Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

Aigren nodded.

Barran tested a few before picking one that would serve him both as a support and a well-balanced weapon should need arise. As he hobbled back into the cave, he saw that the women were preparing food while the men sat sullenly at one end of a long wooden table. Tentatively, he joined them, watching carefully for any sign of offence being taken. Now he should learn something. There was nothing like food after a hard day’s work to loosen tongues, and they must surely want to learn about him – who he was, where he was from, how he had come there and so on. They were obviously not a garrulous group, but once the conversation started he was sure that their taciturnity would fade away and that he would be able to nudge events along to learn more about them and their strange trade.

He was to be disappointed however. The food was simple and filling, if gritty, but it was eaten in almost complete silence – a silence which deepened on two occasions when a distant creaking sound drifted into the cave. Everyone except Barran abruptly stopped eating. Aigren and the other men craned forward as if to hear some faint message in the noise, and the women and children watched them anxiously. Then the sound was gone and they were eating again, but the atmosphere was tense and Barran sensed that any attempt at conversation would be unwelcome.

And, quite suddenly, he was asleep. A great deal had happened to him that day – he had been unhorsed, knocked unconscious and injured, lost both horse and possessions and finally transformed from mercenary soldier into oafish labourer, working in a mine such as he had never even heard of, in an unfamiliar and bizarre land. What amounted to combat readiness had kept him alert so far, but as soon as that relaxed – and the bolted door and the food was sufficient to do this – his body sought to fulfil its own needs. He had a broken impression of being dragged from the table and laid down somewhere but, despite the pain of his injured foot, he remembered nothing until Aigren’s voice intruded on him.

‘Dawn, Barran.’

His eyes opened and though he was stiff and sore, he was immediately wide awake in anticipation of the violence that had so often accompanied awakenings in strange places for him. But all was quiet. He blinked to clear his vision. Aigren was walking away from him through the lamplit gloom. Around him, others were stirring. He saw that their beds, like his, were little more than rough blankets laid on the ground in a wide recess cut into the cave wall. He had slept in worse places, but the knowledge offered little consolation as the pains caused by his unyielding bed and his injured foot really began to make themselves felt. His hand landed on the hammer handle that he had chosen as staff and weapon and he levered himself up on it. As he did so, his attention was caught by a patch of deeper darkness further along the cave. He peered into it and saw others. Tunnel entrances, he decided. That must be where the men worked. Doubtless they had it in mind for him to work along with them eventually, and the opportunities for flight from underground would be considerably less than those he would have breaking rocks outside. He tested his injured foot gently. It was a little easier. Normally he healed quickly – as much a learned inner discipline as a fortunate natural attribute – and sitting while he worked the previous day had obviously helped. However, it would perhaps be in his best interests to exaggerate his incapacity.

Aigren was lifting the crossbeam that secured the side door. Barran hobbled awkwardly over to him.

‘Is there any water? I’d like to wash.’

Aigren looked at him. For the first time, Barran sensed violence in the man – smouldering and distant, but there nonetheless. Be careful, he reminded himself, tightening his grip on his staff. You know nothing of these people and you’re in no position to defend yourself properly here.

Aigren nodded towards a barrel standing by the side of the door. ‘Water’s for drinking,’ he said. ‘Some for washing in a couple of days maybe. Unless you want to walk to the river.’

Despite reading the answer in Aigren’s face, Barran asked, ‘Where is it?’

Aigren flicked his head. ‘Half a day east.’ There was a hint of a sneer. ‘If you know the way.’ Then bitterness. ‘And if it hasn’t moved.’

The comment meant nothing to Barran.

‘Here.’ It was Ellyn. She was offering him a canteen and a basket of bread. ‘This will get you through the day.’

‘See he earns that,’ Aigren said to her harshly as he pushed open the door. Warmth, dust and a reddish morning light rolled into the cave. Ellyn gave Barran an enigmatic look as she walked past him.

The day passed much as the previous one until about noon when three men walked into the camp.

Barran’s interest quickened as soon as the strangers appeared. Their arrival was apparently unexpected but they were obviously known to the women, who suddenly became subservient and ingratiating. One of them ran, almost girlishly, to the hut, ‘To get the men.’

Barran eyed the men surreptitiously while he continued his work. One was carrying a small case and was conspicuously better dressed than the others. He was also slightly ill at ease.

A client and two bodyguards, Barran decided. The latter were quite unmistakable. One of them was a tall hulking individual who rolled from side to side when he walked and whose arms arced away from his sides. He stood close to his charge, face set. The other was of more average build and had settled himself against a rock, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. The dangerous one, Barran concluded, as he watched the man looking indifferently about the camp. The first would be some moronic ale-house bruiser whose physical presence was intended to deter would-be attackers. Barran thought it unlikely that he would be able to use the sword that hung from his belt. The second, however, would be the one who anticipated and thought. He would go to some lengths to avoid trouble but would move in quickly with deadly force if real need arose. He would be able to use a sword – and the knives he would have secreted about him. Barran was grateful for the fact that he was sitting at a menial task and covered in dust. Just as he had read the man, so he knew that he himself would be the object of an intense inspection. He must do nothing to give away his own calling.

He turned his attention to the bodyguards’ client.

The man was an incongruous sight against the bleak rocky surroundings. He was anxiously – and fruitlessly – brushing dust from an ornately embroidered shirt and periodically mopping his flushed face. Barran knew two things about him already; he was important and he was a fool – or most probably so. The women’s actions marked his importance and the two bodyguards gave some measure of his folly – men bought for protection could always be bought by others. And the man did not even carry a knife!

But who was he?

Aigren and the other two miners emerged from the hut. They were carrying a table and two chairs which they set down in front of the stranger. Awkwardly, Aigren swept a kerchief over one of the chairs and motioned him to sit. When he had done so, the man nodded, and Aigren sat opposite him. The other miners stood a respectful distance away.

The women having stopped working, Barran did the same. He leaned forward, rested his chin on the hammer and prepared to watch. The stranger glanced at him and there was a brief conversation which Barran deduced involved an explanation by Aigren of who this new worker was. The man looked at the smaller bodyguard who made a slight hand movement. Seemingly this indicated approval and the man turned back to Aigren again.