Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

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?

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 pressure 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.

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.