Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

Pinnatte heard the lies in Imorren’s words, but just as a Kyrosdyn act had brought him here, so part of him was bound to them and must obey. Across countless worlds he felt a gathering, a coming together. It was his doing, he knew, but it was beyond him to prevent.

A myriad whispering voices soughed through the dancing vista and, somewhere far away, he felt them shift and change, and re-form until they were bright and piercing, like the light of a single silver star. But it was no joyous event. At the touch of such a light, the whole world would become like the Jyolan until it was shaped in the bleak and barren image of its new Lord.

Drawn by him and to him, the light came nearer.

Yet there was fear and uncertainty in it. There was great danger for it here.

Pinnatte the street thief turned his eyes in appeal to Atlon, as bound and helpless as he was.

This thing must not be.

The despair in Pinnatte’s gaze drove the self-reproach from Atlon. Die he might, but fail he must not. Cautiously he tested the bonds about him. Each of them tightened. So near to the culmination of her life’s work, Imorren’s awareness was at its manic height and, assisted by the crystals, her considerable ability with the Power was enhanced beyond anything Atlon could oppose from such a position.

He sensed the approach of something through the skeins of the Power winding about Pinnatte. Something awful.

Imorren’s eyes shone, wild and exhilarated.

Then a high-pitched shrieking pierced the whirling silence and a sinuous brown form darted into the greyness. A cruel claw slashed across Imorren’s back.

Atlon was free.

And so was the Serwulf.

‘Kill her!’ Dvolci roared to Atlon, leaping high in the air to avoid the Serwulf’s charge, and landing on its back. Trembling, Atlon drew his sword and raised it to strike the stricken Imorren, her hand clutching futilely at the bleeding gash across her back. Their eyes met and he hesitated as he saw into the heart of the young girl cruelly used by others.

Then the pitiful mask was gone and he was hurled across the room. The sword clattered from his hand as he struck the wall. Imorren’s Power tightened about him pitilessly and would have crushed him utterly had not the Serwulf collided with her in its frantic attempt to free itself from the clawing form of Dvolci clinging to its back.

Atlon slid to the floor. Too shaken to stand, he rolled toward Pinnatte. Reaching him, his head spinning and his body screaming in protest, he dragged himself upright. All about him he could feel the clamouring realities that were so unnaturally focused around Pinnatte. And he could see the gathering light being drawn inexorably nearer.

Then, to his horror, though he saw the pain and the plea in Pinnatte’s eyes, he did not know what to do. Nothing in his experience or his learning had equipped him for this.

Desperately, he reached out to take Pinnatte’s hand. He was no great healer, but healing was all he could offer. As he reached out he saw Imorren, her hand about her throat, preparing to strike him again.

The frenzy of the combat between Dvolci and the Serwulf filled his ears. Dvolci would never give up – not ever. The Brothers he had stood with on the battle field, the armies he had watched, none of them would yield. He must not yield. But he was too spent, and she too powerful, to defend himself.

Yet he would give what he could to Pinnatte, and he would give this fearful woman nothing but his contempt.

He clutched at his own throat mockingly and returned Imorren’s triumphant sneer. ‘Do your worst, crone. Do you think I’d come amongst such as you unprotected? Know this: I was one of those who helped send your erstwhile Lord to His deserved oblivion, who scattered His screaming will across the worlds beyond.’

Imorren hesitated, then her face became a mixture of fear and rage. The hand about her throat tightened, whitening her knuckles, and she levelled the other at Atlon. He straightened up and held out his arms scornfully to receive the blow. But no blow came. Instead, Imorren faltered, a terrible realization coming into her eyes. Just as the Novice had done when he attacked Atlon, so now, lured on by Atlon’s taunts and threats, she had done the same. The crystals that sustained her had been stressed too far. Where they had given, now they were taking.

But Imorren was no Novice and, at this extremity, she was deadlier than any man, drawing on resources that only a woman possesses. Tearing open the neck of her gown, she wrenched the crystals from her throat with a terrible cry.

It was too late. But the approaching light lit her face like a benediction and she found the strength for a final effort.

Atlon quailed before the hatred in her face, but her final use of the Power was not against him. It was a subtle use which gave Atlon a measure of her true ability. What Power she had left, she gave to the furious Serwulf, with a simple command.

‘Kill him,’ she said, as she died.

Suddenly oblivious to the awful damage being done to it by the elusive Dvolci’s claws and teeth, the Serwulf leapt at Atlon. So fast was it that Atlon did not even have time to raise an arm to protect himself.

The gaping maw filled his vision.

Then, a denying hand was thrust in front of him.

It was Pinnatte’s.

The Serwulf’s jaw closed upon it.

There was a brief and terrible silence, then the Serwulf released the hand and reared up on its hind legs, letting out a scream that passed through every part of the Jyolan and into the city beyond. For an instant, the yellow light of its eyes seemed to fill its entire body, then it fell to the floor, twitching uncontrollably.

Dvolci killed it with a single blow, and roared at it triumphantly.

Atlon found himself holding the body of Pinnatte. The flickering aura that had surrounded him hovered on its own for a moment, shifting and changing. Through it shone a cold silver light. Briefly it took on human form again, and an awful presence filled the room. Atlon held Pinnatte tightly, terrified, but opposing.

Then, silently, the aura was gone.

Falling after it, with a noise like the rending of tortured metal, went the clamouring anomalies that it had created as the Portals to the worlds beyond vanished.

The Mirror Room was itself again. But it was carrying the echoing consequences of the collapse through the Jyolan. There was a lull, then an ominous rumbling began to build.

‘Run for it!’

Dvolci’s command was unequivocal. Atlon cast a brief glance at the shrivelled bodies of Imorren and the Serwulf, then throwing Pinnatte over his shoulder, he followed Dvolci.

He had little recollection of the remainder of that journey through the Jyolan, save that of constant pain, Dvolci’s constant urging and the all-pervading rumbling. When he emerged into the street, a powerful arm seized both him and his burden and ploughed a ruthless way through the gathering crowd.

It was Heirn.

‘We heard the noise,’ Dvolci said, by way of explanation. ‘Most of Arash-Felloren did.’

Unceremoniously, Heirn negotiated with a carter on the edge of the crowd for assistance in getting the casualties home.

As Atlon recovered his breath in the cart, his first thought was for Pinnatte. To his surprise and relief, the young thief was only unconscious, though he had a terrible wound on his hand.

‘He’s normal again,’ Dvolci said excitedly. ‘It’s gone.’

Atlon nodded, then grimaced as he glanced at the bloodstained felci. ‘I’ll have a look at you when I’ve bound his hand.’

Dvolci chuckled, then shook himself vigorously, splattering blood all over the cart. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘None of it’s mine.’

A dull roar made Atlon look up.

He was just in time to see the Jyolan collapsing.