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.’
‘I… I suppose so,’ Heirn stammered unhappily. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.’ Then, despite himself, he was drawn into Atlon’s tactical analysis. ‘You could duck underneath, I suppose.’
‘Those guards look as if they’ve done this before. If they really know what they’re doing, the back ranks will attend to anyone who tries that,’ Atlon rebutted. ‘And I’d be surprised if they haven’t deployed archers. Probably up on the wall somewhere.’ He bared his teeth and clenched his fists. ‘Look at the way the square’s filling up. People are going to be killed here if something isn’t done soon to disperse them peacefully.’
Heirn looked at him, wondering again what sights this stranger had seen, what terrible lessons he had learned, before he came to Arash-Felloren. ‘Maybe,’ he said, trying to pull his mind away from Atlon’s cruel assessment. Traditional city opinions found voice in justification. ‘But everyone’s got a right – a duty – to defend himself and his property – even the Kyrosdyn – especially against a mob. You can’t ask anyone else to do it, can you? You went for that man who meddled with your horse. Those people might be Tunnellers, but they know this – everyone does. If they choose to attack the Vaskyros that’s their problem.’ His voice faltered as he recalled that it was probably Atlon’s remarks that had brought the Tunnellers here. Atlon spoke the reproach.
‘They’re here because of me,’ he said. ‘I can’t walk away. And whatever happens, I’ve still got to get into that place and find out what they’ve done to Pinnatte.’ His jaw stiffened and he took a deep breath. He could scarcely bear to listen to what he was saying. ‘If I don’t do that, then far more than these people here are going to be hurt.’
Heirn could see his distress, but the sight of the crowd below left him feeling impotent. He had a momentary vision of Atlon, on his fine horse, galloping across his own land – wide and empty and lush underneath a vast, sunlit cloudscape. Arash-Felloren must be an appalling place to him. The image renewed his sense of protection to this stranger.
‘Have you ever been in a crowd like that?’ he asked. He did not wait for an answer. ‘It’s something you don’t want to do twice. It closes around you so you can hardly breathe. You’re nothing. You go where it goes. People you’re holding get torn away from you, no matter how tight your grip. If you stumble, it walks over you. And it can get into your head. Make you do things you…’ He stopped, disturbed for a moment, then dragged his attention back to his charge. ‘You won’t even be able to walk through that crowd. And if you could, how would you get past those guards?’
‘I need your help, Heirn, not this,’ Atlon said tensely. ‘Is there any other way into this place?’
Heirn shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
Dvolci reappeared. ‘I’ve got to go down into that lot,’ Atlon said to him. ‘Do you want to come or would you rather stay with Heirn and keep an eye on me from up here?’
Heirn intervened. ‘If I can’t stop you doing this, I can at least come with you. I’ve more chance than you of keeping us both safe.’
Atlon shook his head. ‘Our arrangement was that you keep away from me once we reached the Vaskyros.’ He became very serious. ‘Nothing’s changed that. It’s imperative that if anything happens to me, you help Dvolci get back home.’ He raised a hand to forestall Heirn’s opposition. ‘This isn’t open to debate,’ he said. ‘You might well be better equipped than me to survive that crowd, but, I told you, if I get in trouble with the Kyrosdyn, you won’t survive what they can do, and I won’t be able to protect you. You might even burden me. Please stay here.’ The combination of authority and pleading in his voice left Heirn no reply.
Atlon turned to Dvolci, who was scratching himself vigorously. ‘So many human beings in one place isn’t a happy prospect, but I’ll come with you. I’d be interested to find out what these Kyrosdyn have been up to.’ He trotted off.
Atlon held out his hand to Heirn. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Heirn. I’m sorry I’ve brought trouble into your life. Don’t run any risks by staying here. We’ll find our own way back to the forge. I think I can remember it.’
Heirn put on as brave a front as he could manage. ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve still got some leatherwork to finish as I recall.’
Halfway down the hill, Atlon turned to give Heirn a final wave. The blacksmith had gone.
‘We’d have been lost without him,’ Dvolci said, clambering into Atlon’s pack.
‘You don’t think he’s going to do anything foolish, do you?’ Atlon asked anxiously.
‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t,’ Dvolci replied. ‘We are.’
Atlon glowered at him. ‘No,’ Dvolci agreed reluctantly. ‘He’s probably just keeping a crafty eye on us somewhere. Don’t worry. I think he understands how important it is that he be there if needed.’ Atlon seemed less certain, but made no reply.
Since they had first come in sight of the square, more Tunnellers had been arriving. The isolated eddies of people had gradually faded away and become broader, slower sweeps as the density of the crowd grew. Waves of movement rippled across them, giving the square the eerie appearance of a field of grey corn swaying in the wind.
Suddenly a faint sound caught Atlon’s attention through the general hubbub. A sound that he had been attuned to listen for since birth. ‘Muster,’ he muttered to himself. It was an echo of the much louder cry that rang in his head and which took him to his own land again. He clambered on to a rock to improve his view and saw the horsemen almost immediately. They were spread out across the full width of the broad avenue that was the main entrance to the square, and there were at least six ranks.
‘Weartans,’ Dvolci said. ‘This must be what Heirn was expecting.’
Atlon watched them for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘What are they doing? They’re just pushing people into the square. They should come through to the gate in slow file and then form ranks to ease them out. They’re going to provoke trouble, not prevent it.’ His first reaction was to run down into the crowd to warn them, but the futility of such an act was immediately apparent. The effect of the approaching horsemen was already being felt. The gentle cornfield rippling was becoming erratic, and angry cries were beginning to be heard above the general din. His practised ears noted a change in the pace of the horses. Heirn’s comments about the Weartans enjoying such work came back to him.
‘This is going to be awful,’ Dvolci said, voicing Atlon’s own thoughts. Both of them were trembling.
Even as Dvolci spoke, Atlon saw Weartan batons begin rising and falling. Then, horrifically, the whole crowd seemed to move away from the Weartans as one, surging like a great tide against the walls of the Vaskyros. The line of guards in front of the open gate buckled under the impact, but, with the assistance of the second rank, held. Then those in the second rank were lunging and striking at the crowd with batons wherever space permitted. The noise of the crowd became one furious roar, so loud that Atlon felt it encasing him, crushing him.
The onslaught of the guards on the crowd made those at the front falter momentarily and, very swiftly, the shield guards retreated and passed back through the ranks of the pikemen. It was a practised and well-timed manoeuvre, as was that which brought down the pikes to form the staggered rows of points which but moments previously Atlon had described to Heirn. Despite himself, Atlon thrilled at the sight – it had the dark beauty that has always lured men to war before betraying and breaking them.
A fearful dance began as the crowd became a thing of its own, caught between the advancing Weartans, batons flailing wildly and indiscriminately, the unyielding wall of the Vaskyros, and the murderous points of the pike line. Atlon watched in silence, a numbness creeping over him as he saw the consequences of his remarks to the Tunnellers unfold. Somewhere he heard himself saying that he could not have foreseen these consequences, that Arash-Felloren being what it was, this conflict would have happened somewhere, anyway, but this gave him little consolation.
He could see people trying to flee along the narrower streets that opened into the square, but they were moving against the continuing inflow of new arrivals and there was swirling congestion at the head of each street that allowed too few to escape to ease the increasing press in the square.
He drove his fingernails into his palms as he saw bodies beginning to accumulate in front of the pikes. Looking up, he saw that there were indeed archers on the top of the wall, though they were not shooting yet. Such Tunnellers who were reasoning as Heirn had, and trying to escape underneath the pikes, were being caught by the rear ranks as he had predicted. And had any succeeded in passing through unscathed, the shield guards were reformed and waiting.
Atlon found himself walking towards the fray. He clung desperately to what he had told Heirn. If he did not find out what had happened to Pinnatte, then far more than the people massed in this square were going to die. That was still true and he must not let it slip away in the pain of the moment.
As he moved down the uneven old road, he encountered Tunnellers running up it. Men, women, children – some bleeding, some leaning on their companions, some hysterical, some raging, but all of them with glazed, shocked eyes.
‘Go along the path at the top and down the other side,’ he shouted. None of them gave any sign of hearing him and the sound of the urgent helpfulness in his voice seemed to mock him.
But he had no time for self-reproach. More and more Tunnellers were escaping from the square along the road which narrowed drastically at the bottom where once again houses lined the left-hand side. None of the escapees paid any heed to Atlon, and he was constantly obliged to dodge and weave to avoid being knocked over by their relentless progress.
Then there was a strange, dreamlike lull. The road turned and dipped sharply, taking him out of sight of the square. The terrible clamour faded and, for some reason, there was a halt to the fleeing Tunnellers. In the unnatural silence, Atlon was drawn to look up at the wall of the Vaskyros. Its looming dominance overawed him. He was nothing. This was surely His place. What had possessed him to think that he could storm such a fortress single-handed?
‘Never underestimate the value of the small deed.’
The thought made him start. It was a remark often quoted within the Order, a matter of both commonsense and the sternly tested logic that guided their studies into the nature and use of, amongst many other things, the Power. Consequences rippled outwards, for ever, and to unforeseeable ends. An intuitive corollary – an article of faith held by many in the Order, though by no means universally – was that good deeds generally produced good consequences, while bad ones generally produced bad consequences.
Then the chaos of Arash-Felloren was about him again. Tunnellers were running up the road, forcing him to take shelter in the doorway of a house, and the noise was even louder. It was also different. As the initial rush died away, he left the doorway and battled his way through the crowd until he could see the square again. For a moment he could not understand what had happened, then he saw that the line of pikemen was gone. The pressure from those Tunnellers escaping the advancing Weartans had pushed their compatriots relentlessly into the cruel edges and points and finally overwhelmed them. Now, where the pikemen had stood, there was a melee of screaming people surging through the gateway and into the Vaskyros. It was a fearful sight and Atlon could only watch it in mounting horror.
A swift movement at the edge of his vision made him look up. It was an arrow streaking into the crowd. Another followed it. The archers on top of the wall were shooting at random. He could feel the panic of the Kyrosdyn guards. Whatever discipline they had seemed to have evaporated utterly, but that merely heightened his anger at this senseless act. His anger was as nothing compared with that of the crowd surging through the gate, however, and even as he watched, a high-pitched scream gave him the measure of this as one of the archers crashed on to the rocks at the base of the wall. The sight and the sickening sound reached him through the din and jolted him back to his present needs.
Looking round he saw that the Weartans had reached the square and were fanning out into a ragged line. He could not forebear sneering. ‘I’ve seen cows ridden better,’ he muttered.
‘At least they’ve stopped herding the Tunnellers,’ Dvolci said. ‘Presumably someone’s had the wit to see what they’ve actually achieved.’
With the end of the Weartans’ advance and the clearing of the gateway, the press in the square had eased a little and fewer Tunnellers were now running past Atlon. Indeed, some of them were beginning to do as Atlon was – watch. Then they were running back down the road towards the crowd.
Atlon gritted his teeth. ‘Go back to Heirn,’ he said to Dvolci. ‘I’m going to try to get in.’
High on a narrow balcony, Imorren looked down on the developing conflict in the square. With each movement of the crowd she could sense years of carefully garnered control slipping relentlessly away from her. How could such a thing have come about so suddenly? An actual assault on the Vaskyros was beyond the memory of anyone living, and when one had occurred in the past, it had invariably been preceded by a long period of growing tension between the Kyrosdyn and some other power in the city. But this…! And from Tunnellers! It made no sense.
Yet her anger was tempered by other considerations. That it was the Tunnellers acting thus, indicated that it was not part of some more serious plot she had failed to detect. And too, Tunnellers generally regarded as being less than human, whatever justification they had to offer would not be listened to, and whatever action the Kyrosdyn took against them would go substantially unremarked. Also, in the confusion that must inevitably follow such an event, she, as the injured party and by virtue of her talent for such matters, would be better placed than anyone else to make political gains. She would certainly extract a great deal from the Prefect about the Weartans whose conduct had provoked the breach of the main gate.
For a moment she allowed herself to relax and savour the bloodletting that was going on far below. There was little danger that the Tunnellers would get too far into the Vaskyros. It was a complex building seemingly designed for dealing with such an assault, and she had kept under constant review the plans that the Kyrosdyn had always had for its defence; plans which assumed the attackers would be professional soldiers, not a mindless mob. It was irksome that good guards would be lost in the fray, but Arash-Felloren was never short of such people and it would be a salutary lesson in the virtues of discipline for those who survived.
A crash brought her out of her reverie. She leaned forward to see that a large scaffolding tower had been knocked over by the crowd surging around the outer courtyard. Several people had been hurt. Her anger returned, or rather her irritation – her usual mood when dealing with anything that involved the builders and artisans who were needed to service her plans for the Vaskyros. She would have to intervene before even more damage was done.
‘Where is the Highest?’ she demanded as she strode into the Audience Hall. The Acolytes and Novices abandoned the windows around which they were gathered and, after some brief but frantic confusion, lined up in front of her, their heads bowed.
‘He’s in the city, Ailad,’ one of them replied. ‘With Gariak and two other guards.’
Imorren nodded. That was not good. Whatever had disturbed the Tunnellers it would be naive to imagine that their anger would be confined to the Vaskyros. And most of the Lesser and Higher Brothers were out looking for the Anointed. There was no saying what the consequence would be if one of them were attacked and had to use the Power to defend himself.
Damn those Weartans!
This must be ended, and quickly.
‘Find the Captain of the Guards,’ she snapped. ‘And have one of the Tunnellers brought to me immediately.’
Imorren made her way to the seat from which she conducted much of the Order’s daily business. She knew that the performance of so simple and familiar an act would reassure the others. She looked at them and allowed herself a slight smile, as if the turmoil surrounding the building was nothing unusual and not worthy of any other acknowledgement. With a kindly gesture she singled out four Acolytes, and said quietly, ‘Stay with me. I will need you to carry messages. The rest of you continue with your normal duties.’
They had scarcely left when a Novice returned with the Captain of the Guards dragging a bloodstained figure. Imorren beckoned him forward and motioned the others away, out of earshot.
‘I was bringing this one to you, Ailad,’ the Captain said, bowing. He kicked the Tunneller brutally behind the knees, making him drop to the floor. A powerful hand bent the man’s head forward. ‘Show some respect for the Ailad, worm.’
Imorren had read the Tunneller’s face as soon as he came into the hall. Stupidity riven with terror. Pushed too far, he probably wouldn’t be able to remember his own name, still less explain what was happening.
‘Gently, Captain,’ she said. Her tone was mildly reproachful but her look made the Captain step back smartly. ‘These people obviously have some serious complaint to attack us like this. We must hear it.’ She bent forward. ‘Please, look at me, sir,’ she said coaxingly. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here. You must tell us what’s brought all this about.’
Slowly the man looked up. As he met her gaze, she smiled radiantly and gave an encouraging nod. It was a look that had destroyed the will of sterner men than the wretch now before her. ‘Why are your people doing this?’ she asked, her voice soft and a little tremulous.
The man, transfixed, did not appear to hear. The Captain raised a hand to strike him but a gesture from Imorren stopped him. She repeated the question, adding, ‘We’ve done you no wrong, surely? You must tell me what’s happened so that we can talk about it properly. People are being terribly hurt. Do you understand me?’
The man licked his lips several times, then swallowed and nodded. ‘It’s that thing… that animal… whatever it is,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘The one you brought up from the caves for the Pit.’ He began to plead. ‘It’s killing everyone. Just killing them. On and on. It…’
Imorren had heard enough. Her smile vanished and she was again cold-faced and upright in the chair. The man reached out to her. ‘Ailad…’ He fell suddenly silent and began clawing at his throat and gasping, as though there was a band tightening about it. The four watching Acolytes each took an instinctive pace backwards, as did the Captain. Though she had given no outward sign, they knew she was using the Power against the man.
Imorren was satisfied. The actions of the Tunnellers were now clear to her. She even conceded that the assault was probably her own fault. Flush from the slaughter in the Loose Pit and the contact she had had with the Anointed at the Jyolan, she had sent the creature to feed. But she had forgotten its true nature, the nature that He had so assiduously bred into its original sires countless millennia ago. Forgotten or underestimated. It seemed that its appetite for the terror it caused in its victims was truly without limit, as it was meant to be. Unlike any other animal, it would kill and kill without pause unless controlled.
A noise disturbed her reflection. It was the Tunneller. He was on all fours, retching as he struggled for breath. Imorren cast an irritable glance at him, then as suddenly as he had been attacked, he was released. He collapsed on to the floor, gasping and twitching. ‘Get him out of here,’ she said to the Acolytes. ‘Take him to the dungeons.’
As the man was being dragged from the hall, Imorren moved to the window. It overlooked the main courtyard which was filled with struggling Tunnellers. ‘Your men can hold the second gate?’ she asked the Captain without looking at him.
‘No,’ the Captain replied. ‘We lost several in that first rush, and we’ve got too many out in the city on personal escort duties. But we’ll hold the third. They’ll soon get tired of dying in front of that, then we can start getting them out without too much trouble.’
‘They’ll do a great deal of damage if they get past the second gate.’
The Captain could read nothing in her tone or her posture. That was normal. He put his faith in the estimate of his worth to her that he had formed long ago – she needed the benefit of his fighting experience. That and that alone, clearly stated. ‘We can’t hold it,’ he confirmed unhesitatingly. ‘There’s too many of them and too many ladders and platforms lying about there. If we make a stand, they’ll outflank us and move directly to the third gate.’
Imorren nodded. ‘I have complete faith in your judgement, Captain. Do what you must to get rid of them. Keep me advised of events.’ She turned and looked at him. He met her grey-eyed gaze. Like most in the higher ranks of the guards, he was tied to her by bonds he could not begin to understand. ‘Take as many prisoners as you can. We’ll have need of them later.’ The Captain bowed and left.
Imorren looked down into the courtyard again. Who’d have thought the Tunnellers had such spirit in them? Suddenly, she felt good. The damage that they might do would be an inconvenience, no more. In return she would have captives whose life energies could be taken without question. No one was going to ask questions about missing Tunnellers. And the creature – the Serwulf – His blessed harbinger – was indeed as powerful as the old writings had said. What an asset it would be. It could perhaps even be used to track down others of its own kind – for there must be others for this one to have survived. A pack could be bred. They would be trained and ready for when He returned, perhaps even improved upon, if that were not a heresy. Then an idea came to her. It amused her. If the creature had driven these people from the tunnels, then it could be used to drive them back – or at least out of the Vaskyros. She would enjoy watching it work, and in the panic it induced there would surely be many wounded to be taken as prisoners. She must find the Keeper and have it recalled.
Faint echoes of the conflict outside followed Imorren as she descended into the lower depths, but she scarcely heard them. Her mind had leapt beyond the disturbances of the present and was vaulting into a new future.
She came eventually to the cages and stalls which held the strange and tortured creatures that the Kyrosdyn had bred or captured in the depths, for experiments and use in the Loose Pits. As it always did, the feral stink pervading the place roused her, touching the deep hatreds that sustained her. She bared her teeth in response to the cacophony of barkings and mewlings that greeted her, but walked on without pause.
Coming to a small circular cellar, she called out, ‘Keeper!’
Her voice echoed several times and the lamps lighting the place seemed to waver at its touch, but there was no reply. Puzzled, she looked into a small antechamber which served as the Keeper’s living quarters. It was empty.
Slowly she began walking around the circular room. Except when at the Loose Pits or guiding an expedition into the caves, the Keeper never strayed from either here or the animal pens. A rare survivor of an early experiment with the Anointing, he had emerged from it silent and enigmatic, but with a strange ability to control the Kyrosdyn’s grotesque menagerie. He it was who had found the Serwulf. It had always quailed before Imorren’s power, but it responded to the Keeper like a fawning dog. Though she would not have admitted it, his dark presence was almost as solid and reliable as the memory of the One she served. He was an unknown pillar in her life. Even less would she have admitted that she had an affection for him, but that he was not here disturbed her.
Then she found him. He was lying across the threshold of one of the doors that led down into the tunnels. His eyes were wide with surprise when they met hers. Normally focused on some place that he alone could see, their expression startled her more than the gaping wound across his body which had killed him.
She knelt beside him, partly out of some long-forgotten habit of concern and partly to avoid acknowledging to herself that her legs were buckling. The scent of the Serwulf rose up from the Keeper’s body, filling her with those overpowering responses that only scents can evoke, and darkness and pain closed over her. Not since the news of His cruel defeat had she felt anything like such distress.
She remained thus for a long time, giving no outward sign of her pain other than her hand resting on the Keeper’s – cold now. It was as well none of her many enemies came upon her, so defenceless was she.
But the old shadows of her former self could not survive in the cold glare of the woman she had become, and gradually they faded. As she recovered, she crushed the remains of her feelings and turned to matters of the present. The death of the Keeper had implications far more serious than a crowd of Tunnellers assailing the Vaskyros, though it took her longer than usual to order her thoughts.
Then, a terrible realization exploded in her mind, and threatened to take her legs from under her again. If the Serwulf had killed the Keeper, it must have found a new master. And only one could fulfil such a role. It had joined itself to the Anointed.
Long-laid plans and schemes wavered like reflections in a wind-stirred pool under the impact of this revelation. The Anointed was to have opened the Ways by which He would return, but what had been created was an abomination, a thing that should not be, a thing unfettered that both used the Power and opened the Ways. And now it was joined to a Serwulf rapidly coming to the height of its own powers. Who could say what awful Ways would be opened across the worlds, what chaos and anarchy would come from this fearful coupling?
And who was there who could stop it?