The next morning, the atmosphere at Heirn’s was strained. Atlon was still set on his intention of going to the Vaskyros, though sufficiently unhappy about the prospect to be unable to eat anything save a little bread. Heirn was still anxious to prevent him, though loath to press his objections knowing the dilemma that Atlon was facing. Even Dvolci was subdued.
As was Heirn’s way, Atlon took refuge in stern practicalities. Dvolci was to accompany him and, should things go badly, he was to retreat to Heirn’s. The blacksmith would take him and the horse to the road that led north from The Wyndering, from where both would make their own way home. Heirn was then to do nothing except watch whatever events unfolded. Atlon gave him a simple phrase that would identify any of his colleagues should they feel it necessary to come to the city themselves. Heirn too, was to look after the crystals.
Unable to dissuade Atlon, Heirn accepted these conditions, though he was uneasy about keeping the crystals and positively unhappy when Atlon said he could sell any of them if he needed the money. He did however, make a personal resolution to discover the fate of his new friend should need arise, though he kept this to himself, knowing that it would serve no useful purpose save to disturb Atlon further.
One thing he was insistent upon. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the Vaskyros. It’s a long and complicated journey.’
‘Well, it will save me getting lost, I suppose,’ Atlon rationalized gratefully. ‘But you’re to come only as far as the street, or the square, wherever this place is. Under no circumstances must the Kyrosdyn associate you with me.’ He looked at Heirn squarely. ‘I stand a chance in there if I’m careful, but you’d be snuffed out like a candle.’ He rolled his thumb and fingers in imitation of the act.
There was no hint of drama or foreboding in his voice, and the very calmness unnerved Heirn. He nodded a reluctant agreement. ‘I’ll watch from nearby.’
The first part of the journey took them along the streets they had walked the previous night. Atlon looked up at the aqueduct as they approached it. It was a robust, well-made stone structure typical of the area, simple in line and undecorated save for what the birds had contributed. In a tawdry echo of the vivid image he had seen before, a dirty, ramshackle barge eased into sight. An equally dirty, ramshackle individual was leaning over the side. As the barge reached the middle of the span, the man sniffed then spat, lifting his head back so that his offering would land in the road below rather than the canal.
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?’
‘Hurt?’ The man echoed the word scornfully. Then he gave a cold laugh and his face was suddenly alive with despair. ‘Better hurt than dead! We can’t stay down there. Not while that thing’s loose.’ Equally suddenly, the despair became anger and he raised his voice. ‘If the Prefect doesn’t want us here, he’ll have to go down there and kill the thing himself. Or send his precious horsemen, if they’re feeling brave. If he sends them after us they’ll get more than they bargained for, I’ll tell you. I’ll face a score of mounted Weartans before I’d risk coming within a thousand paces of that thing. Eh, lads?’
Voices rose up in support and Atlon found that he was becoming the mobile centre of a growing group. He was aware of Heirn close by him again, trying to catch his attention.
He lifted his hands in surrender. ‘You’re risking facing the Weartans because of an animal?’ He kept his voice balanced between surprise and incredulity. ‘It must be something particularly nasty. What’s it look like? Can’t you trap it? I’ve seen some strange creatures on my travels, but I’ve never seen anything that couldn’t be brought down with a little determination or cunning. Nothing that’s worth facing a cavalry charge for, believe me.’ Heirn’s estimation of Atlon rose once again. Somehow his tone had robbed the words of any hint of challenge. Nevertheless, he kept his hand through his iron knuckles.
‘Then you’ve never seen anything like this,’ the man replied, stopping to face Atlon. The crowd came to a ragged halt with them. The man grimaced. ‘And you’ve certainly never heard anything like it.’ There was a chorus of agreement. ‘When it howls, the sound’s like nothing you could even imagine. It’s something out of your worst nightmare. It goes right through you, churns your insides… turns your stomach and your legs into water. You daren’t move. You can’t move.’ The man had lowered his voice, almost as though talking about the creature might in some way bring it down on them.
Atlon wondered what kind of a person he was talking to. An inadequate presumably, to have been driven beneath the city, but there was a power in his simple telling that would have eluded many a learned man. The crowd around him was still and silent, and he could feel the dank presence of the tunnels hanging in the air despite the bright sunlight warming the street.
‘It came barely a day ago, but it feels as though it’s been there for ever. There’s dead everywhere.’ The man slumped a little and his eyes became distant. ‘When I was…’ He faltered. ‘Before the tunnels, I had a growing plot – nothing much, but enough. One night a fox got into the chicken coop. Killed them all. Didn’t eat them – just killed them.’ Atlon was looking once again into terror. ‘That’s what we are down there – chickens. Squawking and helpless. We could no more hunt that creature than my chickens could’ve hunted that fox.’ He bent close to Atlon, a prodding finger raised. ‘I saw it open a man up with a single blow.’ He made a cutting gesture from his shoulder to his groin. ‘Lift up another, half as big again as me, and shake him like rat. His arm was torn clean off… it flew fifty paces and landed at my feet… his damn fingers were still moving.’ He mimicked the movement. ‘Then it was gone. So fast.’ He clapped his hands explosively. Then he began shaking. Hands reached out to comfort him.
‘It’s just killing for killing’s sake,’ another man said. ‘And it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even seem to get tired.’ He put his hands to his ears. ‘Everywhere you turn, you can hear it howling and people screaming. Far away one minute, close by the next. And all the time you’re thinking, what’s that in the shadows? Is it my turn? Will it be me making that awful noise next?’ He shook his head violently. ‘I’ll take my chance with a Weartan truncheon, but I’m not going back down there.’
‘The Prefect’ll have to do something about it. We can’t,’ someone else cried out, to a clamour of agreement. ‘We’re staying here till he does.’
Atlon reverted to his first question. ‘What does it look like, this creature?’
Several garbled descriptions were given simultaneously. It was bigger than a man, smaller than a man. It was like a large dog, it was like a large cat. Its eyes were red – green – yellow. It ran in a strange way – on two legs, on four legs – but it was very fast. That, everyone agreed upon. It was very fast.
Atlon looked down, his vision filled with the ragged trousers and worn shoes of the Tunnellers gathered around him, and the dusty jointed stones that formed the road. What he was about to do disturbed him profoundly. He had no right to use people in such a way, especially the weak and the vulnerable. That these people were almost certainly destined for a bloody confrontation, that he was telling them the truth, gave him little consolation. But throughout, he had not lost sight of the terrifying problem posed by what had happened to Pinnatte. If that were not resolved, then the Serwulf loose in the tunnels would be as nothing to the carnage that might follow. For an instant, the shoes and the stones vanished to become a vision of the victorious battlefield he had stood on. All around him were sights that should not be seen. Sights which could not be seen without embedding themselves in the memory for ever and changing the direction of the life of the observer. He drove his fingernails into his palms until the pain returned him to the street.
‘The other night,’ he said, ‘there was a Loose Pit at the Jyolan. I didn’t see it myself, but the last animal to fight sounds like the one that’s killing your people.’
He was suddenly aware that the group had fallen silent. All eyes were on him.
‘No one knows who owns it, but the rumour is that it belongs to the Kyrosdyn.’
The mood about him changed perceptibly. The words ‘Kyrosdyn’ hissed all about him like a living echo as it passed through the crowd.
Atlon saw realization come into the eyes of the man he had first confronted. ‘Of course,’ he said softly, ‘who else? They’re always sneaking about down there – going below into the depths – into the caves themselves. Going into places where people aren’t meant to go.’
Then the whispered ‘Kyrosdyn’ was being replaced by ‘Vaskyros’. It soon rose to a shout and, abruptly, the crowd was moving away.
Atlon had difficulty meeting Heirn’s look. ‘I hope somebody, somewhere, will forgive me for that,’ he said.
Heirn looked round at the passing stream of Tunnellers. His face was pained. Honest and straightforward, what he had heard Atlon do appalled him. He wanted to walk away – return to his forge – forget everything he had seen and heard over the past two days. He half-turned. Yet he could feel Atlon’s own pain and desperation. He could not perceive this newcomer as a gratuitous manipulator of other people for sinister ends of his own. Nor could he leave him.
His voice was gruff when he forced his words out. ‘You told them the truth. They’re destined for bad trouble anyway. Better it be at the Vaskyros where it belongs than at the Prefect’s Palace for nothing.’
Heirn’s analysis chiming with his own, barely heartened Atlon. Somehow he would have felt better receiving an angry remonstrance. He gritted his teeth. He had seen others take decisions far more terrible. He would survive it, just as they did – he supposed.
But the pit of his stomach felt cold and hard.
As he and Heirn set off again, he consoled himself as best he could. Circumstances were allowing him few choices against fearful odds. There was no saying in what way directing the Tunnellers against the true cause of their trouble would change these choices, but change them it would, and where there was change, there would be opportunity.
‘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 youdo 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.
‘I’m surprised there are none here already,’ Heirn said. ‘They must know what’s going on by now.’
‘Unless there are just too many Tunnellers in other parts of the city.’ It was Dvolci. ‘There are far more here than we saw. They must be coming out all over the place.’
‘Could be,’ Heirn agreed. ‘Could be a host of things, not least some political quarrel between the Weartans and the Kyrosdyn, but whatever it is, it’s not good.’
‘Explain,’ Atlon said tersely, his eyes fixed almost hypnotically on the Vaskyros.
‘Rightly or wrongly, people just don’t like Tunnellers,’ Heirn replied. He gave an encompassing wave towards the distant crowd. ‘This isn’t going to be tolerated for long. If the Weartans can’t or won’t deal with it, then the Trading Combines, the Guilds, the Noble Houses, any of them and a score of other groups, will send in their own mercenaries sooner or later. And they’re even less disciplined than the Weartans.’
Atlon nodded, recalling the same observation from the previous night. ‘And if we get caught up in any of it, we’re just as likely to be victims as any of these.’
‘We are indeed,’ Heirn confirmed.
Atlon’s eyes narrowed. ‘If they come on foot, you protect me. If they come on horseback, I’ll unseat one and protect you. Is there another way to this place?’ He flicked his hand towards the Vaskyros, as though reluctant to mention it by name.
Heirn looked at him sharply, involuntarily answering his question before asking one of his own. ‘Yes, I think so. What do you mean, you’ll unseat one and protect me?’ His tone was incredulous.
‘Precisely that,’ Atlon replied, motioning Heirn to lead on. ‘I’ve seen plenty of people on horseback since I arrived, but I haven’t seen a single rider so far. The majority don’t ride much better than Dvolci here. There’ll be no difficulty unseating someone. It’s verging on the miraculous that most of them manage to stay in the saddle at all.’
There was an undemonstrative but absolute confidence about Atlon’s manner that left Heirn with nothing to say, though the remains of his jibe leaked into his acknowledgement. ‘On foot I look after you, on horseback you look after me? Fine, General.’
The square too was cluttered with Tunnellers, all unknowingly following Atlon’s guidance which had spread through them like a virulent disease. While they all seemed to be intent on reaching the Vaskyros, their presence was being loudly resented by the locals, particularly the small traders who littered this square as they did every other in the city. As he followed Heirn, Atlon heard the angry voices that he had heard in the street the previous night. Noisy, vicious quarrels were springing up everywhere.
‘Just keep moving,’ Heirn said.
Atlon felt a sense of relief after they passed the avenue and the Vaskyros disappeared behind the buildings fringing the square, but as they came to the next junction, Heirn paused. Five roads came together in a typically confused fashion, and Atlon could see that some way along, each one branched into several other roads.
‘This way,’ Heirn said, after some thought. ‘I’m not too familiar with all the streets around here. This isn’t an area I’ve had cause to visit all that often. The difficulty is that the Vaskyros is built into the side of a hill. One side’s a sheer drop, and there’s a whole maze of little roads round here that just peter out into nothing.’
The street was narrow and dusty, constructed of smaller, more uneven stone blocks than most of the others Atlon had seen. Grasses and weeds were growing between joints, restrained only by the effects of the long hot summer. The road was obviously very old, and little used, though ruts running along it indicated that it had once been frequently used by heavy carts. The houses on one side stopped abruptly as a rocky outcrop intruded. Those on the other side changed suddenly after this point, becoming smaller, simpler and more functional in appearance. Atlon could see no sign of any gratuitous decoration. Save for the variations made necessary by the sloping ground, they were also identical. Built from a stone similar to that of the road, they too were obviously old. Some were still occupied, some were empty, and one or two were patently decaying. At regular intervals, equally narrow streets turned off at right angles to reveal rows of other identical houses. The whole made an oddly dismal impression despite the bright sunshine. The thought came to Atlon that they were servants’ quarters, or perhaps accommodation for low-ranking Army officers or civilian employees.
He turned away from their dun monotony and looked up at the rugged rock-face which now formed the opposite side of the road. He could see nothing, but he knew that on top of it would be the looming bulk of the Vaskyros. And even as he thought this, the rock began to fall away to be replaced by a high wall. Atlon walked over to it and examined it closely. The stones that formed it were very large, and the joints between them were so tight that it would have been difficult to insert even a fine blade. No grasses and weeds found haven here.
Looking up, he saw that the wall curved outwards. It was giddying perspective and it made him step back.
‘Fine workmanship,’ he said to Heirn.
‘I’ve never really looked,’ Heirn replied.
‘Military engineers built this,’ Atlon went on. ‘Good ones at that. I’ll wager there are ramparts with anchorages for all manner of siege defence devices up there.’
Heirn could not work up any enthusiasm. ‘I thought you were a scholar, not a soldier.’
‘I’ve had cause to study wars and fighting, amongst other things. Tragically, many great achievements have come about through war. People’s minds are uniquely focused when their survival is at risk. Failure to learn from their suffering is to make their battle doubly futile and to risk having to fight it again.’
Heirn followed his gaze and stared up at the wall. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, still unenthusiastic. Then he frowned. ‘You really make me look at my city through a stranger’s eyes. Some of it’s been a revelation, but I’m not totally sure I like some of the things you see.
Despite his preoccupation, Atlon smiled. ‘The greatest protection you can ever have is to see things the way they are, rather than as you think they are, or as you think they ought to be.’ Heirn gave a non-committal grunt.
The street grew steadily steeper, making the two men slow down. They had passed no one since they entered it, though now, occasionally, as they plodded by, someone would peer through a window and stare at them curiously. As they neared what appeared to be the top of the slope, the sound of an angry crowd reached them.