Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

Noting the action, and already unsettled by what he was doing, Heirn’s response was uncharacteristic. He raised a clenched fist and regaled the man with a series of well-chosen oaths. The man made an obscene gesture and spat again as he slid from view.

‘Sorry,’ Heirn said uncomfortably as they continued on their way. ‘I’m just a bit…’ He did not finish.

‘It’s all right,’ Atlon said. ‘Better out than in, I’d say. And I don’t think you did him any lasting damage.’

Despite his anxiety, Heirn chuckled at the remark.

Shortly after passing the aqueduct, Heirn turned off the route they had taken the night before and Atlon found himself in a street that, no different from many others he had seen, was lined with an arbitrary assortment of dwellings and businesses. Quite different from anything he had yet seen was the other side – which crumbled into a wide open space littered with rubble and the remains of derelict buildings. Trees, bushes, and generally dense undergrowth indicated that the area had been in this condition for a long time.

Atlon was too preoccupied to be particularly curious; though it did occur to him briefly to ask what had happened here, he did not speak. Heirn however, unusually sensitive to his companion’s actions, followed his gaze. Then he stopped and frowned. This did prompt a question.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Those people,’ Heirn answered. He strode across the street. Atlon followed him. As he reached the edge of the abandoned area he saw that much of it was below street level. The overgrown remains of tumbled arches and shattered walls indicated that there had once been cellars there. And streets, he realized, noting expanses of buckled pavements. Then he saw what Heirn was looking at. At first he thought there were only two or three people wandering about, but as he looked, he saw many more, almost indistinguishable against the mottled background of the ruins and the deep-rooted and still green vegetation. There were also a great many temporary shelters.

‘Tunnellers?’ Atlon asked, recalling the generally wretched appearance of those he had seen the previous night.

‘They certainly look like it,’ Heirn confirmed. ‘But what the devil are they up to, camping here? They must know the Weartans will shift them.’

‘Why?’

Heirn looked at him. ‘They just will. They even clear parts of the Spills from time to time. You said yourself you’d seen a “renewed” area when that idiot of an animal trainer took you into one. Ostensibly it’s at the behest of the local businesses, or the residents, or anyone, to stop the Spills from becoming too established, but if you ask me, they just enjoy it.’

‘But this place must have been abandoned for years – look at it.’ Atlon swept an arm across the site. ‘Surely they’re not doing any harm just staying there.’

Heirn was both angry and fatalistic. ‘Probably not. But the Weartans will still shift them as soon as they hear about it. They’ve even less love for Tunnellers than Spill dwellers.’

Atlon had to force himself not to inquire further. He knew by now that Arash-Felloren would provoke at least two more questions for every one he had answered, and he must concentrate on the task ahead of him, much as he would have preferred not to. It gave him a little comfort that what he was intending to do would quite probably relate to the fate of the Tunnellers, for he had no doubt that they were emerging from their chosen habitats because of the Serwulf, and that was surely linked to the Kyrosdyn and their schemes.

He was about to move away when he noticed a group emerging through the bushes which fringed the wall that marked the far boundary of the site.

‘Where are they coming from?’ he asked.

‘There’ll be an entrance over there.’

‘Are there many entrances?’ Atlon knew that he was merely postponing what he had to do rather than seeking information.

‘They’re everywhere,’ Heirn replied with a rueful look. ‘Almost every cellar in the city has got a bricked-up opening. There’s one in Elda’s building, and two in mine.’

A shout drew their attention back to the Tunnellers. They were gathering around someone.

‘Come on,’ Heirn said. ‘I’ve no idea what they’re up to, but we don’t want to be around if the Weartans come.’

As they set off however, it became apparent that it would be no easy task to be clear of the Tunnellers, for groups of them were emerging on to the road further along. Then the casual traffic became a steady stream. Moreover, they were heading in the same direction as Atlon and Heirn.

Heirn quickened his pace. Atlon looked at the Tunnellers. Dirty and unkempt, and far from sweet-smelling, they were an even more intimidating sight than they had been in the garish night-time streets. The intimidation lay mainly in their appearance however, which was in sharp contrast to most of the other good citizens of Arash-Felloren pursuing their business in that street. Certainly they were offering no one any actual threat. Their dominant mood seemed to be anxiety to be away from this place, and they were paying little heed to anyone else. The converse was not the case: passers-by were paying them considerable heed. Like Heirn, most were beginning to hurry along, although some of them were taking shelter in doorways in the hope that the growing flood might pass. The response puzzled Atlon at first, then it occurred to him that, amongst other things, the Tunnellers were walking reminders of the fate that lay in store for those who faltered before the city’s relentless challenge. Like I’m faltering before mine, he thought guiltily.

Heirn stepped closer to Atlon and took his arm protectively. Atlon noted him reaching into his pocket with his free hand. ‘I don’t think you’re going to need your knuckles,’ he said. ‘Not with these people. Look at them – they’re scared out of their wits, and there’s as many women and children as there are men.’

Heirn grunted an uneasy acceptance of Atlon’s comments and his hand emerged from his pocket empty. But he did not relinquish his hold on Atlon’s arm, nor lessen his increased pace.

‘If you hear horses coming, speak up, and get ready to run for it,’ he said.

‘Why?’

There was some impatience in Heirn’s reply. ‘Because it’ll be the Weartans, that’s why. Trust me, they’ll just ride into this lot regardless. And they’ll not pick and choose targets once they start swinging their damned cudgels.’

Atlon’s eyes narrowed angrily but he only asked, ‘Where do you think these people are going?’

‘If you’re lucky, they’ll be going to the Vaskyros,’ Heirn replied, though without humour. ‘But it looks as if they might be going to the Prefect’s Palace.’ Anxiety broke through on to his face. ‘They must be crazy! I’ve never seen anything like this. Whatever’s driving them, they’ll get no help up here, least of all from the Prefect. There’s going to be bad trouble sooner rather than later. We must get away from them.’

Dvolci whistled softly in Atlon’s ear. Atlon grimaced then said, ‘I was just thinking the same.’ Gently he pulled himself free from Heirn and, after a brief hesitation, ran forward to catch the arm of a large man who had just passed him, striding out purposefully.

‘Excuse me, sir, what are you doing? What’s made you all leave the tunnels?’ he said, quickly releasing the man’s arm as he turned with a start. He repeated the question before the man could speak, adding, ‘I don’t come from this city but my friend tells me it’s very dangerous for you up here – especially for women and children.’ The man stared at him uncertainly. His eyes were a mixture of fear and anger. ‘He says they’ll turn horsemen on you. Did you know that? People will be hurt?’