Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

When she reached him she seized hold of him and was dragged over the rocks for several paces before he stopped. Her shrill pleading ended abruptly as Aigren struck her again. She lay still. Aigren walked away without a backward glance.

It was only a little later, as the women were bathing Ellyn’s bruised face and trying to console her, that Fiarn and his companion returned to the camp. They were carrying Aigren. As they dropped him on to the ground, Barran did not need to look at him to know that he was dead. Ellyn made to move to him but Fiarn grabbed her roughly.

‘Didn’t I tell you to keep him away?’ he snarled. She was wide-eyed with fear. ‘He was always trouble.’ He kicked the body and swore. ‘I’ve let you get away with too much. And what have I had in return? Endless ingratitude from Aigren and the lowest yield of any of my mines.’ He was shouting now. ‘I’ve had enough of you. I’m doubling the Landgeld on this place. You can…’

‘No! You can’t!’ Ellyn snatched herself free and struck him a stinging blow across the face.

Don’t do it, Barran thought, reading the woman’s temper as Fiarn recovered from the shock and, his face contorted, lifted an arm back to strike her. White and shaking, Ellyn let out a piercing shriek and leapt at him, hands tearing at his face, feet lashing out wildly. Fiarn crashed to the ground, Ellyn flailing on top of him. It took Fiarn’s companions some time to drag them both upright and, even then, three of them were having difficulty in restraining the demented woman. Fiarn’s face was alight with rage. He stepped back and pulled out a knife.

‘No! Put the knife away. We need to talk.’ Barran’s powerful voice cut through the din.

The camp was suddenly silent and all turned towards him – even the miners and their wives who until now had simply been watching events, completely bewildered. Barran remained seated, his staff resting casually across his knees.

Fiarn’s expression became one of disbelief. ‘Talk?’ he mouthed.

‘Talk,’ Barran confirmed purposefully.

Fiarn gestured to his companions and made a circling motion with the knife. ‘Fetch that oaf here. We’ll see how well he talks with his tongue cut out.’

As the men walked towards him, Barran took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, at the same time forcing himself to relax. He tested his grip on the staff. This was going to be very dangerous. He would have preferred a great deal more information before making a move against Fiarn but, if Ellyn was killed, this group would disintegrate and…

And there was something about this woman…

Damn! Why was he doing this?

Two men were in front of him. All choices were gone now.

He let them reach down and take hold of his arms but resisted as they tried to drag him to his feet. Then, carefully favouring his uninjured foot, he stood up suddenly and drove his staff straight upwards. Propelled by legs, arms, and many years of harsh experience, the ends of the staff caught each man under the chin with appalling force, lifting both of them off the ground. The two of them were still collapsing as Barran slid his hands together and swung the staff round to bring it down with a crushing blow on the head of a third.

Urged by panic rather than consideration, Fiarn’s fourth companion lunged out and grabbed the staff hastily. He was a big man and seeing his inadvertent success he grinned triumphantly at Barran. There was still a vestige of a grin on his face when Barran let go of the staff and drew a knife and stabbed him under the ribcage. Almost gently, Barran eased the staff from the man’s dying grasp.

In the span of scarcely half a dozen heartbeats, Fiarn’s power in the Thlosgaral had been destroyed. All he could see, however, was Barran’s awful focused intent as he moved towards him, his limping gait serving only to make him more frightening.

The blow that knocked the knife from Fiarn’s trembling hand was scarcely necessary. He reached out to grab the end of the staff in the vague hope of defending himself, but it vanished upwards. As his eyes followed it, a blow behind his knees swept his legs into the air and sent him crashing down on to the rocky ground.

Through the clamour of his frantic breathing and his pounding heart, Fiarn became aware of a foot on his chest, the end of the staff pressing on his throat, and a voice saying, ‘We need to talk.’

Within three years, Barran, with Fiarn as his lieutenant, held sway over more than a third of the mines that worked the Thlosgaral. Unlike his rivals however, Barran had extended his enterprise to include nearly all of the crystal merchants. His power grew relentlessly.

‘Come on, move yourself. It’s nearly dawn.’

Dvolci’s deep voice rumbled cavernously through the slumbering darkness where Atlon was floating. It provoked a response that Atlon felt was lucidity itself, but it was a distant and unintelligible grunt that actually drifted into the gloomy Wyndering room. There was an exasperated sigh, then a significantly more purposeful, ‘Move yourself,’ accompanied by a poke at the form under the blankets.

Atlon repeated the grunt more slowly and waved a vaguely defensive arm towards his tormentor, but otherwise did not stir. The poke was contemplated again but abandoned in favour of a vigorous shaking. Atlon swore into his pillow then plunged his head underneath it.

Dvolci chuckled darkly, ‘Lie there, if you wish then. But you’ve made better choices. “Mattress was given a good beating only last week”.’ It was an alarmingly accurate imitation of Ghreel’s voice. ‘A beating, no less. There’s house pride for you. I wonder what a bed bug with a headache thinks about people sharing its home.’

Atlon, abruptly awake, emerged from under the pillow and rolled over sourly, scratching himself. ‘It’s not even dawn yet,’ he grumbled. A nerve-jangling grinding sound filled the room, making him clamp his hands over his ears.

‘Must you do that?’

‘It’s my breakfast,’ came the injured reply. ‘Do you want some?’

Atlon forced himself to focus on his companion in the dim light. Narrow taunting eyes met his bleary gaze. Dvolci was sitting on his haunches and leaning forward intently. His sinuous body ended in a pointed head which was tilted ingenuously to one side. A taloned paw was offering Atlon a heavily scored piece of rock. Atlon scowled. ‘Get off my chest, I’m awake now.’

Dvolci slithered gracefully to the floor. He began chewing the rock again, revealing white and alarming teeth. Atlon grimaced at the noise and swung out of the bed.

‘You’d think with all your learning, especially with your knowledge of the Power…’ Dvolci hung mockery about the word. ‘… you’d be able to wake up in a more civilized manner – greet the world with a little cheerfulness, perhaps.’ He stopped chewing and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘It’s almost as if you reverted to something more primitive when you went to sleep. Of course, you’re not alone in that. It seems to be a very common human trait. Mind you, I’ve always thought that…’

‘… humans are not a particularly well-evolved species yet.’ Atlon finished the sentence as he slouched over to the stone sink and began pumping the handle. ‘Unlike the felcis, they have no teeth worth speaking of, rather inadequate hands, and a quite pathetic digestive system, as I remember.’

Dvolci nodded sagely. ‘Yes, indeed. One wonders at times how you’ve all managed to get this far considering such disadvantages.’ He crunched the remains of the rock nosily. ‘Still, don’t fret, you’re quite endearing on the whole. And your imperfections can sometimes add to your charm.’