great wall which curved in a contour of its own around the hillside.
‘Further round,’ Dvolci said, answering Atlon’s question before it was asked. ‘The road starts again. This path will take you.’ And he was gone again.
The path followed the line of the wall and, as Dvolci had said, brought the two men quite quickly to the ragged end of another road, which had obviously once been part of the one they had just left. This time however, there were no ranks of dismal houses to greet them, but a steep rocky slope on one side, the bottom of which was out of sight.
Atlon half-ran, half-walked down the road, fearful about what he would see when he found the source of the noise. The first bend revealed it to him, bringing him to the top of an incline which overlooked the square in front of the Vaskyros. Though a few traders’ stands and wagons added random splashes of colour to the scene, the predominant impression was of a dull, seething greyness, for the square was full of Tunnellers.
Heirn drew in an alarmed breath. ‘Well, good idea or not, you’ll not be getting into the Vaskyros while this lot’s here,’ he said.
Atlon did not reply immediately. He was looking around the square. Though the crowd was noisy, it seemed to have no single intent. Little groups formed and dispersed at random, like eddies in a boisterous stream, and more Tunnellers were arriving along every street that he could see. The first sound of the crowd that he had heard had alarmed him, but the sight redoubled his concern.
‘Straw waiting for the flame,’ he said.
Heirn looked distressed at the image. It had not been addressed to him, but it chimed uncomfortably with his own thoughts.
‘This is not a good place to be,’ he said.
Atlon nodded, but replied enigmatically, ‘There’s nowhere else.’
Heirn took his arm urgently. ‘I don’t know what they think they’re going to do, but there’s going to be bad trouble down there, and soon. Trust me, we should get well away before it starts. Trouble here has a habit of spreading very quickly.’
Atlon stepped forward a little, drawing the big man after him. To the right he could see the entrance to the Vaskyros. The wall swept up over it in a graceful curve which was markedly at odds with the barbed and thorny structure of the Vaskyros tearing at the sky behind it. At its crown was a carved head, its mouth gaping, its eyes staring. From where he stood, Atlon could not decide whether it was human or animal, but, whatever it was, it disturbed him even more than had the face above the entrance to the Jyolan. Two great sloping abutments jutted out on either side of the gate and curved round into the square like embracing arms.
Again taking Heirn with him, he moved forward until he could see through the entrance. ‘The gate’s open,’ he said, in considerable surprise.
‘I’ve never seen it closed,’ Heirn replied off-handedly. He was still watching the crowd anxiously. ‘I’m not even sure it does. There’s a constant stream of traffic in and out of the place. They’ve been building and rebuilding bits of it for years now. I wouldn’t he surprised if the gates hinges were rusted solid. Besides,’ he looked at Atlon significantly, ‘no one wants to sneak into the Vaskyros. No one goes in there at all, unless they have to. Apart from the reputation of the Kyrosdyn, they’ve got some of the nastiest mercenaries in the city protecting them.’
‘Like those,’ Atlon said, pointing. Heirn followed his extended arm.
Across the front of the entrance, joining the two abutments, were several rows of grim-faced individuals dressed in what Atlon took to be chain-mail. The first two rows were standing shoulder to shoulder with rectangular shields held in front of them, keeping the so far unresisting crowd at bay. Behind them was a clear area back to the open gateway where stood several other rows of guards, disappearing into the Vaskyros. These were carrying long pikes topped with narrow, slightly curved blades.
‘Yes,’ Heirn said, ‘exactly so. Come on, let’s get away from here. We can come back some other time.’
Atlon’s posture rejected the advice. His voice was flat and cold. ‘I’ve seen their like before. If that crowd starts to move forward, the shield line will retreat and those pikes will come down in staggered rows. Whoever’s at the front of the crowd will find themselves being pushed on to a serrated row of points and edges. It’s a fearful thing.’
‘I… I suppose so,’ Heirn stammered unhappily. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.’ Then, despite himself, he was drawn into Atlon’s tactical analysis. ‘You could duck underneath, I suppose.’
‘Those guards look as if they’ve done this before. If they really know what they’re doing, the back ranks will attend to anyone who tries that,’ Atlon rebutted. ‘And I’d be surprised if they haven’t deployed archers. Probably up on the wall somewhere.’ He bared his teeth and clenched his fists. ‘Look at the way the square’s filling up. People are going to be killed here if something isn’t done soon to disperse them peacefully.’
Heirn looked at him, wondering again what sights this stranger had seen, what terrible lessons he had learned, before he came to Arash-Felloren. ‘Maybe,’ he said, trying to pull his mind away from Atlon’s cruel assessment. Traditional city opinions found voice in justification. ‘But everyone’s got a right – a duty – to defend himself and his property – even the Kyrosdyn – especially against a mob. You can’t ask anyone else to do it, can you? You went for that man who meddled with your horse. Those people might be Tunnellers, but they know this – everyone does. If they choose to attack the Vaskyros tha
t’s their problem.’ His voice faltered as he recalled that it was probably Atlon’s remarks that had brought the Tunnellers here. Atlon spoke the reproach.
‘They’re here because of me,’ he said. ‘I can’t walk away. And whatever happens, I’ve still got to get into that place and find out what they’ve done to Pinnatte.’ His jaw stiffened and he took a deep breath. He could scarcely bear to listen to what he was saying. ‘If I don’t do that, then far more than these people here are going to be hurt.’
Heirn could see his distress, but the sight of the crowd below left him feeling impotent. He had a momentary vision of Atlon, on his fine horse, galloping across his own land – wide and empty and lush underneath a vast, sunlit cloudscape. Arash-Felloren must be an appalling place to him. The image renewed his sense of protection to this stranger.
‘Have you ever been in a crowd like that?’ he asked. He did not wait for an answer. ‘It’s something you don’t want to do twice. It closes around you so you can hardly breathe. You’re nothing. You go where it goes. People you’re holding get torn away from you, no matter how tight your grip. If you stumble, it walks over you. And it can get into your head. Make you do things you…’ He stopped, disturbed for a moment, then dragged his attention back to his charge. ‘You won’t even be able to walk through that crowd. And if you could, how would you get past those guards?’
‘I need your help, Heirn, not this,’ Atlon said tensely. ‘Is there any other way into this place?’
Heirn shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
Dvolci reappeared. ‘I’ve got to go down into that lot,’ Atlon said to him. ‘Do you want to come or would you rather stay with Heirn and keep an eye on me from up here?’
Heirn intervened. ‘If I can’t stop you doing this, I can at least come with you. I’ve more chance than you of keeping us both safe.’
Atlon shook his head. ‘Our arrangement was that you keep away from me once we reached the Vaskyros.’ He became very serious. ‘Nothing’s changed that. It’s imperative that if anything happens to me, you help Dvolci get back home.’ He raised a hand to forestall Heirn’s opposition. ‘This isn’t open to debate,’ he said. ‘You might well be better equipped than me to survive that crowd, but, I told you, if I get in trouble with the Kyrosdyn, you won’t survive what they can do, and I won’t be able to protect you. You might even burden me. Please stay here.’ The combination of authority and pleading in his voice left Heirn no reply.
Atlon turned to Dvolci, who was scratching himself vigorously. ‘So many human beings in one place isn’t a happy prospect, but I’ll come with you. I’d be interested to find out what these Kyrosdyn have been up to.’ He trotted off.
Atlon held out his hand to Heirn. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Heirn. I’m sorry I’ve brought trouble into your life. Don’t run any risks by staying here. We’ll find our own way back to the forge. I think I can remember it.’
Heirn put on as brave a front as he could manage. ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve still got some leatherwork to finish as I recall.’
Halfway down the hill, Atlon turned to give Heirn a final wave. The blacksmith had gone.
‘We’d have been lost without him,’ Dvolci said, clambering into Atlon’s pack.
‘You don’t think he’s going to do anything foolish, do you?’ Atlon asked anxiously.
‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t,’ Dvolci replied. ‘We are.’
Atlon glowered at him. ‘No,’ Dvolci agreed reluctantly. ‘He’s probably just keeping a crafty eye on us somewhere. Don’t worry. I think he understands how important it is that he be there if needed.’ Atlon seemed less certain, but made no reply.
Since they had first come in sight of the square, more Tunnellers had been arriving. The isolated eddies of people had gradually faded away and become broader, slower sweeps as the density of the crowd grew. Waves of movement rippled across them, giving the square the eerie appearance of a field of grey corn swaying in the wind.
Suddenly a faint sound caught Atlon’s attention through the general hubbub. A sound that he had been attuned to listen for since birth. ‘Muster,’ he muttered to himself. It was an echo of the much louder cry that rang in his head and which took him to his own land again. He clambered on to a rock to improve his view and saw the horsemen almost immediately. They were spread out across the full width of the broad avenue that was the main entrance to the square, and there were at least six ranks.
‘Weartans,’ Dvolci said. ‘This must be what Heirn was expecting.’
Atlon watched them for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are they doing? They’re just pushing people into the square. They should come through to the gate in slow file and then form ranks to ease them out. They’re going to provoke trouble, not prevent it.’ His first reaction was to run down into the crowd to warn them, but the futility of such an act was immediately apparent. The effect of the approaching horsemen was already being felt. The gentle cornfield rippling was becoming erratic, and angry cries were beginning to be heard above the general din. His practised ears noted a change in the pace of the horses. Heirn’s comments about the Weartans enjoying such work came back to him.
‘This is going to be awful,’ Dvolci said, voicing Atlon’s own thoughts. Both of them were trembling.
Even as Dvolci spoke, Atlon saw Weartan batons begin rising and falling. Then, horrifically, the whole crowd seemed to move away from the Weartans as one, surging like a great tide against the walls of the Vaskyros. The line of guards in front of the open gate buckled under the impact, but, with the assistance of the second rank, held. Then those in the second rank were lunging and striking at the crowd with batons wherever space permitted. The noise of the crowd became one furious roar, so loud that Atlon felt it encasing him, crushing him.
The onslaught of the guards on the crowd made those at the front falter momentarily and, very swiftly, the shield guards retreated and passed back through the ranks of the pikemen. It was a practised and well-timed manoeuvre, as was that which brought down the pikes to form the staggered rows of points which but moments previously Atlon had described to Heirn. Despite himself, Atlon thrilled at the sight – it had the dark beauty that has always lured men to war before betraying and breaking them.
A fearful dance began as the crowd became a thing of its own, caught between the advancing Weartans, batons flailing wildly and indiscriminately, the unyielding wall of the Vaskyros, and the murderous points of the pike line. Atlon watched in silence, a numbness creeping over him as he saw the consequences of his remarks to the Tunnellers unfold. Somewhere he heard himself saying that he could not have foreseen these consequences, that Arash-Felloren being what it was, this conflict would have happened somewhere, anyway, but this gave him little consolation.
He could see people trying to flee along the narrower streets that opened into the square, but they were moving against the continuing inflow of new arrivals and there was swirling congestion at the head of each street that allowed too few to escape to ease the increasing press in the square.
He drove his fingernails into his palms as he saw bodies beginning to accumulate in front of the pikes. Looking up, he saw that there were indeed archers on the top of the wall, though they were not shooting yet. Such Tunnellers who were reasoning as Heirn had, and trying to escape underneath the pikes, were being caught by the rear ranks as he had predicted. And had any succeeded in passing through unscathed, the shield guards were reformed and waiting.
Atlon found himself walking towards the fray. He clung desperately to what he had told Heirn. If he did not find out what had happened to Pinnatte, then far more than the people massed in this square were going to die. That was still true and he must not let it slip away in the pain of the moment.
As he moved down the uneven old road, he encountered Tunnellers running up it. Men, women, children – some bleeding, some leaning on their companions, some hysterical, some raging, but all of them with
glazed, shocked eyes.
‘Go along the path at the top and down the other side,’ he shouted. None of them gave any sign of hearing him and the sound of the urgent helpfulness in his voice seemed to mock him.
But he had no time for self-reproach. More and more Tunnellers were escaping from the square along the road which narrowed drastically at the bottom where once again houses lined the left-hand side. None of the escapees paid any heed to Atlon, and he was constantly obliged to dodge and weave to avoid being knocked over by their relentless progress.
Then there was a strange, dreamlike lull. The road turned and dipped sharply, taking him out of sight of the square. The terrible clamour faded and, for some reason, there was a halt to the fleeing Tunnellers. In the unnatural silence, Atlon was drawn to look up at the wall of the Vaskyros. Its looming dominance overawed him. He was nothing. This was surely His place. What had possessed him to think that he could storm such a fortress single-handed?
‘Never underestimate the value of the small deed.’
The thought made him start. It was a remark often quoted within the Order, a matter of both commonsense and the sternly tested logic that guided their studies into the nature and use of, amongst many other things, the Power. Consequences rippled outwards, for ever, and to unforeseeable ends. An intuitive corollary – an article of faith held by many in the Order, though by no means universally – was that good deeds generally produced good consequences, while bad ones generally produced bad consequences.
Then the chaos of Arash-Felloren was about him again. Tunnellers were running up the road, forcing him to take shelter in the doorway of a house, and the noise was even louder. It was also different. As the initial rush died away, he left the doorway and battled his way through the crowd until he could see the square again. For a moment he could not understand what had happened, then he saw that the line of pikemen was gone. The pressure from those Tunnellers escaping the advancing Weartans had pushed their compatriots relentlessly into the cruel edges and points and finally overwhelmed them. Now, where the pikemen had stood, there was a melee of screaming people surging through the gateway and into the Vaskyros. It was a fearful sight and Atlon could only watch it in mounting horror.