Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

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.