Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

‘Well done,’ Dvolci said to him quietly and very gently. ‘It’s at times like this that I’m particularly glad that I’m not a human.’ It was a remark that Dvolci frequently used, but this time its usually biting tone was replaced with genuine compassion. Atlon felt a little easier.

As they walked along, Heirn kept looking nervously over his shoulder.

‘Don’t worry about the Weartans,’ Atlon said. ‘Listening for horses is something I’ve been doing all my life and I’m good at it. I’ll tell you when they’re coming.’

Heirn gave him a nod of acceptance, then automatically looked over his shoulder again.

As Heirn had declared, it was indeed a long and complicated journey to the Vaskyros. Most journeys tended to be thus in Arash-Felloren, with its endlessly winding streets, its complicated and confusing junctions and its rambling, open spaces. From time to time, Atlon thought that he sensed some kind of pattern to the whole, but it defied easy discovery and he did not pursue it. Nevertheless, he studied the route that they were following with great care, frequently, like Heirn, though for different reasons, looking back at where they had just come from. It could be that he might have to travel it again and at speed. Each time he did this, thoughts of his horse came to him and he had constantly to set aside regrets at having to leave it at Heirn’s. It was a pain he had not anticipated.

Gradually, he was becoming accustomed to the hectic activity that typified most of the city; under other circumstances, he would have welcomed an opportunity to study this remarkable place and its people. Now he was in a street like a deep canyon, hemmed in by high soaring buildings which darkened the sun and directed the flow of the people and traffic below like ominous shepherds. Then he was looking over the parapet of a bridge, flying high above level upon level of streets and buildings far below, and offering a panorama of at least part of the city. Confusion was everywhere: bustling alleyways, high galleries, arcades, the derelict and the decaying shouldering equally the new and flamboyant and the old and sedate. And there was the occasional, almost incongruous burst of greenery, where some parkland or growing plot was being assiduously protected from the withering sun.

But these were impressions that Atlon registered only in passing. His brief vision of the old battlefield had focused his resolve and he clung to it, grim though it was. With each step he used this and the disciplines of his training to prepare himself. Whenever he felt his concentration drifting he intoned inwardly: ‘This is not a bright and sunny day in a strange and fascinating place. It is still the battlefield… His battlefield.’ The absence of smoking entrails spilt from hacked bodies, the awful sounds of the wounded, the stink of terror, of voided colons, of burning flesh, of earth churned with feet and hooves and rain and blood – did not change this. His presence was everywhere – faint and tenuous, but real nevertheless. And such havoc would always be His ultimate legacy.

Seeking other sources of courage in his inner trial, Atlon returned to the short time he had spent with the Queen’s elite troops. He had learned little from them in the way of fighting skills, save that he was no warrior, but he had picked up a simple directness of thinking that had stood him in good stead many times since in arenas not associated with combat. Above all, they had taught him that he should not be afraid to be afraid – that fear was a necessary thing for him if he was to survive any threat.

‘Mind you, nobody says you have to enjoy it.’ The long-forgotten memory of this rueful observation, uttered as he had crouched trembling behind someone’s shield, floated up into his mind and made him smile.

‘How are you feeling?’ Dvolci asked, sensing his mood.

‘Bad, but I think I’ll be ready,’ Atlon replied.

‘Good,’ Dvolci said. ‘You can do this, Atlon. Don’t let the natural uncertainty of your inquiring nature cloud your measure of your true ability.’ He was unusually serious. ‘When you stood with the others that day, you faced a power and a will far beyond anything these people can offer. It forged you into someone stronger by far. You take no pride in this, but you do know it! And all the years since have strengthened you further. The Atlon before that day could not have contained that novice, or what Pinnatte did, could he?’

Atlon did not reply but could do no other than ask, ‘There is no other way, is there?’

‘No.’ Dvolci’s reply came without hesitation. ‘Whatever’s been done to Pinnatte is turning him into something that shouldn’t be possible, according to everything we know. Perhaps these Kyrosdyn, these… crystal meddlers… hoped to control him in some way, but I agree with you – I think they don’t know what they’ve done. I can’t conceive of anyone – not even humans – even trying to do such a thing deliberately. Such a… creation… could no more be controlled than the turning of the globe. He’s already wildly dangerous and he must surely get worse. And rapidly at that. We’ve no time to go home. We have to go to the heart of this – and that’s the Kyrosdyn. They mightn’t know what’s happened at the moment, but they will soon enough. And at least they know what they did to him.’

Atlon reached up and touched the felci’s head. Dvolci’s use of the word ‘we’ cut into him. ‘A very human trait, selfishness,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. How are you?’

Dvolci grunted. ‘Ready enough, you know me.’

‘Bad taste in your mouth again?’

‘Afraid so.’ Dvolci shook his head noisily.

They fell silent and the clamour of the city closed about them as they continued on their way.

After their encounter with the Tunnellers, it seemed to Atlon that they had all quietly disappeared into the bustling morning. Slowly however, he became aware of an increasing tension in the air. Heirn, more used to the nuances of the city’s moods, had already noticed it – and its cause.

‘There are Tunnellers all over the place,’ he said quietly, as though afraid some might overhear him.

Looking round, Atlon began to notice them again. Their characteristic shabbiness was to be seen everywhere. A tide of ragged greyness was gradually pervading the street, draining the colour from the city and its inhabitants like the touch of a baleful sun.

‘Is it true there are more people below the city than actually in it?’ Atlon asked. In their short acquaintance, he had never seen Heirn look so uncertain when he replied.

‘So it’s always been said. But then we say all manner of things without thinking about them, don’t we? Now you ask me, I have to say I don’t know. I doubt anybody does. There are whole areas of the city above ground that no one knows anything about, let alone underneath it. Oh!’

They had turned a corner into yet another square. Diagonally opposite them was a broad avenue which rose up and curved out of sight to the left. Rising above the buildings Atlon saw the towers and spires of the Vaskyros. He knew it for what it was immediately, its jagged outline impinging on him almost physically with its strangely violent symmetry.

The cause of Heirn’s exclamation however, was not the building, but the straggling crowd of Tunnellers wandering along the avenue. He was about to say, ‘Your troops, General’, but even as the jibe came to him its injustice repelled him and he thought about shaping it into a dark joke. Finally, he left it unsaid.

Instead, Atlon said it for him, though his mouth was dry when he spoke. ‘Did just those few words do this?’

‘It would seem so,’ Heirn said, inadequately.

As the initial impact of the sight faded, practical considerations returned. Heirn was looking around again. ‘I’ll hear the horses,’ Atlon repeated reassuringly.