The road from The Wyndering to the city was a well-trodden one, and Atlon and Rinter were soon part of a steady stream of travellers. There were as many travelling away from the city as towards it.
Atlon looked about him constantly, taking in such as he could of the busy scene. He would have questioned Rinter about many of their fellow travellers, but his new found guide sat his horse with a preoccupied air that did not invite interrogation. Their silent progress puzzled Atlon somewhat. Rinter had, after all, shown an enthusiastic interest in Dvolci, conceding even that he had never seen a felci before, yet now he asked nothing about him. Nor did he ask about Atlon’s homeland or the nature of his journey. In similar circumstances, Atlon was sure that he would not have been so restrained.
Rinter’s silence, in fact, had two causes. Firstly, he had little interest in where Atlon had come from. In common with most of the citizens of Arash-Felloren, he knew that while a world existed beyond the city, it was an inadequate and inferior place, and held nothing that could not be found in excess in the city itself. Secondly, in answer to Atlon’s unspoken question, he was indeed thinking very hard about Dvolci, though solely with a view to luring Atlon into placing the felci in the pits. He had been quite truthful when he claimed to be a good judge of fighting animals, and Dvolci’s demonstration with Ghreel’s dog had impressed him greatly. Furthermore, an unusual creature like that should prove to be a considerable attraction. Not many chances such as this came a man’s way, and he mustn’t let it slip away. He had been less truthful about his contacts and organizing ability.
Atlon unsettled him. It didn’t help that the man kept the damned animal as a pet, of all things, but there was more to it than that. The horse he rode, for example, was splendid – well muscled, well proportioned and with a look in its eye that Rinter could scarcely meet. It occurred to him that it might have been some kind of a war-horse – a cavalry mount, perhaps? But how would someone like Atlon come by such an animal? He didn’t look like a soldier, and he certainly didn’t behave like one. Then, for a moment, Rinter found himself teetering on the edge of panic. Was he the one who was being lured here? Was Atlon’s seeming naivety merely a device to instil confidence? He had a brief vision of some mercenary, once sure and alert, lying dead in the mountains, treacherously murdered while he slept. He cleared his throat and cast a side-long glance at his companion. Nothing Atlon had said or done had given any indication that he was anything other than what he claimed to be – a teacher looking for funds to continue his journey. But that meant nothing. Rinter knew enough violent characters to be aware that smiles and affability were not always what they seemed. What was he getting himself into, meddling with this stranger? Should he just slip into the crowd and leave him while he could?
But to lose the chance of getting that felci in the pits…
Easing his horse back a little, he studied Atlon carefully. Senses heightened by his instinct for self-preservation, he noticed almost immediately that Atlon sat his horse as though he were part of it, so much so that the horse was responding to signals that Rinter could not even see. Neither Atlon nor the horse were disturbed by the increasing clamour of the traffic as they drew nearer to the city. No, Rinter decided with some relief, this was no stolen animal. Wherever Atlon had come from, he had been riding all his life and he had been with that horse for a long time. His initial assessment of the man had been correct. He may or may not be a teacher, but he was harmless. The image of the murdered mercenary faded and Rinter urged his horse forward again.
Thus far, Dvolci had remained on Atlon’s shoulder, also looking about himself curiously, although occasionally he would disappear into Atlon’s back-pack and reappear, chewing.
‘If it wasn’t for all these hills, this would be like one of the roads to the Great Mart,’ he said softly into Atlon’s ear.
The reference to his homeland gave Atlon a momentary spasm of homesickness. He looked around. ‘Not really,’ he said, a little more harshly than he had intended. ‘The horses are a poor lot on the whole, ill-tended and ill-controlled. And there’s little or no semblance of line discipline on the part of riders round here.’ He shot an angry glance at a large, heavily laden cart as it swayed past him very closely, obliging his horse to step sideways. ‘This road’s in an appalling state, too.’ He slapped his hand on his sleeve, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the sunlight. ‘Why in the world it’s not paved, with this amount of traffic using it, I can’t imagine. I suppose people round here must like choking on dust in the summer and sinking in mud in the winter.’
‘What?’
Rinter’s voice made Atlon start. Dvolci chuckled and jumped down from the horse. As he ran off, a dog on a nearby wagon barked furiously after him, provoking a stream of abuse from its owner.
‘I’m sorry,’ Atlon said. ‘With travelling so much alone, I’m afraid I’m in the habit of talking to myself.’
But Rinter was not interested. The sight of Dvolci’s brown sinuous body scurrying into nearby rocks shattered the vision of a lucrative future that he had already invested in the animal.
‘It’s running away,’ he cried out in alarm, standing in his stirrups and pointing frantically. His horse protested, making him drop heavily back into the saddle.
Atlon smiled. ‘He’ll be back when he’s had a good look round,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s just that he’s not too keen on crowds.’
Rinter massaged his behind. ‘He’s not going to like the city, then,’ he said, affecting a heartiness he did not feel.
Atlon laughed. ‘He’ll be all right. He mightn’t like crowds, but he’s been in busier places than this, and he’s extremely curious.’
‘You seem very easy about it.’
‘Felcis are intelligent and resourceful – Dvolci more than most. And he knows I need him more than he needs me.’
You’ve been far too long on your own, Rinter thought, though he managed to keep it from his face.
Atlon turned his attention to the people around him again. Despite his slightly irritable response, Dvolci’s remark had been accurate; apart from clothes and accents, the crowd in essence was little different from that which could be seen any day travelling to and from the great market in his homeland. With the exception that is, of the number of wagons and riders that were being escorted by groups of armed men. It took no soldier’s eye to see that these men were not formal escorts for the purposes of decoration or for declaiming their master’s status, but men ready and used to action, albeit only street-fighting in many cases. He asked Rinter about them.
Rinter seemed surprised. ‘No disrespect, but you must come from a very sheltered place,’ he said. ‘They’re just for protection, that’s all. None of the bigger merchants will risk sending goods across the Thlosgaral without one.’
‘There are a great many robbers there, then?’
Rinter gave a strange laugh and shook his head as he replied. ‘Yes and no.’ He looked around then nodded discreetly towards a rider being escorted by four men on foot. ‘Those men, for instance, belong to Barran. They’re there to protect that merchant, as I said.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially and gave Atlon a knowing wink. ‘But the person who controls most of the robbers in the Thlosgaral is Barran himself.’
Atlon frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Rinter’s expression became that of a man faced with the need to climb a large hill. The last remnants of his concern about Atlon as a secret assassin faded utterly. ‘The merchant has a choice. He can try to cross alone, in which case he risks being robbed. Or he can employ some of Barran’s men and be substantially guaranteed a safe passage.’
‘Against… Barran’s robbers,’ Atlon said slowly, his frown deepening. Rinter nodded then waited for Atlon to grasp what he was being told. In a moment there would doubtless be an indignant outburst from this naive newcomer.
It did not come, however. Instead, Atlon grimaced and blew out a long breath. ‘There’s much wrong with this city of yours, I fear,’ he said quietly, as though to himself.
Rinter felt suddenly indignant. Who was this man, this teacher, to criticize his city – the finest city in the world? He was about to give voice to his outrage when he remembered why he was here. The prospect of the felci as a source of income intervened to soften his response, though his tone was still heavily sarcastic when he spoke. ‘You have no robbers in your land, I suppose. That’s why you wear a sword.’
Atlon paused before he replied. ‘My remark was out of place,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologize. Yes, sadly we do have robbers – and worse than yours by far. The darkness in each of us emerges in any community.’ His eyes became distant. ‘No matter from how far or how near you look, there’s always darkness and light mingled. Always.’ He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘And you’re correct, we do go armed – a duty and a tradition. Each of us must be prepared to defend his neighbour as well as himself, mustn’t he?’ He slapped the hilt and smiled. ‘Be prepared to bring a little light into matters if necessary.’ He made a mock sword thrust with his hand.
Rinter returned the smile involuntarily, even though he was not sure he understood what Atlon was talking about. Suddenly, and uncharacteristically, he wanted to know more about this newcomer. What kind of land was it he came from? What had brought him so far from home? Where did he get that horse from, and where had he learned to ride like that? And, not least, what did ‘and worse by far’ mean?
His curiosity did not last long however, as his dominant concern returned in full force. They were drawing ever nearer to the city and he had still not thought of a strategy that would put Dvolci in the pits – if the damned animal hadn’t got itself lost! He could improvise as circumstances allowed, if necessary, but he preferred not to do that. Things could go wrong even when you had a plan, but without one…
He would have to force the issue.
‘How much money have you got?’ he asked bluntly. The words were no sooner uttered than he was wishing them back, but Atlon did not appear to be offended.
‘Enough for a few days at The Wyndering,’ he replied.
Rinter decided not to overreach himself by asking how many were a few, but in the absence of any better inspiration, pressed on with his direct approach. He nodded significantly. ‘You really should give some serious thought to putting the felci into the pits.’ Despite himself, he glanced anxiously around to see if Dvolci was anywhere in sight. ‘Even with a few minor fights, you’ll make at least enough money to give yourself a month at The Wyndering.’ This was not true, but he embellished it anyway. ‘And have some left to carry you on your journey.’
Atlon used this abrupt return to Rinter’s main concern to reiterate his own. ‘I’ll have a look at them,’ he conceded, anxious not to alienate his guide with too resolute a refusal. ‘But I think I’d rather be looking for a more conventional way of earning something. There must be schools, places of learning, surely? Or families that want tutors?’
Rinter was beginning to feel helpless. He lied. ‘You’ll have to be in one of the Learned Guilds to get that kind of work, and you can only join those if you’ve been educated in the city.’
Atlon frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like that before,’ he said.
‘You’ve never been to anywhere like Arash-Felloren before.’
As though falling back on a poor alternative, Atlon moved to his real interest. ‘Well, I’ve worked with crystals in the past – I’m quite good at it actually. Surely I wouldn’t need to be in a Guild to get a job in a crystal workshop, would I?’
Caught unawares by Atlon’s casualness, Rinter had shaken his head before he realized it. He resorted quickly to dark warnings. ‘You’ll not get paid much. The Kyrosdyn didn’t get rich by paying well. And they’re hard masters.’ His concern became genuine. ‘In any case, you don’t want to be near people like that. They’re very odd – dangerous even.’
Atlon refused to be cast down. ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating,’ he said cheerily. ‘All the crystal workers I’ve known in the past have been welcoming once they see your interest is sincere. They tend to be preoccupied, I’ll admit, but it’s a delicate job and needs a lot of concentration.’ Seeing from Rinter’s gloomy expression that the warnings were about to be renewed, he offered a compromise. ‘Let’s have a look at your fighting pits, then you can show me where the crystal dealers trade and I’ll find out for myself.’ He looked at Rinter earnestly. ‘I’ll pay you what I can for your time, of course. You’ve been very patient and helpful.’
Rinter made a vague, half-accepting, half-rejecting shrug, accompanied by a grunt. This man kept catching him off-guard.
Atlon put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. After a moment, a brown shape appeared as if from nowhere, and nimbly threaded its way through the wheels and hooves grinding the dusty highway. Atlon casually dipped low out of his saddle, held out a hand, then swung back equally effortlessly as the felci clambered up his arm and on to his shoulders. There was a small burst of spontaneous applause and cheering from a group of men in a cart moving in the opposite direction, but Atlon did not even realize that it was for him. Rinter too, found that he could do no other than applaud the action.
‘You ride very well,’ he said. ‘Been doing it all your life, I’d say. Are you sure you’re a teacher and not a cavalryman?’
Atlon, uncertain what to do with a compliment, stammered, ‘Everyone rides in my country. It’s a… tradition.’ Adding weakly, ‘We like horses.’
Equally uncertain what to do now he had given a compliment, Rinter coughed awkwardly and turned his attention back to his problem. He felt much more relaxed now that Dvolci had returned. It seemed that the thing was well-trained, after all – that would doubtless be useful. And the way it had moved through those wagons and horses! It hadn’t faltered once. The road might as well have been empty. Every time he looked at the animal he felt its potential as a pit fighter more and more. But, he realized resignedly, he was going to have to direct events as they happened. Any more attempts to persuade Atlon and he might just turn away and pursue his own search for employment.
The two men rode on in silence.
Atlon had not known what to expect of Arash-Felloren but, there being many hills on the journey, he had hoped that at one turn in the road he might find himself on a high vantage overlooking the city. That would have enabled him to compare it with the hyperbole that marked such descriptions as Rinter had offered him, and hence give him a measure of the worth of the man’s words. But Arash-Felloren was built on, and surrounded by hills, and this, coupled with its sprawling size, ensured that no place existed anywhere, save the clouds, from which it could be viewed as a whole.
Thus it took Atlon a little time to realize that he had actually entered the city. They had passed through two small villages on the way and, on reaching another untidy cluster of buildings lining the road, Atlon had assumed that this was a third. After a few minutes however, it dawned on him that the traffic about them was becoming more confused and that they were encountering many more side roads than previously. Glancing along some of them, he saw houses and other buildings in far greater numbers than might be expected in a village.
‘We’re here?’ he asked tentatively.
Rinter pursed his lips. ‘Sort of,’ he replied dismissively. ‘This is just the outskirts really. There’s nothing much to see around here except houses.’
‘Nothing to see! The man’s blind,’ Dvolci whistled softly into Atlon’s ear. ‘Look at the buildings. They’re fascinating. All manner of styles. No two of them the same.’
Atlon nodded. ‘But the people, Dvolci. Look at them. There must be… one in ten of them who seems to be in need of some kind.’
Rinter’s angry voice intruded. He was cursing an old woman who was trying to make her way across the road. She was struggling under the weight of a large bundle clutched in her arms and she staggered as Rinter’s horse reared slightly.
‘Be careful!’ Atlon shouted, angry in his turn. He jumped down from his horse and ran across to the old woman.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, taking her arm. She did not reply, but just looked at him with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. ‘Can I help you with that?’ he tried again, indicating the bundle, but the only response she gave was to wrap her arms more tightly about her burden and edge away from him. Then, without a word, she turned and scurried away.
Rinter was shaking his head as Atlon remounted. ‘You’re wasting your time trying to help half-wits like that,’ he said. ‘The city’s full of them.’
A combination of the old woman’s unexpected response and fear of losing his only guide to the city kept Atlon silent, but it was an effort and his horse stamped its foot and shook its head, sensing his inner tension. He leaned forward and spoke to it softly.
Rinter had watched the incident with concern. Keeping a good fighting animal as a pet he could just about understand, but stopping in the middle of the road to tend to some old fool who hadn’t the wit to look where she was walking, was beyond him. What kind of a man was this? From his general manner and conversation, he didn’t seem to be weak in the head, but something must be wrong with him. In some ways he behaved like a foolish child, yet he must be in his thirties and there was a hint of care in the lines on his face which belonged to a much older man, so he had had troubles in his time. And too, he could not have travelled this far without being able to fend for himself effectively.
Unnervingly, the image of Atlon as a deceiving killer slipped once again into his mind. Vividly. His hands tightened involuntarily about the reins. Atlon might not be simple, but that did not mean that he wasn’t crazy. Rinter had heard of people whose minds were incompletely formed and who belonged to a long gone and darker age. People who could mimic normality to perfection until the opportunity came to slip from behind the mask and reveal their true selves – to their victims. His mouth went dry. How would you recognize such a person? He watched Atlon talking to his horse, as if some clue might lie in his demeanour. As he did so his eye fell on Atlon’s sword. It was well crafted and had a used and practical look about it. Probably cuts firewood with it, he forced himself to think, but the thought did not convince and the idea that Atlon might be a murderer refused to fade as it had before. Rinter reached a crisis. Perhaps he should walk away from this man now, forget about him, his strange animal and his even stranger ideas. But the felci had made too deep an impression on him when it had intimidated Ghreel’s dog into retreat, and the lure of success at the fighting pits after years of dealing with mediocre animals was irresistible. He rationalized. Atlon had done nothing untoward to warrant such a judgement, and after all, hewas a foreigner – he was bound to be peculiar. In any event, he reassured himself, there was no reason why he should ever find himself alone with the man. He cheered up. It helped in reaching this conclusion that he was in the middle of a crowded street.
Curses from other riders halted by Atlon’s abrupt stop brought both Rinter and Atlon back to the moment. Atlon raised a hand in apology but Rinter returned the verbal assault in kind and they set off again. Rinter adopted a fatherly manner. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Atlon, you’ll have to learn to be a bit more… forthright, dealing with people around here. The strong shall inherit the world, as they say. If you don’t stand up for yourself, people here will take you for a fool, and will take everything else you have as well.’
‘Yes,’ Atlon replied enigmatically, leaving Rinter with nothing else to say.
As they rode on, the character of the buildings changed in that they became generally taller, though the plethora of different styles was still bewildering. Great piles of ornately carved masonry jostled with austere straight lines and seductive, arching curves. And crooked ramshackle buildings, obviously of great age, squinted out from between them all defiantly. All the older buildings and many of the new bore signs of movement. Street traders too, began to abound: some with fixed stalls, some with outrageously decorated carts, and others who carried their stock in their hands and accosted passers-by. All were shouting and none could be heard. Rinter, in common with most other riders, Atlon noticed, was fairly free with his foot in dismissing any who came too near.
‘It’s a vigorous place at least,’ Atlon said to Dvolci.
‘So’s a weed patch,’ Dvolci muttered back. ‘This place isn’t vigorous, it’s running wild.’
Rinter turned to Atlon with a look of pride. ‘I’ll wager you’ve never seen anything like this before,’ he said.
‘That’s true,’ Atlon replied. ‘My country’s much flatter. It’s an odd feeling, walking either up or down at every turn. And our buildings are not quite so… varied, nor so crowded together. We also usually build down rather than up, so the buildings are not so high, but often quite deep.’
Rinter pondered this revelation, then thrust his city forward again.
‘Deep!’ he exclaimed, prodding a finger downwards. ‘This whole city’s underlain by tunnels. Level after level. Some you could get two carts side by side down, they say. And so many that no one’s ever managed to draw a map of them.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, no one’s ever managed to draw a map of the streets yet, there’s always so many people building and changing things.’ The finger prodded again, with even greater pride. ‘And under the tunnels are the caves.’
Atlon inclined his head to acknowledge this laudation then said, ‘Tell me about the caves. I’d be interested to see them. And Dvolci’s a cave animal. He likes to spend time underground whenever he can. Too much sky for too long upsets him.’
Rinter’s joviality faltered. ‘Nobody goes down there unless they have to. There’s people and things down there that you don’t want to meet, believe me.’ He laughed again, but the sound was forced. ‘There’s queer enough things live in the tunnels, let alone the caves.’
‘Nobody goes into them?’ Atlon repeated. ‘I thought you said the Kyrosdyn found animals down there for the Loose Pits.’
‘Nobody normal,’ Rinter emphasized. ‘A few cracked miners, maybe – outcasts, fugitives from the Guild of Thieves and the like. As for the Kyrosdyn, no one really knows how they come by their animals, but they’re capable of anything – that’s why you don’t want to be working for them.’ He waved the uncomfortable thoughts aside. ‘I wouldn’t worry about what fights in the Loose Pits. The felci might be tough but he’s not tough enough for there. You take my advice, I know this business; with the right kind of handling there’s a lot of money to be made from the ordinary pits. You’ll be staying at better than The Wyndering before we’ve finished.’
‘I’d like to see the Loose Pits though. They sound interesting.’
Rinter turned away casually to hide the smile he felt he could not contain. Coming round to the idea, are you? he thought. Things were starting to move his way. ‘It might be possible,’ he said. ‘But they don’t happen as often as the ordinary pits and they’re expensive to get into.’ He was pleased he had managed to drag in a reference to Atlon’s need for money. ‘Still, I’ll make some inquiries.’
Atlon gave a nod of thanks. ‘Have we much further to go?’ he asked.
Rinter shook his head then pointed. ‘This way.’
The street he led them into was only marginally less busy than the road they had just left, and Atlon had to ride in file behind him. They had not gone far when their surroundings changed radically. The buildings they had passed through hitherto had been unfamiliar to Atlon and widely varied, but they were nevertheless evidence of some prosperity. Now he was riding through all manner of sheds and makeshift buildings which sprawled, seemingly at random, over the undulating terrain, transforming the path he was following from a simple thoroughfare into part of a maze of ill-defined alleyways. He looked back to see at what point this change had occurred, but all he could see were shacks and hovels. It was as though the city had never been. The squalor of the place was almost palpable and the atmosphere was not improved by such people as he could see. All of them looked surly and unwelcoming and they were everywhere – leaning out of windows, sitting on steps, asleep on the ground, standing in groups or just wandering about with varying degrees of purposelessness. Worse, Atlon felt that every one of them was turning and examining him with cold, judging stares.
The noises filling the place were as inseparable as the tangled alleys. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, as though they were all involved in a desperate debate. Everyone talking, no one listening, he thought. Not good. This conclusion was confirmed as from time to time he heard outbursts of violent cursing and shouting. Even such laughter as he heard was jarring and unpleasant.
Weaving through the clamour were unidentifiable bangings and clatterings as of tradesmen working, though Atlon could see little sign of anyone doing anything useful. And there was livestock, he realized, though this he noticed because of his horse’s gait as it delicately stepped between the hens that were wandering about, seemingly indifferent to the passers-by. Other sounds, and scents – and there were many scents hanging in the still, warm air, most of them unpleasant – told him that there were also pigs and even cows nearby, but these he could not see. Several times he caught sight of incongruous splashes of green – a bent and twisted tree growing in a tiny, improbable space between two buildings and straining towards the light, a small garden full of weary-looking herbs and vegetables, grass-choked gutters, and creepers clambering over broken and stained walls.
And it was unpleasantly hot. Atlon made to loosen the collar of his tunic but it was already undone.
Even more disturbing than the heat, the noise, and the general demeanour of the citizens was the feeling that he was riding through people’s homes as his horse, following Rinter, picked its way through lines of washing and other patently domestic paraphernalia that littered the place. He felt it most acutely when, ducking to avoid jutting eaves, he several times found himself staring in through open windows.
‘Not much different inside than outside,’ Dvolci said to him softly, echoing his thoughts.
‘Spare me one of your lectures on the failings of humanity,’ Atlon said. ‘I’m having trouble enough with this myself.’ Dvolci did not reply.
Rinter, by contrast, seemed to be very much at home – a gesture here, a nod there, the occasional reply to a shouted greeting – but all with the air of a busy man dealing with people who, for the most part, were his inferiors. Atlon, filling with questions at every stride his horse took, found it difficult to stay silent. Just as he had not been able to gain an overall impression of the city as they approached it, so now he hesitated to extrapolate from what he was seeing. Nevertheless, when the winding pathway became wide enough he pulled alongside his guide and asked, quite unable to keep the incredulity from his voice, ‘Is the whole city like this, away from the main streets?’
Rinter turned to him, puzzled. ‘Like what?’
‘Like this,’ Atlon replied, with a small but encompassing hand movement. He searched for words that he hoped would not cause offence. ‘Disorganized, crowded. It’s… it’s no place for anyone to live.’
Rinter’s expression showed no enlightenment. He looked about him, following Atlon’s gesture, then shrugged. ‘Everywhere’s different, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘There’s other places like this, of course – Spills, they call them, I don’t know why. Some are better, some are worse – much worse. They get cleaned out from time to time.’ He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. ‘You have to understand. These people here – they wouldn’t know how to live any other way. It’s what they’re used to. It’s all most of them are fit for.’
Atlon frowned at the response and seemed inclined to pursue the subject, but another turn in the path had brought them to a place where the shacks and huts were replaced by blackened facades and scorched timbers. Some areas had been completely levelled. A faint smell of burning hung about the place, catching at the throat and adding a subtle menace to the scene which the sound of a few unseen children playing nearby deepened rather than alleviated. It took Atlon a moment to realize that what he was looking at were the remains of dwellings similar to those he had just ridden through. Rinter reined his horse to a halt. He looked worried.
‘What’s happened here?’ Atlon asked, affecting not to notice his concern.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Rinter said softly. ‘It wasn’t like this a week or so ago. I’d have come another way if I’d known. It might’ve been a dispute between families. That happens from time to time.’
‘And the people who lived here?’
Rinter shrugged.
Atlon’s eyes narrowed angrily, but before he could speak, Rinter was urging his horse forward. ‘Come on,’ he shouted back. ‘We’ll take a chance. It’s not far now. It’s not worth going all the way back.’
Atlon was not reassured by his tone, but he had little choice other than to follow. For a few minutes they cantered through the bleak, dead landscape, Rinter obviously ill-at-ease travelling on a horse at speed, Atlon alert.
As they rounded a bend, a figure stepped out in front of them, sword in hand.