Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

‘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 that’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.