Roger Taylor - Arash-Felloren

It sickened him. He did not want this! The realization was vivid and absolute. Wealth and power he wanted, yes, but not at this price.

It must be so. It will be so .

The rebuttal filled him. Its certainty was terrifying and, briefly, as he ran along the alley, Pinnatte thought he was going to vomit under its impact. Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision.

How could he oppose such an urging? How could he oppose something that came so clearly from within himself? He clung to a simple inner cry of, ‘No!’

‘Which way?’

Gariak’s cry reached through his turmoil. They had reached another junction. He picked another alley at random. He had no idea where he was, but he knew the crowd would not be following them now, and they would come to safety eventually.

‘Wait. I need a moment.’

It was Rostan. He was leaning on Gariak and was breathing heavily. Pinnatte looked at him. He rubbed the mark on the back of his hand. It was hurting him now. All that had happened to him had happened since his encounter with this wretched, gasping man. It came to him clearly. He was the victim of one of the experiments that the Kyrosdyn were notorious for and, notwithstanding Barran’s protection, he would not emerge from the Vaskyros once he entered it. A terrible anger welled up inside him.

Rostan looked up sharply, his eyes wide with fear. Pinnatte’s anger became something else at the sight, something ancient and predatory. It drew in Rostan’s fear like the scent of a luscious bloom. When it breathed out, the Power went with it and Rostan was hurled twenty paces along the alley to crash into a wall. He had scarcely time to cry out, still less use his own Power to defend himself, between sensing Pinnatte’s intent and dying.

Gariak and the other bodyguards stared from Pinnatte to Rostan, stunned by what they had witnessed, but seeing no cause. Gariak’s hand hovered about his sword-hilt for a moment then he extended both hands in hesitant surrender and began cautiously backing away. The others joined him.

Pinnatte remembered the hand that had pushed his head under the water, and the Tunnellers who had been so casually and callously slaughtered.

It was the merest wave of his hand that brought down a section of wall and crushed the three offenders.

As he studied the results of his endeavour, a slight noise behind him made him turn.

Emerging from a basement doorway, eyes bright yellow even in the dull light of the alley, was the Serwulf.

As the noise reached them, Atlon and Heirn stopped and listened. Dvolci ran up the road and disappeared into the grassy verge fringing the rocky outcrop that marked the end of the monotonous houses. Atlon signalled Heirn to remain where he was. After a little while, there was a low whistle.

‘Come on,’ Atlon said, setting off again up the slope.

Dvolci was standing in the middle of the road when they reached him. ‘Not good,’ he said.

Just beyond the rocky outcrop, the road petered out abruptly and untidily into a narrow path which vanished into a jumble of rocks that skirted the dominating wall of the Vaskyros. Atlon had anticipated some semblance of a panorama of the city, but he was disappointed again as the rocks obscured his view. Nor was there any sign of a crowd, though the noise was still all about them, echoing off the rocks and the great wall which curved in a contour of its own around the hillside.

‘Further round,’ Dvolci said, answering Atlon’s question before it was asked. ‘The road starts again. This path will take you.’ And he was gone again.

The path followed the line of the wall and, as Dvolci had said, brought the two men quite quickly to the ragged end of another road, which had obviously once been part of the one they had just left. This time however, there were no ranks of dismal houses to greet them, but a steep rocky slope on one side, the bottom of which was out of sight.

Atlon half-ran, half-walked down the road, fearful about what he would see when he found the source of the noise. The first bend revealed it to him, bringing him to the top of an incline which overlooked the square in front of the Vaskyros. Though a few traders’ stands and wagons added random splashes of colour to the scene, the predominant impression was of a dull, seething greyness, for the square was full of Tunnellers.

Heirn drew in an alarmed breath. ‘Well, good idea or not, you’ll not be getting into the Vaskyros while this lot’s here,’ he said.

Atlon did not reply immediately. He was looking around the square. Though the crowd was noisy, it seemed to have no single intent. Little groups formed and dispersed at random, like eddies in a boisterous stream, and more Tunnellers were arriving along every street that he could see. The first sound of the crowd that he had heard had alarmed him, but the sight redoubled his concern.

‘Straw waiting for the flame,’ he said.

Heirn looked distressed at the image. It had not been addressed to him, but it chimed uncomfortably with his own thoughts.

‘This is not a good place to be,’ he said.

Atlon nodded, but replied enigmatically, ‘There’s nowhere else.’

Heirn took his arm urgently. ‘I don’t know what they think they’re going to do, but there’s going to be bad trouble down there, and soon. Trust me, we should get well away before it starts. Trouble here has a habit of spreading very quickly.’

Atlon stepped forward a little, drawing the big man after him. To the right he could see the entrance to the Vaskyros. The wall swept up over it in a graceful curve which was markedly at odds with the barbed and thorny structure of the Vaskyros tearing at the sky behind it. At its crown was a carved head, its mouth gaping, its eyes staring. From where he stood, Atlon could not decide whether it was human or animal, but, whatever it was, it disturbed him even more than had the face above the entrance to the Jyolan. Two great sloping abutments jutted out on either side of the gate and curved round into the square like embracing arms.

Again taking Heirn with him, he moved forward until he could see through the entrance. ‘The gate’s open,’ he said, in considerable surprise.

‘I’ve never seen it closed,’ Heirn replied off-handedly. He was still watching the crowd anxiously. ‘I’m not even sure it does. There’s a constant stream of traffic in and out of the place. They’ve been building and rebuilding bits of it for years now. I wouldn’t he surprised if the gates hinges were rusted solid. Besides,’ he looked at Atlon significantly, ‘no one wants to sneak into the Vaskyros. No one goes in there at all, unless they have to. Apart from the reputation of the Kyrosdyn, they’ve got some of the nastiest mercenaries in the city protecting them.’

‘Like those,’ Atlon said, pointing. Heirn followed his extended arm.

Across the front of the entrance, joining the two abutments, were several rows of grim-faced individuals dressed in what Atlon took to be chain-mail. The first two rows were standing shoulder to shoulder with rectangular shields held in front of them, keeping the so far unresisting crowd at bay. Behind them was a clear area back to the open gateway where stood several other rows of guards, disappearing into the Vaskyros. These were carrying long pikes topped with narrow, slightly curved blades.

‘Yes,’ Heirn said, ‘exactly so. Come on, let’s get away from here. We can come back some other time.’

Atlon’s posture rejected the advice. His voice was flat and cold. ‘I’ve seen their like before. If that crowd starts to move forward, the shield line will retreat and those pikes will come down in staggered rows. Whoever’s at the front of the crowd will find themselves being pushed on to a serrated row of points and edges. It’s a fearful thing.’