Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

His stomach rumbled. Despite the day’s happenings, bodily needs were making themselves felt. He was pleased now that he had managed to bring enough money back to ensure he would be fed for a day or so. Clambering to his feet he took a final look around the city. The western sky was reddening with the setting sun while a dull, brooding redness on the eastern horizon marked the Thlosgaral. There would be a place for him somewhere, he resolved.

Then, almost childishly, he slid perilously down the roof on to the top of the dormer, leaned over and, seizing the edge of the window, swung slowly out over the street, taking his weight on his arms until his feet gently touched the sill. As he usually did, he paused for a moment and peered straight down defiantly into the tapering perspective of the building to the crooked pavement below. Then he was inside again, the attic of the Den closing about him familiarly, at once sheltering and oppressive.

A little later, he was eating and listening to the noisy chatter of his Den-Mates and Lassner’s regular harangue about the failings of modern Guild members in comparison with their predecessors. He found that he had to struggle to prevent old routines from brushing his new ambitions aside and, from time to time, he glanced down at the mark on his hand. The sight of it brought only a hint of fear now. It was as if the Kyrosdyn had written a subtle sign for him that would keep him reminded of this violent day, and of Imorren and her relentless will, for ever.

After he had eaten, he set off for the nearest of the fighting pits. He strode out as if the simple act of walking would carry him to his new future. Hitherto, his visits to the pits, perhaps everything he had ever done, had been without any truly clear purpose. But no longer. Now he was going to watch and learn as never before.

Now he would look continually for anything that would lead him to that place that was his.

As he marched through the ill-lit streets, a figure, drifting from shadow to shadow, moved silently after him.

The road from The Wyndering to the city was a well-trodden one, and Atlon and Rinter were soon part of a steady stream of travellers. There were as many travelling away from the city as towards it.

Atlon looked about him constantly, taking in such as he could of the busy scene. He would have questioned Rinter about many of their fellow travellers, but his new found guide sat his horse with a preoccupied air that did not invite interrogation. Their silent progress puzzled Atlon somewhat. Rinter had, after all, shown an enthusiastic interest in Dvolci, conceding even that he had never seen a felci before, yet now he asked nothing about him. Nor did he ask about Atlon’s homeland or the nature of his journey. In similar circumstances, Atlon was sure that he would not have been so restrained.

Rinter’s silence, in fact, had two causes. Firstly, he had little interest in where Atlon had come from. In common with most of the citizens of Arash-Felloren, he knew that while a world existed beyond the city, it was an inadequate and inferior place, and held nothing that could not be found in excess in the city itself. Secondly, in answer to Atlon’s unspoken question, he was indeed thinking very hard about Dvolci, though solely with a view to luring Atlon into placing the felci in the pits. He had been quite truthful when he claimed to be a good judge of fighting animals, and Dvolci’s demonstration with Ghreel’s dog had impressed him greatly. Furthermore, an unusual creature like that should prove to be a considerable attraction. Not many chances such as this came a man’s way, and he mustn’t let it slip away. He had been less truthful about his contacts and organizing ability.

Atlon unsettled him. It didn’t help that the man kept the damned animal as a pet, of all things, but there was more to it than that. The horse he rode, for example, was splendid – well muscled, well proportioned and with a look in its eye that Rinter could scarcely meet. It occurred to him that it might have been some kind of a war-horse – a cavalry mount, perhaps? But how would someone like Atlon come by such an animal? He didn’t look like a soldier, and he certainly didn’t behave like one. Then, for a moment, Rinter found himself teetering on the edge of panic. Was he the one who was being lured here? Was Atlon’s seeming naivety merely a device to instil confidence? He had a brief vision of some mercenary, once sure and alert, lying dead in the mountains, treacherously murdered while he slept. He cleared his throat and cast a side-long glance at his companion. Nothing Atlon had said or done had given any indication that he was anything other than what he claimed to be – a teacher looking for funds to continue his journey. But that meant nothing. Rinter knew enough violent characters to be aware that smiles and affability were not always what they seemed. What was he getting himself into, meddling with this stranger? Should he just slip into the crowd and leave him while he could?

But to lose the chance of getting that felci in the pits…

Easing his horse back a little, he studied Atlon carefully. Senses heightened by his instinct for self-preservation, he noticed almost immediately that Atlon sat his horse as though he were part of it, so much so that the horse was responding to signals that Rinter could not even see. Neither Atlon nor the horse were disturbed by the increasing clamour of the traffic as they drew nearer to the city. No, Rinter decided with some relief, this was no stolen animal. Wherever Atlon had come from, he had been riding all his life and he had been with that horse for a long time. His initial assessment of the man had been correct. He may or may not be a teacher, but he was harmless. The image of the murdered mercenary faded and Rinter urged his horse forward again.

Thus far, Dvolci had remained on Atlon’s shoulder, also looking about himself curiously, although occasionally he would disappear into Atlon’s back-pack and reappear, chewing.

‘If it wasn’t for all these hills, this would be like one of the roads to the Great Mart,’ he said softly into Atlon’s ear.

The reference to his homeland gave Atlon a momentary spasm of homesickness. He looked around. ‘Not really,’ he said, a little more harshly than he had intended. ‘The horses are a poor lot on the whole, ill-tended and ill-controlled. And there’s little or no semblance of line discipline on the part of riders round here.’ He shot an angry glance at a large, heavily laden cart as it swayed past him very closely, obliging his horse to step sideways. ‘This road’s in an appalling state, too.’ He slapped his hand on his sleeve, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the sunlight. ‘Why in the world it’s not paved, with this amount of traffic using it, I can’t imagine. I suppose people round here must like choking on dust in the summer and sinking in mud in the winter.’

‘What?’

Rinter’s voice made Atlon start. Dvolci chuckled and jumped down from the horse. As he ran off, a dog on a nearby wagon barked furiously after him, provoking a stream of abuse from its owner.

‘I’m sorry,’ Atlon said. ‘With travelling so much alone, I’m afraid I’m in the habit of talking to myself.’

But Rinter was not interested. The sight of Dvolci’s brown sinuous body scurrying into nearby rocks shattered the vision of a lucrative future that he had already invested in the animal.

‘It’s running away,’ he cried out in alarm, standing in his stirrups and pointing frantically. His horse protested, making him drop heavily back into the saddle.

Atlon smiled. ‘He’ll be back when he’s had a good look round,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s just that he’s not too keen on crowds.’