KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.3.0Arash-FellorenTaylor, RogerMushroom eBooksMushroom eBooksżL(>para.xmlRTAFL_cover_kml.pngnormal.sty˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ jípara.xmléú“ smaller.sty|“ small.sty“ normal.sty˘ “ large.sty5-“ larger.styČ9íÜRTAFL_cover_kml.png     Arash-Felloren         Roger Taylor             a Mushroom eBooks sampler       Copyright © 1996, Roger Taylor   Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.   First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1996.   This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com   All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.   ISBN of complete edition: 1843192268       This is a sampler of Arash-Felloren by Roger Taylor. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.     Contents   Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor     Chapter 1 The Wyndering The door opened, creaking noisily. As the sound faded into the miasma of stale ale that pervaded the gloomy interior of the inn, it was followed by that of a glass being knocked over and hastily retrieved. The innkeeper had started violently out of his drowsing vigil at the crude wooden counter. He swore, a little too loudly, and gazed around angrily to indicate to such as might be watching that he had not been asleep but vigorously alert. His charade evoked no response from the six customers in the drinking room. Two of them were slumped inelegantly across their tables, having succumbed either to the poor ale that was the inn’s speciality, or to the heat that had been oppressing the region for the past weeks. The other four, with varying degrees of suspicion and concern, were doing what the innkeeper was now doing – staring at the figure of a man silhouetted in the doorway, stark and still against the red sky. For a moment, the figure seemed to the innkeeper to be emerging from a glowing fire; despite the heat in the room, he shivered. A quick and unnecessary rearrangement of several glasses and bottles disguised the reaction. When he looked up again, the man had not moved though there was an inclination of his head which indicated that he was perhaps examining the interior of the inn before deciding to enter. The action reassured the innkeeper. Not normally given to thinking about anything other than his own immediate needs, the sudden intrusion of his imagination into his thoughts had unsettled him far more than he would have admitted – not least to himself. Now, however, the surly normality of his life was reasserting itself. The new arrival was exhibiting one of the signs which were typical of a traveller in this area: caution. Mercenary? the innkeeper thought. Trader? Labourer? Artisan? Miner? It was a game he played whenever a stranger arrived and he flattered himself that he could identify the calling of any newcomer at the merest glance, though he usually announced his success at this retrospectively with a knowing nod to his cronies and, ‘Saw it, as soon as he came in,’ or something similar. Studiously turning his attention away from the door, he returned to his normal position, leaning heavily forward on the counter as though keeping his clientele under revue. It was an unremarkable posture and only his regular customers knew that his brawny arms were so arranged that his right hand would be hanging near a weighted cudgel strategically placed on two makeshift brackets behind the counter; a cudgel that he could wield with a speed and accuracy quite at odds with the lumbering pace that his overweight frame imposed on most of his actions. They knew too, that his small, peevish eyes were not in fact watching them, but maintaining a close, sidelong observation of the newcomer. The figure stepped forward. The red evening sky behind him appeared to flare, as if suddenly released. He had scarcely taken one step when the innkeeper’s eyes came sharply forward like those of a dog avoiding the gaze of its pack leader. The hand near the cudgel softly curled and eased away from it, as if even its hidden proximity to the weapon might antagonize. The actions were instinctive and he could not have accounted for them even if he had realized what he was doing. Habit, however, overrode this response and straightened him up to receive his new customer. Whatever ominous presence the newcomer had seemed to exude on his first appearance vanished as the door closed, and the dim light of the inn dressed him in a long, travel-stained coat and a wide-brimmed and equally stained hat. His right hand was wound around the strap of a pack hanging from his shoulder. He looked about him as he walked through the silence, then he reached up and removed his hat to reveal a lean weather-beaten face. The innkeeper found himself looking into deep-set eyes. They were heavily shaded in the poor light and he could thus read nothing in them, though a fleeting glint from the depths unnerved him momentarily. Uncertain of his voice, he raised his eyebrows in insolent inquiry. ‘Do you have a room where I can stay?’ The ordinariness of the question aided the innkeeper’s recovery. He frowned, though it was not at the request, but at the man’s accent, which he could not place immediately. Still, that would have to wait. First things first. ‘Got any money?’ he demanded. The man nodded slightly. ‘How much is the room?’ The innkeeper told him, increasing the normal price by a half and adding, ‘In advance.’ Unexpectedly, the man did not quibble and his left hand dropped two coins on the counter. ‘Three nights,’ he said quietly. The innkeeper swept them up a little too eagerly, then, remembering himself, examined them carefully. They were local and they were good. ‘Three nights,’ he confirmed, stoically keeping a gleam from his eyes. ‘I’ll put my horse in the stable,’ the man said, turning away. Fully himself again now, the innkeeper jingled the two coins significantly. The man paused, then placed a smaller coin on the counter. ‘This will feed us both.’ The innkeeper opened his mouth to remonstrate, but though the voice had been soft and unprovocative, the statement was categorical and he found himself disinclined to barter. The coins in his bulbous fist weighed heavily and he nodded in agreement. The man turned and left. As the door opened and closed, the red light washed briefly into the inn again. ‘Gave me a start when he came in, that one, Ghreel. Thought he was one of Barran’s men.’ The speaker was a rat-faced individual. He scraped his chair back and sidled up to the counter. Ghreel jingled the coins again, then grunted. He was speculating urgently about who the newcomer might be but he had no intention of exposing his confusion to the likes of ale-swilling flotsam such as Riever here. Nevertheless, his position as supreme authority in such matters had to be maintained. He pursed his lips knowingly and tossed the coins casually into his apron pocket. ‘Not one of Barran’s,’ he said decisively. Little risk in that. Barran’s men didn’t wander about alone out here, didn’t pay for anything if they could afford it, and had no need for rooms at an inn. Further, though his entrance had been oddly disconcerting, he did not have the presence of a fighter of any kind, least of all one of Barran’s. From the hang of his coat he wore a sword, but that signified nothing. Curiosity suddenly got the better of him – and greed. The man hadn’t haggled, so obviously he wasn’t short of money. Either that or he was simple. ‘Better see what he’s up to,’ he said, propelling himself away from the counter. The room shook under the impact of his heavy footfalls as he rolled across to the door. Riever took half a step after him, then changed his mind and returned to his table. Outside, the setting sun, made almost blood-red by the day’s dust banging in the air, flooded the landscape and turned the inn’s untidy yard into a patchwork of unfamiliar shadows. Ghreel screwed up his eyes then grimaced as a warm and dank breeze wound itself about him like a clinging blanket. He unearthed a soiled kerchief from a deep pocket and ran it over his face as he made an undulating progress toward the open stable door. As the various parts of Ghreel came to an unsteady standstill in the doorway, the stranger was rubbing water over the muzzle of his horse. He turned to face the panting innkeeper. Despite the heat, he had replaced his hat and Ghreel felt himself the object of an intense scrutiny even though he could not see the man’s eyes. ‘Got everything you need?’ The words blustered out of him. The man led his horse to a stall and whispered to it before turning back to Ghreel. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, hitching his pack on to his shoulder and picking up two saddlebags. ‘Could you show me my room?’ Once again, the soft voice and quiet manner left Ghreel at a loss, throwing him, untypically, into politeness. ‘Are you travelling on, or looking for work hereabouts?’ he asked as he motioned the man back to the inn. ‘Both,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll need to work for a little while until I’ve enough money to move on.’ It gave Ghreel the opportunity he had been waiting for. ‘What’s your trade?’ he asked. ‘I’m a teacher.’ ‘Teacher!’ Ghreel exclaimed. He wobbled to a halt and looked at his companion with a combination of disbelief and distaste. ‘Teacher!’ He was in his element now – he hated ‘clever’ people. His inadvertent politeness vanished. ‘What do you think you’re going to teach around here?’ He waved a dismissive hand and set off again. ‘Whatever people want to learn.’ The answer showed no sign of irritation at the innkeeper’s attitude, which soured further as a consequence. ‘That’s precisely nothing,’ Ghreel retorted, with a sneer. ‘Or at least nothing that comes out of a book. All anyone wants to know here is what they can use – who’s got money they can steal, where they can get a woman, and who’s got the cheapest ale.’ He patted himself on the chest. He expected some argument, especially from a know-it-all like this one. The man obviously had no idea what the real world was like. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up in a ditch with his head stoved in. Even experienced travellers went on their ways wiser after passing through here. Wiser – and poorer. ‘Perhaps I should just move on, then.’ The reply brought Ghreel to another halt. In his enthusiasm to persecute this newcomer he had nearly stepped over the mark. His hands involuntarily closed around the coins in his apron pocket and he gave the man a quick, narrow-eyed glance. The hat and the low sun combined to prevent him from reading anything in the shadowed face, but with an effort he forced himself to look concerned. ‘Your horse looks as if it could do with a rest,’ he said. ‘As do you.’ He tried to make his expression fatherly, but it became a yellow-toothed leer. ‘There’ll probably be something for you.’ A fat thumb flicked towards the setting sun. ‘There’s the city. And the Lowe Towns. Not to mention more than a few farms.’ The leer nodded to the east. ‘Then there’s the mines in the Thlosgaral and the Wilde Ports on the other side.’ He was unable to resist a final jibe. ‘Providing you don’t mind doing real work, of course.’ Once again, to Ghreel’s annoyance, the man did not respond, and they entered the inn in silence. ‘What is the city?’ the man asked as the stagnant dimness of the drinking room embraced them. He took off his hat. Ghreel blinked to clear his vision, then looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. There was no sign of mockery in the face however. ‘What do you mean, what’s the city?’ ‘What’s it called?’ The innkeeper pondered the question, testing it carefully, still suspicious. ‘Arash-Felloren,’ he said eventually, speaking wanly, as if to a treacherous child. ‘You can’t not have heard about Arash-Felloren, surely?’ The man gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I live far away.’ Like a hunting animal returning to its lair, Ghreel scuttled back behind the counter, and into his natural condition. He addressed the room. ‘Hear that, lads? Man here’s a teacher.’ He lingered on the word. ‘But he’s never heard of Arash-Felloren. You must have come from a very long way away, that’s all I can say. And it must have been a quiet place.’ Unfriendly laughter greeted this but the man just turned and acknowledged it with a smile. ‘I have, and it was,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take your advice. I’ll stay a while. Perhaps try the city tomorrow.’ He met Ghreel’s taunting gaze squarely. ‘I’d like to rest now, if you don’t mind.’ Ghreel scowled. This man’s lack of response was increasingly irritating but it also gave him no excuse for picking a quarrel. ‘Never heard of Arash-Felloren,’ he growled, loath to let the topic pass. ‘Biggest city in the world, lad.’ He was about to indulge in a scornful tirade about the stranger’s chances of surviving there when the coins in his apron reminded him that they might have cousins nearby. He contented himself with a laboured shake of his head as he indicated a door at the far end of the room. The wooden stairs creaked unhappily as Ghreel made his way up them. It was not until he had reached the top that the stranger followed him, apparently anxious not to be trapped in this timber-sided ravine with Ghreel’s mountainous bulk lurching above him. The stairway led directly on to a wide, unevenly boarded balcony lined with doors and shuttered windows. Ghreel kicked open the nearest door. ‘Here you are,’ he said brusquely. He was about to turn away when a spasm of proprietorial pride seized him and he followed the stranger into the room. ‘Shutters are a bit stiff,’ he said, giving them a powerful slap. ‘But you’ll not be wanting them open too long, what with the flies and dust and all.’ The tour moved to the bed. ‘Mattress was given a good beating only last week.’ And thence to a stone sink. The pride became incongruously visible. ‘And water.’ He pumped a handle energetically and, after some peevish coughing, a desultory trickle of water spluttered irritably into the sink. ‘Only inn round here with that,’ he announced. ‘You’ll be lucky with most of them if you’ve got a pump in the yard and a bucket that doesn’t leak.’ The stranger raised his eyebrows and nodded an acknowledgement to indicate his appreciation at finding this haven. ‘Only here,’ Ghreel repeated. ‘Only at The Wyndering. Anyone’ll tell you.’ Then he was gone, the floor shaking rhythmically to his departure. The stranger put his saddlebags on the floor and laid his pack on the bed. He left the door open and, after a brief struggle, managed to open the various shutters – one on to the balcony and one overlooking the inn yard. The brilliant redness of the setting sun was fading to a dusty ruddiness, though there seemed to be no lessening of the day’s heat. He took off his hat and the long coat and laid them carefully on the room’s one chair. Then he unbuckled his belt and, carefully placing his sword by his side, lay down on the bed, his hands behind his head. His eyes moved slowly and methodically about the room, noting the old workmanship and the scars of many years of usage. The room, like The Wyndering as a whole, had the air of a fine old gentleman fallen upon hard times but now revelling in it. His study was punctuated by occasional sounds from the yard and the drinking room below. ‘What’s it to be tomorrow?’ said his companion. ‘Arash-Felloren, or the Wilde Ports?’     Chapter 2 Gasping for breath, but made even more vigorous and fleet than usual by the angry cries following him, Pinnatte ran frantically along the crowded street. He had made a mistake – a serious one – but it was not until after he had snatched the man’s purse that he realized he had been one of the Kyrosdyn. Worse, the wretch had been a full Brother too, perhaps even a Higher Brother, judging by the quality of the crystals marking out the emblem on his purse, and the size of the guard who appeared from nowhere at his master’s cry. Pinnatte swung round a corner. And that cry had been another thing – it was still ringing in his head – that peculiar blend of fury, disbelief and throat-wrenching petulance. It had confirmed the man as a Kyrosdyn even as Pinnatte was registering the emblem and its implications for his immediate future. He cursed silently. Damn the man, wandering the streets looking just like any other person. How was an honest thief supposed to know? Why the devil hadn’t he been wearing his robes or at least carrying his staff? Pinnatte did not debate the questions, however. Instead he twitched his head as the memory returned of his victim’s guard looming ahead of him, massive hands outstretched, eyes full of malevolent focus. His head had twitched thus while his mouth had been gaping, his mind teetering on the edge of panic and, having saved him then, it seemed to be locked into him now, as if every time he did it, he might suddenly find himself free. Passers-by moved hastily out of his way, some nervously, others angrily, swearing after him or aiming a blow. One or two, sensing reward, tried to grab hold of him, but he was moving too quickly and the one individual who did succeed found himself a victim of Pinnatte’s momentum, ending his attempted seizure by spinning round incongruously and tottering into the path of a passing carriage. The resultant din brought vividly to Pinnatte the realization that his headlong flight was leaving a trail for his pursuers as clear as footprints in the snow. He must slow down! If he didn’t he could well set off the Cry, then, if he survived that, he’d find his fellow thieves after him as well. But he was not fully in command of his legs. The Kyrosdyn were terrifying. Steal crystals from most people and you could certainly look for a more vigorous pursuit than if you had stolen coin or any other jewellery. But steal one from a Kyrosdyn and you could look to run as far as the Wilde Ports, then a long swim, if you hoped to escape. Kyrosdyn obsession with crystals was legendary. It was one of the great ‘Do Nots’ of the Guild of Thieves – ‘Stole a crystal from a Kyrosdyn,’ was the knowing way of saying, ‘He’s a dead man.’ That was why he had thrown the purse in the guard’s face almost immediately – as if the action would absolve him from all blame. But the Kyrosdyn were more than just obsessive about their crystals, they had a lust for them that was almost religious, and to touch them without respect, still less without permission, was to bring down that unreasoned and self-righteous wrath on the perpetrator’s head that only the religious can aspire to. And strange things happened to those who were taken by the Kyrosdyn . . . He must stop running! He must stop! The urgency of this inner demand was beginning to outweigh the urgency of the need to flee. Amongst the many skills that Pinnatte’s years of thieving had given him was one which made him aware of the sound of the crowd even when he was not particularly listening to it. Sometimes it would tell him that he could almost stroll from pocket to pocket, shop to shop, and take whatever he wanted without creating even a stir. At others, seemingly no different, it said, ‘No. Walk away. Leave it. It’s too dangerous.’ Whenever he had chosen to ignore this soft voice, he had suffered for it. Now, he could sense his erratic progress rebounding through the bustling chaos of the streets and leaving a wake that was not dissipating, but gathering in force. If he didn’t stop soon, then the Cry would be called as sure as fate. He changed direction abruptly and careened into a narrow alley. It was a dangerous thing to do, as he could be trapping himself there, where his manoeuvrability would be of little avail, but he needed a moment to force himself to stop and gather his scattered senses. As it was, it took him twenty paces before he could slow down to a walk, and a further twenty before he really began to take command of his thoughts – and stop his head from twitching. Belatedly checking that the alley was empty, he pulled off his jacket, turned it inside out and put it on again. A dirty yellow kerchief was dragged out of a pocket, wiped across his perspiring face then wrapped about his neck. Then his trousers were tugged out of his boots and, finally, his unkempt hair was swept into some semblance of tidiness. It was thus a markedly different Pinnatte who emerged from the other end of the alley and, with studied casualness, sauntered into the busy traffic. It was as well he stopped his reckless career when he did, he realized. Even here he could feel a tension in the passers-by. Somewhere that screeching Kyrosdyn and his guard might still be looking for him – making more din than a mother looking for a lost child! He’d like to choke the creature on his damned crystals! He’d got them back, hadn’t he? Then, as if unleashed by this near-disaster, for the first time ever he wondered why the Kyrosdyn were the way they were. The crystals were valuable, some much more than others, with their many tints and hues, and valuable things made some people very strange. But why should the Kyrosdyn – to a man – have such fanatical regard for them? It was rumoured that in the Vaskyros they had a great hoard, even of the most precious of all – those with that faint and subtle green glow at their heart. He had seen few worthwhile crystals in his life, and he had never seen one of those – very few had. Occasionally, in some drinking hole frequented by his own kind, boastful tales would emerge of green crystals won and lost, but such stories were usually worth no more than the ale that was creating them. Only once had he felt himself on the edge of the truth when, in the middle of such a yarn, an old man, sullenly silent until then, had suddenly snarled out a drunken oath and accused the teller of being a fool and a liar. By way of emphasis, he slapped his hand down on the table, palm upwards. It was withered and dead and the fingers were curled into a painful grasp. ‘That’s green crystals for you, lad,’ he said. ‘That, and nightmares for the rest of your life.’ He tapped his head and sneered. ‘You’ve seen nothing. Still less touched.’ The outburst had won him only a measure of his length in the street, yet Pinnatte had never forgotten the despair and pain that had shone briefly through the old man’s bleary eyes. The memory returned to him whenever green crystals were spoken of. It was with him now. And in a way he could not define, it chimed with the cry that The Kyrosdyn had uttered when his purse was snatched – there had been a fearful despair in it. He shook his head to dispel these thoughts. This was no time to be daydreaming. He must pay attention to what was happening about him. Was he still being sought? Had his flight and the pursuit been sufficient to let loose the Cry? He paused momentarily, ostensibly looking at the fruit on a stall but, in reality, listening, and debating his next move. The Street was noisy, but the tension he had sensed when he emerged from the alley was no longer there. The pursuit had either ended or gone off in another direction. He let out a long, silent breath. He’d been lucky there. Luckier than he deserved. He resolved to be more careful in future – it was the third time that month he had made such a resolution. Even as he was reaffirming this oath however, he saw his hand about to slip an apple into his pocket. With an effort he stopped it and conspicuously replaced the apple on the stall. He’d have to steal something else to eat, later. ‘Don’t maul ‘em if you’re not buying,’ the stall-holder barked by way of acknowledgement. Pinnatte bit back a retort, but could not avoid curling his lip at the man as he rejoined the crowd. Still a little unnerved by his escape, he wandered aimlessly for some time. Although he was calmer now, scenes kept playing themselves through his head, showing him talking his way out of the clutches of the Kyrosdyn and his bodyguard with ingenious and quite convincing excuses, or somehow dashing them both aside and escaping with the purse to become the most famous of Arash-Felloren’s thieves. In the wake of these came endless, wilder variations and, even though he tried to dismiss them as so much foolishness, Pinnatte could not help himself but rehearse each to a nicety. Gradually, more prosaic needs began to impose themselves. The combination of terror and his frantic run through the afternoon’s heat had made him thirsty – very thirsty. And, too, he would have to find something for his Den Master, Lassner, if he was to eat properly tonight. He dismissed this last concern for the moment. Unlike his fantasy about the Kyrosdyn, if the worst came to the worst he could talk his way around Lassner for at least one night’s credit. Far more pressing now was his thirst. He came to where several streets met, or rather collided, to form a wide and ragged square. Arash-Felloren was replete with charters, statutes, laws, by-laws, and all manner of rules and regulations dealing with the movement of goods and people, the conducting of business, marrying, burying, begging, borrowing, stealing, and every form of social and commercial intercourse in which waywardness of some kind had occurred since anyone had bothered to record such matters. Sadly, while they were both extensive and comprehensive, they were also, for the most part, either incomprehensible or mutually contradictory. They had one thing in common, however. They were almost universally ignored. True, there were several large areas of the city where order and prosperity prevailed, but the greater part of it was subject only to one law – the oldest of laws – survival. The square that Pinnatte now entered was a frenzy of confusion and disorder as faltering skeins of wagons, riders and walkers struggled to cross it, weaving around and through a random sprawl of stalls and tents and gaudy handcarts at its centre. The dust-filled air was thick with oaths and clamour as travellers and shifty-eyed traders each vied for attention. Pinnatte entered the fray. The jostling and buffeting in a place like this made it ideal for snatching purses and picking pockets, especially working with a team of like-minded souls, but, apart from his thirst, his luck having turned so sour today, he was in no mood for it. A good yarn about today’s events should serve to keep Lassner satisfied tonight, he decided. The old man was a realist, he’d do nothing impetuous because of one night’s rent. Pinnatte took a perverse pride in his integrity as a thief . . . amongst his own kind, his word was good and he settled his debts promptly – he was a model Den-Mate. Towards the middle of the square, where the traders outnumbered the travellers, was a raised fountain – a remnant of the time when the square had been more prosperous. The carved figures that formed it had long been mutilated – fine features rendered pugilistic by the breaking of noses and ears, stout stone shields and swords shattered and split, then weathered and decayed. But the water had always flowed. With its source far from the city, it was too good to be hazarded by the reckless damaging of its supply and outlet conduits, and a general awareness of its value by the locals had always protected it from complete destruction. Pinnatte reached it with some relief. There were two or three groups of people, mainly men, lounging on the steps that led up to the fountain’s basin. He stepped through them with a studied combination of assuredness and inoffensiveness that he had cultivated over the years, meeting gazes clearly where unavoidable, though without challenge. At the top of the steps, he leaned over the low parapet to catch a handful of water tumbling from one of several spouts. As ever, it was as cold as the mountains it came from, quite unaffected by the weeks of humid heat that had been pervading the city. He drank noisily, relishing the chill that marked out a route inside him. When he was sated, he scooped both hands deep into the basin and splashed his face luxuriously. The strains of the day faded almost immediately. He began to practice his tale for Lassner. It would be a good one and, if he told it well, he might get more than one night rent-free. There could even be extra food – Lassner liked a good tale. As the thought came to him, a powerful grip closed around his neck and plunged his head under the water.     Chapter 3 The same powerful grip that had thrust Pinnatte’s head beneath the water eventually withdrew it, but he was retching and struggling frantically for some time before he realized that it was air entering his lungs and not freezing water. For a moment he hung limply, then he made a desperate attempt to free himself. It was to no avail however, for though he was much stronger than his wiry frame indicated, the grip was unyielding and merely tightened painfully until he became still again. Then the sound of laughter penetrated the booming in his ears and a vague shape formed through his blurred vision. Reaching up cautiously, for fear of antagonizing his captor, he wiped the water from his face until the shape became clearer. It was the Kyrosdyn. A chill filled Pinnatte that was far colder than the water he had just been immersed in and he began struggling again. The grip on his neck tightened mercilessly, making him cry out this time, and a stinging blow struck him across the face. Ironically, the blow cleared his mind and once again he became very still. The grip eased slightly. Pinnatte glanced around rapidly to assess his predicament. He saw that the laughter was coming from a gathering crowd and that the Kyrosdyn’s hand was raised to strike him again. The crowd offered him a glimmer of hope. It was unlikely that they would intervene if he was about to receive a beating. He himself had stood by and watched while others had been beaten, even killed – interfering in such matters was rarely wise. But the Kyrosdyn were loved by no one and, with luck, the crowd might perhaps be swayed to his side. If he got the opportunity to speak. But whatever else happened, he must stay here, in public view. He was lost if the Kyrosdyn managed to take him to the Vaskyros. ‘What did you do that for?’ he spluttered, mustering all the injured innocence he could find. The Kyrosdyn paused, tilted his head on one side, then brought his face close to Pinnatte’s. ‘I think you know,’ he said softly. Pinnatte’s insides tightened. It was as though the man’s gaze was burning through him. He wanted desperately to look away, but the grip on his neck prevented him from moving and all he could do was screw up his eyes. ‘No, I don’t,’ he managed to protest. The Kyrosdyn moved a finger in front of his unblinking eyes. The strange gesture was made slowly and with a deliberateness that frightened Pinnatte far more than any angry fist-clenching could have done. He could do no other than focus on the man’s hand, turning the staring eyes into a glinting blur in the background. As if in some way he might hide from what was happening, he found himself noting that the hand was long and delicate – like a woman’s, almost – and it was clean. Very clean. However the Kyrosdyn practised their craft, it involved nothing that would coarsen and harden the hands. ‘Look at me,’ came the command. Pinnatte could not disobey and, once again, he was staring into the Kyrosdyn’s eyes. The soft, high-pitched voice continued. ‘We who study the crystals have a vision which you could not begin to imagine. We look into the very heart of all things.’ The voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Even into the worlds between and beyond. So when you sought to steal from us, your every line and shadow was etched into our mind on the instant. Your flight was a mere irritation – one which will worsen your punishment. It is not possible to hide from us – the echo of your stunted, shrivelled soul shone in the air itself. Nor is it possible to avoid the consequences that your desecration has set in train.’ The last three words were pronounced with great deliberation and each was accompanied by a slap across the face. Once again the blows served only to bring Pinnatte’s mind into sharp focus. Though the Brotherhood of the Kyrosdyn never seemed to vie for power over the city themselves, their influence was avidly sought by those factions that did, for it was a commonplace that they possessed dark and mysterious powers and whoever could win them to their side would prosper. The malign influence they had in the endless political manoeuvring that plagued the city had little or no effect on the lives of such as Pinnatte, and he affected to hold it in disdain. Yet he was well aware of its potency. Thus, suddenly finding himself confronted by one of these sinister manipulators, his reaction was coloured by the superstitious fear that street gossip had imbued in him. And each word the man spoke brought this fear closer and closer to the surface, until it threatened to unman him. Now, however, the blows to his face somehow reduced the Kyrosdyn. Now he was just another street bully. For an instant, Pinnatte experienced two opposing emotions – a sudden elation mingled with an unexpected and indefinable sense of loss. But he was freer now. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied angrily. ‘Are you touched in the head, or something? Half-drowning a man for just having a quiet drink. And let go of me, will you.’ He swung a fist vaguely backwards but it bounced impotently off a solid, muscular frame. He appealed to the crowd. ‘Get him off me,’ he shouted, catching the eyes of as many people as he could. ‘He’s a lunatic. I’ve never seen him before and I certainly haven’t stolen anything from him.’ The Kyrosdyn struck him again. Pinnatte reached up with both hands and managed to seize the wrist of his captor. Then, supporting himself on the extended arm, he kicked wildly with both feet at the Kyrosdyn. The man holding him tottered forward under this unexpected burden and Pinnatte used the movement to bounce his feet off the ground and kick again. None of the kicks found a target, but the Kyrosdyn was obliged to jump back hastily and the whole escapade was greeted by the crowd with a cheer. The second attack further disturbed the balance of the guard and Pinnatte tightened his awkward grip on the man’s wrist, and began to struggle desperately. Abruptly he was on his knees and the man was tumbling over. Then the grip vanished and Pinnatte stood up. Quite unaware of how he had achieved this, he turned round to see the Kyrosdyn’s guard staggering down the steps of the fountain, his arms flailing to catch his balance. He was fully as large as Pinnatte remembered and now his face was alight with rage. Pinnatte reflected briefly that humiliating some ox of a mercenary in front of his employer was almost as bad as trying to rob the Kyrosdyn in the first place, but he did not dwell on the comparison. With the instinct of a fleeing animal and the cunning of a life-long street thief, he glanced round and, where others might have seen an impenetrable crowd, he saw a score of openings through which he could make an escape. He selected one that lay in the opposite direction to the Kyrosdyn and, scarcely hesitating, made for it. ‘No!’ The Kyrosdyn’s voice, penetrating and shrill, seemed to Pinnatte to wrap itself around him like the claws of innumerable tiny creatures and, abruptly, his legs stopped moving. The superstitious fear of the Kyrosdyn that had only just left him returned in full force and burst openly into his mind as he tried to continue his flight, only to find that his legs would not respond. Several hands caught him as he tumbled forward. ‘He’s done something to my legs,’ he heard himself saying in an echoing distance. ‘I can’t move them.’ ‘Bring him here,’ the Kyrosdyn’s voice raked through him again. There was doubt in the supporting hands, some holding him protectively, others pushing him away anxiously, as though he were suddenly contaminated. ‘Bring him here!’ The command was repeated. Part of Pinnatte was telling him that he should be trying to sway the crowd to his side, but it could make no headway against the torrent of fears breaking over him at the loss of the use of his legs. Someone turned him round to face the Kyrosdyn. The man was standing with his hand extended towards him, the centre, Pinnatte thought, of a strange disturbance. For an instant he thought he saw something green and baleful flickering on the man’s hand, but he blinked, and it was gone. He screwed up his eyes but the disturbance did not change. It was as though the air about the Kyrosdyn were dancing and twisting, and too, as though he was somehow standing by the fountain and, at the same time, somewhere else. Pinnatte felt a cold awfulness possess him at the sight, and movement leaving his limbs with each bursting heartbeat. He could do nothing. He was nothing. He was prey held captive by the gaze of a predator. All that remained now was a timeless time before he was no more. But even as the thought formed, a faint cry of denial began to make itself heard through Pinnatte’s terror. This was not his time. He would not fall to this miserable creature, who squealed like a pig just because his purse was snatched, and who needed a guard just to walk the streets. From somewhere, he found a voice. ‘Help me,’ he said faintly, forcing himself to look round at the crowd. ‘He’s doing something to me. He’s killing me.’ The disturbance about the Kyrosdyn faltered a little and Pinnatte felt the bonds about him easing in response. And his sense of the mood of the crowd began to return. It held hope. Where before there had merely been excited curiosity, now, mingling with it, was concern and alarm – and anger. Pinnatte saw the guard move to his master’s side as if in confirmation. The Kyrosdyn inclined his head as the man whispered something. The disturbance was gone completely, and Pinnatte almost staggered as the use of his legs suddenly returned. ‘He’s doing something to me.’ He shouted this time. ‘I can’t move.’ He gave a brief stiff-jointed mime. ‘He’s nowhere near you.’ It was the guard. Mistake, thought Pinnatte. Too loud and too soon. The Kyrosdyn thought so too, judging by the angry look he gave his defender. ‘Something queer happened,’ came a supporting voice behind Pinnatte. ‘I felt it.’ It was followed by an unsteady chorus of agreement. ‘He’s lying,’ the Kyrosdyn cried. The voice behind Pinnatte became an indignant figure at his side. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ ‘Kyroscreft!’ Coming from somewhere within the crowd, the word hissed through the air like an assassin’s arrow. Pinnatte started and cursed himself for a fool. It was the cry he should have made from the first. It was the cry that represented all that was deemed to be the Kyrosdyn’s true calling – the searching into the mysterious and dangerous powers that lay hidden in nature – forbidden powers – and for which their proclaimed craft of crystal-working was a mere façade. It was a word loaded with fear and hatred, and response to it was invariably unreasoned and primitive. In the past it had rung out loudly in rioting against the Kyrosdyn. Rioting that had resulted in many lives being lost but which, strangely, had left the Kyrosdyn, as innocent and injured parties, somehow further entrenched as a powerful force in the city’s shifting and complex government. Without hesitation, the guard drew his sword and, slowly moving around his charge, swung it in a wide, horizontal arc. It was an action that forestalled any sudden assault on the Kyrosdyn, and the watching circle widened immediately. Though several men laid hands on knives and swords, none were drawn. All knew that the first one to step forward in anger was likely to die and, Kyroscreft or no, nothing had happened here that was worth that. There were one or two cries from bolder sparks, standing safely at the back of the crowd, but they were quickly silenced. The crowd began to break up, its excited mood dissipated. Pinnatte sidled backwards with his immediate neighbours. He caught the Kyrosdyn’s eye and could not forebear a triumphant sneer. Unexpectedly, three long and furious strides brought the Kyrosdyn face to face with him, and a hand gripping the front of his jacket hoisted him up on to his toes. Pinnatte gaped, wide-eyed, taken aback by the speed of the man’s response, and too, by the strength in that delicate hand. ‘I meant you no offence, sir,’ the Kyrosdyn was saying, his voice pleasant and apologetic. It took Pinnatte a moment to realize that he was talking to the man by his side who had protested at being called a liar. ‘I was referring to this . . . wretch.’ He shook Pinnatte. ‘He’s a thief and not worthy of your protection.’ Pinnatte looked round at the crowd again, but it was already much smaller, and the traffic around the fountain was re-establishing itself. The Kyrosdyn’s guard was sheathing his sword – the danger had passed. Pinnatte thought desperately. Whatever else happened now, he must not allow himself to be taken to the Vaskyros. ‘I took nothing,’ he said plaintively to his now solitary ally, catching hold of his arm urgently. ‘You can search me.’ The man seemed anxious to be on his way, but the Kyrosdyn’s soft apology and Pinnatte’s appeal had placed him in the position of an arbiter. He looked from Pinnatte to the Kyrosdyn. ‘Will that satisfy you, sir?’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I can call for the Weartans if you wish.’ He pointed to a building some way down one of the streets that led into the square. Pinnatte uttered a brief prayer of thanksgiving. It was highly unlikely that the Kyrosdyn would want anything to do with the Prefect’s guards – the men and women nominally responsible for enforcing the law and maintaining order on the streets. No one walked away from an encounter with them other than poorer. The Kyrosdyn tightened his grip about Pinnatte’s jacket and his eyes narrowed savagely. Then, abruptly, he released him. ‘No,’ he replied, still polite. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Pinnatte wasted no time in thanking his inadvertent saviour, but turned to flee immediately. He had not taken one step however, when something struck his shins and sent him sprawling painfully on the cobbled road. It was no relief to him to note that this time it was not some strange power of the Kyrosdyn that had brought him down, but the guard’s foot. Before he could recover himself, that same foot placed itself deliberately over his ankle, and pressed. He cried out in pain and tried to pull his foot away, but the guard merely smiled and increased the pressure. Such of the crowd as remained kept their distance and watched warily. Passers-by stepped around them nervously. Then the Kyrosdyn was bending over Pinnatte. The pressure on his foot eased, but still held him fast. ‘There will be another time, thief,’ the Kyrosdyn said. He crouched down, untied the purse that Pinnatte had tried to snatch earlier, and held it out for him to inspect. The leatherwork alone was worth more than Pinnatte could expect to earn in many weeks of good thieving and, while he was no expert in the value of crystals, those he could see inlaid there represented wealth he had only ever dreamed of. He looked stonily at the purse, knowing that if he had been lucky enough to escape with it, he would probably not have been able to dispose of it. In fact, he would almost certainly have been at as great a risk from other, more successful thieves as from the searching Kyrosdyn. He could even have found himself having to deal with Barran’s men. He pushed the thought away. He noticed that the Kyrosdyn’s eyes were grey, as if all the colour had been drained from them. ‘You’ve caused me grievous offence, thief,’ the man was saying. ‘And thus the Brotherhood. And though circumstances have conspired to protect you at the moment, I’ll have your worthless soul before we’re through.’ He bared clenched teeth and, with a curiously delicate gesture, reached into the purse. When he withdrew it he was holding a clear crystal between his thumb and index finger. It glittered brightly – more brightly than it should have done in the hot and dust-filled light of the square, Pinnatte thought. ‘I’ll bind it in here. Hold it with bonds smaller and more powerful than you could believe.’ He held it to his ear. ‘I’ll listen to its futile struggling as it flitters about the latticed cages of its new home. Reflecting and refracting endlessly, bouncing to and fro, echoing and resonating. Doing our bidding. Trapped. For ever.’ The crystal was gone, suddenly encased in the Kyrosdyn’s hand. Pinnatte blinked. For a moment the square seemed to be much darker than it had been. Though the Kyrosdyn’s words made no sense, they had been terrifying and his mouth and throat were dry with fear. ‘I took nothing,’ he managed to say hoarsely. ‘You know that.’ The Kyrosdyn made no response but stood up and motioned the guard to release Pinnatte’s foot. Then he started, as if he had seen something unexpected. Doubt and certainty, both equally terrible, began to vie for mastery of his face as he stared at Pinnatte, and his head canted to one side as though he were listening to something far away. A shaking hand drew something hesitantly from inside his jacket. Pinnatte watched him fearfully. Slowly – painfully, almost – the doubt faded into a tight-faced resolution, then, with an almost reckless swiftness, the Kyrosdyn took Pinnatte’s right hand and pressed his thumb lightly on the back of it. As he did so, his eyes glazed and then closed. For a timeless moment, Pinnatte felt as though he was somewhere, something, else – a brightness, without form or place, beginning or end. Then, abruptly, he was in the square again, snatching back a hand that was no longer being held. He began scrambling away from the two men over the rough cobbles. The Kyrosdyn made no movement to pursue him, and kept a restraining hand on the arm of his guard. ‘Come to the Vaskyros when you are ready,’ he said, his tone strange, almost respectful, then he turned and walked slowly into the busy crowd. Pinnatte watched him go, unable to accept for a moment that nothing else was going to happen. His confidence began to return. Lunatic! he thought witheringly as he limped back up the steps of the fountain. Sitting down, he leaned back against the wall, and began massaging his bruised foot. As he did so, he noticed a small blemish on the back of his right hand.     Chapter 4 The Thlosgaral ‘It was in the time of the Final War, when the Great Lord sought to wrest His birthright from the usurper Estrith. So terrible was this War that from the depths of the ocean to the highest of the clouds, no haven was to be found, and no living thing escaped its bloody taint. ‘And the Great Lord built a mighty Citadel to the south of Estrith’s land so that His army might find rest and shelter there before they ventured forth, and so that His many aides could study and teach the ways of war. ‘But Estrith’s spies brought to him news of this place and he sent to it a great gathering of the cloud-lands, having deceived their peoples so that they denied the justice of the Great Lord’s cause. ‘From the east they came, in numbers the like of which there had never been before nor have been since, and all decked and dressed for battle. Black and terrible they were, darkening the Citadel and the land about it and bringing terror to His people. ‘And as they gathered there was a strange silence. Then, the army of the Lord, which stood outside the Citadel, heard the rushing of a wind and looked to see winged warriors, shadows within shadows, descending upon it, bearing missiles and fire. And great harm was done, for, being without true courage, it was the way of the cloud-land warriors to soar above the reach of arrow and spear. ‘For many days the army stood fast, yet it seemed that it must be destroyed utterly, and great was the anger of His soldiers that they should perish thus, unable to strike a blow in their own defence. ‘Then the Lord was with them, come suddenly and mysteriously from afar. He moved among His soldiers, brilliant, like a silver star in the false darkness that the cloud-lands had brought. And when He saw what had been wrought, such was His fury that He gathered His lieutenants about Him and, raising the Power that was His to command, struck at the darkest of the lowering cloud-lands. And so great was His Power that the cloud-land was rent in two, and the sky was filled with the cries of its dying people as their extremity gave them the vision to see now the truth of Estrith’s deception. ‘But there was no rejoicing from those in the Lord’s Citadel, for it was seen that the stricken cloud-land would fall upon them. Seeing their plight, and spent though He was, the Lord sent forth the last of His Power so that the cloud-land fell to the east of the Citadel. ‘Yet so awful was this fall that much of His army was destroyed, and not a building in the Citadel was not shaken to its foundations, many being tumbled into ruins. ‘And the land upon which the cloud-land fell, once beautiful and prosperous, was broken and crushed, and made barren for ever. And it was named by the Lord, Thlosgaral, from an ancient tongue. ‘And the Lord wept as He sought amongst the destruction for remnants of His army, for He was sorely weakened and the hurt was beyond even His mending and, some said, He saw portents of His ultimate defeat through Estrith’s treachery. Yet, such was the justice of His cause, that where His tears fell, the blasted land was sown with His wisdom, to be harvested in the times to come so that He might rise again . . .’   * * * *   Thus went one of the many tales of the creation of the Thlosgaral – a bleak and blasted scar of jagged and broken rockland cut deep into the land to the east of Arash-Felloren, between The Wyndering and the Wilde Ports. It ran north to south, and was the sole source of the crystals that were so important to the city and the Lowe Towns around it. Many other tales existed about its origins. It had been made by one of the Great Lord’s Appointed, who had launched his given Power from his very hands to destroy Estrith’s mighty army. It had been caused by one of Estrith’s terrible lieutenants, in an attempt to tear apart the land itself and plunge it and the Lord’s army into the ocean. It was the funeral pyre for the Lord Himself after He had been so treacherously betrayed and slain in the ninth hour of the Last Battle. Not that all such tales referred back to the time of the Final War. Some said that long before people had come to the land, in times beyond any remembering, a star, blazing and thundering, had fallen from the heavens to tear open the great rocky cleft. Still others said that it came from perturbations in the bowels of the world itself. And one strange telling declared that the Thlosgaral was a flaw which stemmed from the very beginning of the world, from the First Heat in which all things were formed, and that in it were to be found the keys to the Forbidden Ways that spanned between the worlds. The scholars and learned men of Arash-Felloren speculated and argued along less esoteric lines, seeking more logical explanations. But while much was learned about the place, none could determine how it had come about. Still less could they determine how the crystals had been formed, or even account for their many strange properties. Whatever its origin however, the Thlosgaral was there, and it was an anomaly. An eerie and dangerous place, permanently hot and utterly different from the lands that bordered it. Strangest of all, it was given to moving, like a slow and stately ocean, though to rhythms and tides that no one could ever measure. ‘Ever restless, His spirit seeks to break free . . .’   * * * *   Barran had come to the Thlosgaral quite inadvertently. At the time he was a mercenary and had been heading north following rumours of a great war pending there. Finding himself on the wrong side of the Thlosgaral he decided to cross it rather than retreat and move around it. But, like many before him, he misjudged the nature of the rocky desert and was taken unawares by one of its sudden, stinging dust storms. His horse had panicked and, while normally he might have regained control, a loose shoe brought it down, unseating him and knocking him unconscious. When he came round it was to find his horse bolted with most of his possessions, pain suffusing his entire body, and three ill-favoured individuals looking at him suspiciously. His immediate fear was of robbery, but a discreet check on his purse and hidden weapons reassured him. One of the three men came forward, offering him a battered canteen. After a momentary hesitation, Barran took it. The water had a slightly metallic taste, but he drank it eagerly and thanked the man. He could see now that though the men were dirty and unkempt, they did not have that air about them that would mark them as robbers. They were probably labourers of some kind, he decided. Levering himself into a sitting position he made to stand up, only to discover, as all the pains in his body suddenly focused in one place, that his ankle had been injured in the fall. The three men watched impassively as he slid back to the ground. Some cautious probing and manipulating told him that there were probably no bones broken, but it was going to be almost impossible for him to walk on that foot for some time. He cursed his horse, the desert, and fate generally, but managed to keep his face impassive. Injured, and with his horse gone, he had little alternative now but to ask for help from these strangers, and a string of oaths might well be misunderstood. ‘I can’t walk,’ he said. ‘Can you help me to the nearest village?’ The three men looked at one another and held a brief, soft conversation. ‘Nearest town’s too far to reach today even for a good walker,’ one of them said. ‘And we can’t be wasting time going there anyway. Least of all carrying you. You should’ve been more careful. We’ll take you to our camp and tend you if you’ll give us two months’ of your labour.’ Barran gaped. He had had many bargains put to him in his time, but none quite as odd as this. Questions flooded into his mind. He picked one of them. ‘What do you do?’ There was a hint of surprise in the three surly faces. ‘Come from far away, have you?’ the first speaker declared flatly. Barran nodded. ‘Crystal miners,’ the man said, answering the question without further comment. Barran was no wiser. He reminded himself of his position. Lost and hurt and with little money and no food, this was no time for questions which might try the patience of his possible saviours. ‘I’ll work my way if there’s work I can do,’ he said. ‘There’s work.’ Despite the circumstances however, it was against Barran’s nature not to bargain. ‘But two months . . .’ There followed a brief bartering, at the end of which it was agreed that he would work for them for four weeks from the time when he could walk again. As he hobbled along, his arms around the shoulders of two of the men, he congratulated himself. He had no intention of keeping any bargain, but he would have shelter and food until he was well enough to escape. And, apart from telling him that the leader of the group was called Aigren, the exchange had taught him something important – these people were fools. Later he learned that he had been very lucky not to be found by some of the wiser miners who worked the Thlosgaral – men who would have done as he would in their position – taken lost travellers as slaves. His opinion of the men was reinforced when he reached what they referred to as their camp. It was a large, ramshackle wooden hut, leaning, so Barran thought, against a steep rock face. In front of it, three women were working with tall, double-handled pestles, and four children seemed to be playing in the dust that pervaded everything. All looked up as the men arrived but there was no greeting or display of affection, and Barran was given only a cursory glance as his presence was explained. Whatever crystal mining was, there was a great deal of work involved and little or no money to be made at it, Barran decided, taking in the poverty of the scene and the weary appearance of even the children. Still, that was not his problem. He would adopt his normal practice when amongst strangers, of seeming stupid and remaining silent while he listened and watched and learned. Aigren picked up a long-handled hammer and pointed to a pile of rocks by the hut. ‘Break those,’ he said, thrusting the hammer into Barran’s hand. Barran looked at it and then at the rocks. His immediate reaction to the order and the surly manner in which it had been voiced was to use the hammer on his new employer – he’d killed men for less. But a twinge from his foot reminded him that he had few choices at the moment and, supporting himself on the hammer, he hobbled over to the pile. ‘How small do you want them?’ he asked, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘The women’ll show you,’ came the reply, as the three miners disappeared into the hut. Barran stood for a moment leaning on the hammer and staring at the closed door. ‘Work if you want to eat.’ The voice was followed by a rhythmic pounding. He started and turned round. The women were working with their pestles again, beating out a slow, insistent tattoo. It was one of them who had spoken. He caught her eye and nodded towards the rocks. ‘Just break them?’ he asked. ‘Just break them.’ Not being able to stand, wielding the hammer proved to be no easy task, but eventually he managed to make an impromptu seat amongst the rocks from which he could work to some effect. Part of him rebelled at being obliged to do such menial and seemingly pointless work, but as he worked, he began to remember digging trenches and excavating under foundations in conditions that were far worse than this. At least no one was trying to kill him here. And, when need arose, he was good at this kind of undemanding, physical work – he just had to find his pace. The memory recalled, he gradually relaxed and was soon working with an easy rhythm, his hammer-blows counter-pointing the dull pounding of the women’s pestles. Still, it was hot. An airless, clinging heat soon brought sweat to his brow, griming the dust there into an unpleasant grittiness. He was tempted to complain about it, but the sight of the women working on, silently and steadily, prevented him. After a while, the reason for what he was doing became apparent. The women were grinding the rock fragments that he made into a coarse powder. From time to time one of the deep mortars that they were using would be tilted and rolled along its bottom edge to be emptied where the children were playing in the dust – except that they were not playing. Like their parents they were working, nimble fingers spreading out the dust and young eyes searching through it intently. After some time, one of them cried out and there was a brief halt to the relentless beat of the pestles as the women broke off and went to examine some find. At the second such call, Barran swung himself upright on his hammer and hobbled across to see what was happening. At first he could see nothing, then the child twisted his hand and a bright flash between his thumb and forefinger revealed a tiny crystal. The women nodded approvingly and one of them, wetting her fingertip, dabbed it up and took it carefully over to a small pot. Seeing Barran following her, she motioned him back to his work defensively. He gave an apologetic shrug and did as he was bidden, affecting an indifference he did not feel. The sudden brightness of the crystal had cut through more than the dusty air; it seemed to have cut right through him also. Almost in spite of himself, he was intrigued. ‘That’s what you’re after is it?’ he said, as he settled himself back on to his rough seat. ‘They’re very small for jewellery. Are they worth the trouble?’ ‘Jewellery?’ The woman paused and half-turned towards him, then she turned back and delicately dropped the tiny find into the pot. Her face was puzzled as she stood up. ‘Crystals are crystals. They’re all precious.’ Barran resorted to honesty. ‘I’ve never heard of such things before. What are they used for? Who wants them?’ The woman was filling a bucket with the rock fragments he had broken, throwing back on to the pile those that were too large. She looked at him with open suspicion. ‘Everyone’s heard of crystals,’ she said stonily. Barran met her gaze. Under the grime and weariness was a strong face. He decided not to argue the point. He’d find out all he needed in due course if he was patient. ‘I’ve come from far away,’ he said softly, but in a tone that ended the exchange. The work continued as before, Barran breaking the oddly brittle rocks, the women working their pestles, and the children sifting through the dust. Barran willed his foot to heal quickly. He might be good at this kind of work but he had no desire to be doing it for longer than necessary. There was only one more crystal found during the remainder of the day. Barran remained where he was, continuing his pretended indifference to what was happening. But this time, the women’s inspection resulted in an excitement that had not attended the previous ones. Barran craned forward discreetly to catch the ensuing conversation but heard only, ‘Ellyn, it’s a tint – I’m sure it is.’ Ellyn was the woman who had spoken to him; Aigren’s wife, he presumed. He did not hear her reply, but her manner was doubtful. She held up the crystal and moved it from side to side, peering at it thoughtfully for some time before she shook her head. There was an appeal from the first woman, of which Barran caught, ‘. . . a rainbow vein hereabouts . . . always said so.’ Then, apparently by way of compromise, the crystal was placed in a different pot to the two previous finds. The brief snatches intrigued Barran further. What in the name of sanity was a tint? And what was a rainbow vein? That they were matters of some significance was confirmed almost immediately, for despite Ellyn’s caution about the latest crystal, the mood of the women changed perceptibly. Even the rhythm of their pounding seemed to be lighter, and from time to time they spoke to one another. Once, Ellyn gave a tight, thin smile and looked up at the sky. For an instant, Barran, who had been desperately trying to hear what was being said, saw her as the younger, more hopeful woman she had once been. The sight disturbed him. Shortly afterwards, as the light faded, the men reappeared. In so far as he had thought about them, Barran had presumed that they had been idling the day away in the hut while he and the women did the work, but each was carrying a pannier of rocks on his back. These they proceeded to tip on Barran’s heap, making it considerably larger than it had been at the beginning. He watched them blankly. Then the pattern of work shifted. Barran was told to continue with his rock breaking but the women and children vanished into the hut, taking the mortars and pestles and the two small pots with them. Subsequently, several more panniers of rocks were brought out but eventually Aigren came to the door and motioned Barran inside. The door was closed behind him immediately – and well bolted too, Barran noted, as a dull thud made him turn. A heavy crossbeam had been dropped into stout brackets behind the door. What would these impoverished people need such protection for? He set the question aside, with all the others. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the comparative darkness, the process not being helped by a sense of disorientation. For, what he had taken to be a large lean-to hut built against a rock face was actually only an entrance hall to a cave. Furthermore, he realized, the cave was man-made. He had done enough sapping in his time to recognize the toolmarks. Despite himself, he was impressed. ‘You cut this yourselves?’ The question came out before he had time to consider it. ‘Some,’ Aigren replied, tersely. He showed no sign of enlarging on this comment and Barran remained silent. Just how foolish these people were he had yet to decide, and until he did so, it was important that he gave away as little as possible about himself. He looked around. The light was coming from a few oil lamps perched on ledges cut into the rock, and the air was remarkably fresh for a cave. There was even a hint of a breeze, but there was a warmth in it that was not pleasant. The wooden entrance hall was apparently used primarily as a store-place for tools. It was more substantial than it appeared from the outside, though the roof and walls were canted and twisted as though a massive hand had tried to push the whole structure over. Surely it hadn’t been built like that, Barran thought. And yet these solid rocks couldn’t move, could they? More and more questions. He pointed to a bundle of hammer handles leaning against the wall. ‘Could I use one of those for a stick?’ he asked. ‘This hammer’s a bit awkward for walking with.’ Aigren nodded. Barran tested a few before picking one that would serve him both as a support and a well-balanced weapon should need arise. As he hobbled back into the cave, he saw that the women were preparing food while the men sat sullenly at one end of a long wooden table. Tentatively, he joined them, watching carefully for any sign of offence being taken. Now he should learn something. There was nothing like food after a hard day’s work to loosen tongues, and they must surely want to learn about him – who he was, where he was from, how he had come there and so on. They were obviously not a garrulous group, but once the conversation started he was sure that their taciturnity would fade away and that he would be able to nudge events along to learn more about them and their strange trade. He was to be disappointed however. The food was simple and filling, if gritty, but it was eaten in almost complete silence – a silence which deepened on two occasions when a distant creaking sound drifted into the cave. Everyone except Barran abruptly stopped eating. Aigren and the other men craned forward as if to hear some faint message in the noise, and the women and children watched them anxiously. Then the sound was gone and they were eating again, but the atmosphere was tense and Barran sensed that any attempt at conversation would be unwelcome. And, quite suddenly, he was asleep. A great deal had happened to him that day – he had been unhorsed, knocked unconscious and injured, lost both horse and possessions and finally transformed from mercenary soldier into oafish labourer, working in a mine such as he had never even heard of, in an unfamiliar and bizarre land. What amounted to combat readiness had kept him alert so far, but as soon as that relaxed – and the bolted door and the food was sufficient to do this – his body sought to fulfil its own needs. He had a broken impression of being dragged from the table and laid down somewhere but, despite the pain of his injured foot, he remembered nothing until Aigren’s voice intruded on him. ‘Dawn, Barran.’ His eyes opened and though he was stiff and sore, he was immediately wide awake in anticipation of the violence that had so often accompanied awakenings in strange places for him. But all was quiet. He blinked to clear his vision. Aigren was walking away from him through the lamplit gloom. Around him, others were stirring. He saw that their beds, like his, were little more than rough blankets laid on the ground in a wide recess cut into the cave wall. He had slept in worse places, but the knowledge offered little consolation as the pains caused by his unyielding bed and his injured foot really began to make themselves felt. His hand landed on the hammer handle that he had chosen as staff and weapon and he levered himself up on it. As he did so, his attention was caught by a patch of deeper darkness further along the cave. He peered into it and saw others. Tunnel entrances, he decided. That must be where the men worked. Doubtless they had it in mind for him to work along with them eventually, and the opportunities for flight from underground would be considerably less than those he would have breaking rocks outside. He tested his injured foot gently. It was a little easier. Normally he healed quickly – as much a learned inner discipline as a fortunate natural attribute – and sitting while he worked the previous day had obviously helped. However, it would perhaps be in his best interests to exaggerate his incapacity. Aigren was lifting the crossbeam that secured the side door. Barran hobbled awkwardly over to him. ‘Is there any water? I’d like to wash.’ Aigren looked at him. For the first time, Barran sensed violence in the man – smouldering and distant, but there nonetheless. Be careful, he reminded himself, tightening his grip on his staff. You know nothing of these people and you’re in no position to defend yourself properly here. Aigren nodded towards a barrel standing by the side of the door. ‘Water’s for drinking,’ he said. ‘Some for washing in a couple of days maybe. Unless you want to walk to the river.’ Despite reading the answer in Aigren’s face, Barran asked, ‘Where is it?’ Aigren flicked his head. ‘Half a day east.’ There was a hint of a sneer. ‘If you know the way.’ Then bitterness. ‘And if it hasn’t moved.’ The comment meant nothing to Barran. ‘Here.’ It was Ellyn. She was offering him a canteen and a basket of bread. ‘This will get you through the day.’ ‘See he earns that,’ Aigren said to her harshly as he pushed open the door. Warmth, dust and a reddish morning light rolled into the cave. Ellyn gave Barran an enigmatic look as she walked past him.   * * * *   The day passed much as the previous one until about noon when three men walked into the camp.     Chapter 5 Barran’s interest quickened as soon as the strangers appeared. Their arrival was apparently unexpected but they were obviously known to the women, who suddenly became subservient and ingratiating. One of them ran, almost girlishly, to the hut, ‘To get the men.’ Barran eyed the men surreptitiously while he continued his work. One was carrying a small case and was conspicuously better dressed than the others. He was also slightly ill at ease. A client and two bodyguards, Barran decided. The latter were quite unmistakable. One of them was a tall hulking individual who rolled from side to side when he walked and whose arms arced away from his sides. He stood close to his charge, face set. The other was of more average build and had settled himself against a rock, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. The dangerous one, Barran concluded, as he watched the man looking indifferently about the camp. The first would be some moronic ale-house bruiser whose physical presence was intended to deter would-be attackers. Barran thought it unlikely that he would be able to use the sword that hung from his belt. The second, however, would be the one who anticipated and thought. He would go to some lengths to avoid trouble but would move in quickly with deadly force if real need arose. He would be able to use a sword – and the knives he would have secreted about him. Barran was grateful for the fact that he was sitting at a menial task and covered in dust. Just as he had read the man, so he knew that he himself would be the object of an intense inspection. He must do nothing to give away his own calling. He turned his attention to the bodyguards’ client. The man was an incongruous sight against the bleak rocky surroundings. He was anxiously – and fruitlessly – brushing dust from an ornately embroidered shirt and periodically mopping his flushed face. Barran knew two things about him already; he was important and he was a fool – or most probably so. The women’s actions marked his importance and the two bodyguards gave some measure of his folly – men bought for protection could always be bought by others. And the man did not even carry a knife! But who was he? Aigren and the other two miners emerged from the hut. They were carrying a table and two chairs which they set down in front of the stranger. Awkwardly, Aigren swept a kerchief over one of the chairs and motioned him to sit. When he had done so, the man nodded, and Aigren sat opposite him. The other miners stood a respectful distance away. The women having stopped working, Barran did the same. He leaned forward, rested his chin on the hammer and prepared to watch. The stranger glanced at him and there was a brief conversation which Barran deduced involved an explanation by Aigren of who this new worker was. The man looked at the smaller bodyguard who made a slight hand movement. Seemingly this indicated approval and the man turned back to Aigren again. Not really expecting serious trouble, are you then? Barran thought. This must be a regular meeting – a routine affair. Had it been otherwise, a conscientious bodyguard would have been holding a knife at his throat while such a judgement was made. Much would be given away here if he had the wit to see it. Aigren gestured to Ellyn, who, almost like a serving girl, brought the two pots containing the crystals to the table. A merchant, Barran decided. This would be interesting. The man delicately lifted the lid of one pot, inserted a finger and stirred it around gently as he studied the contents. He seemed satisfied. Ellyn said something to him and pushed the other pot forward expectantly. This received a more thorough examination, with individual crystals being taken out and inspected closely. At one stage he opened his case and took out a large eye-glass to facilitate this. In the end, however, he shook his head slowly, and with an apologetic shrug towards Ellyn, carefully tipped the contents of the second pot into the first. Though she gave little outward sign, Barran could feel her disappointment. One of the other women actually gave a subdued cry. Then, bargaining proper began. Aigren pulled out a bag from his tunic and slowly emptied the contents on to the table. Despite his control, Barran could not restrain a start as the crystals caught the dusty sunlight and transmuted it into a disproportionate brightness. The glint that he had seen between the child’s fingers the previous day was multiplied manyfold. It seemed to reach out and pinion him, and something stirred deep within him. As did hard-learned warning signals. When he finally managed to pull his eyes from the crystals and back to the two men, he realized that he was holding his breath and craning forward with his hands clenched tightly about the top of the hammer handle. He cast a quick glance at the bodyguard by the rocks to reassure himself that his momentary lapse had gone unnoticed. Lucky, he reproached himself with some relief. But that had been a shock. He had no name for what he had just felt, but it was a long time since anything had moved him so. He had to force himself to keep his gaze away from the crystals. Fortunately, the bargaining was now underway. The merchant’s high-pitched and whining voice weaving around Aigren’s slow grumble gave Barran something to concentrate on. He had not been impressed by the ability of the miners to drive a bargain at their first meeting, and he had a strong suspicion that something similar was going to happen here. And, for some reason, even though it was not he who had sweated beneath the Thlosgaral to wrest these crystals free, he now felt a powerful resentment that they might be parted with at too low a price. But so it proved to be. He had acquired some knowledge of the local currency on his way through the Wilde Ports and though he could not hear what was happening, he could see that the coins the merchant was stacking on the table were the wrong colour for the value that he had just placed on the crystals. What kind of a dolt was Aigren? Couldn’t he see the clothes this man was wearing – and the kind of men he was employing to accompany him? Items worth only what was being put on the table did not need to be protected by one bodyguard, still less two! And there was something else about the merchant. Something wrong about this meeting other than Aigren’s incompetence. Barran could not help himself but lean forward intently as he reached out to snatch this elusive impression. And it was there. Clear for anyone to see who had any vision worth speaking of! The man was desperate for the crystals – it was in his every gesture, in every inflection of his voice. He would have paid ten times what he finally conceded with a little moue of reluctance. Barran glanced round at the two other miners and the sullen faces of their wives and children, but they were oblivious to the reality of what was happening. Sheep for shearing. For an instant he actually considered intervening, but the notion quickly transformed itself into a heightened determination to find out more about this place, about the crystals and what made them so precious. And too, about the merchants and who they in their turn sold the crystals to. He must do this even if it meant delaying his escape. Somehow, there was a great deal of money to be made here. Yet, even as this resolve formed, a sense of foreboding suddenly swept over him – a nameless fear which awakened his every battle instinct. But unlike the previous shock, this one he recognized as an old friend, awful though it was. More than once in the past it had saved him – made him turn to find an attacker at his back, made him seek out an ambush ahead. He ignored it at his peril. But what possible danger could there be here? The miners had offered him none – and they needed him for work. Besides, injury or no, they were so slow that he could probably deal with all three of them at once if he had to. The mines themselves were dangerous, of course, and he had no great love of confined spaces, but he had no intention of going underground. And the bodyguards would do nothing unless their charge was attacked. Then, as suddenly as the fear had come to him, came the answer. The hint of something unnatural about the slowness of the miners and their women, the anxiety of the merchant. It is this place that makes them like this. Something about the Thlosgaral drains the life out of people. It was a vivid realization. Even though no reasoning came with it, Barran knew that this conclusion was true. He must not stay here too long or he too would degenerate into one of these dull-witted creatures. It added an urgency to the resolution he had just made. Yet how was he going to learn anything from these people? Such conversation as he had heard so far had been confined to simple instructions and requests – and even these had been few in number. Perhaps tonight, with a bargain struck, there might be a small celebration of some kind that he could use to ease his way into their confidence? He dismissed the conjectures – they were beginning to cloud his mind. He wasn’t going to fall asleep so easily tonight and, at the very least, he could ask outright what the crystals were used for and who bought them. Showing himself stupider than his employers might perhaps make them more talkative. Aigren and the merchant were concluding their business, the merchant having produced a balance from his case and some kind of a measuring device. Aigren’s face was immobile, but his posture was full of self-satisfaction. Barran wanted to strangle him. After the merchant and his escort had left, there was a brief debate amongst the miners and their women, before the men disappeared back into the hut and the women returned to their pestles. Barran found it difficult to concentrate. The light from the crystals seemed to have lodged within him so that when he closed his eyes they were there again, making all about them seem distant and gloomy – no longer real. He wanted to handle them, hold them up and scatter their light about him, peer into their hearts. He wanted to . . . He wanted. Wanted. And mingling with this desire, two other contradictory needs pulled at him: the need for knowledge about the crystals, and the strange realization that the Thlosgaral was in some way a dangerous place to linger in. It did not occur to him that all thoughts of simply escaping this place, of his lost horse and possessions, of employment in the war in the north, were gone. As the Thlosgaral itself did every day, Barran had subtly changed. However, the relentless rhythm of the group soon reasserted itself and Barran could not have said how much time had passed before he looked up and saw five men approaching the camp. Just as he had made an immediate assessment of the merchant and his bodyguards, so now he made one of these new arrivals, though this time it was easier. Their dress and demeanour were unmistakable: they were scoundrels of some kind. Barran noted however, that though they all wore swords, they were carrying staffs obviously fashioned from the hammer handles such as the one he had chosen for support. Robbers then, but perhaps not casual murderers, he concluded. He stopped hammering and discreetly reached for his own staff leaning on the rocks by his side. In the few seconds which it took Barran to reach this conclusion, the new arrivals were seen, first by the children, and then the women. The children jumped up and ran to their mothers who ushered them back to the hut. Barran could see that the women were alarmed but not terrified. That was good. A further look at the newcomers told him that they were little more than street ruffians. Nasty and brutal, but no match for a professional soldier. Still, he had no desire to defend himself against five opponents, particularly in his present condition. ‘Stay where you are!’ The command froze the children, but the speaker still chose to emphasize it by purposefully smacking his staff into the palm of his hand. ‘There’s no need to frighten the children, Fiarn,’ Ellyn said, a hint of anger creeping through her sullen manner. ‘It’s as well they don’t disturb your menfolk at their work, isn’t it, Ellyn?’ the man replied. He walked unhurriedly towards the woman. The others followed. ‘You know how . . . concerned . . . they become when they have to pay the Landgeld.’ The woman bared her teeth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Instead she lowered her head to avoid looking at him. ‘We’ve nothing for you. It’s been bad lately – poor quality crystals and few of them at that.’ Fiarn nodded, full of mocking concern. ‘Normally there’s nothing I like better than listening to your tales, Ellyn. You’ve such an entertaining imagination. Not quite as slow as most around here – yet. But it’s been a tiring day – there’ve been so many buyers about recently that, as you see, I’m actually having to do some of the collecting myself.’ He took hold of her chin and forced her head round towards Barran. Barran made no response but remained sitting, carefully maintaining an expression of indifference. ‘And things can’t be too bad if you’ve taken on a worker, can they?’ The woman jerked her head free. ‘He’s just a traveller – got an injured leg – he’s bound to us for a month, that’s all. We’ll be lucky if he digs enough to cover his food.’ Fiarn’s expression became one of impatience and he pushed her to one side. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Just get the money and don’t waste any more of my time.’ He walked towards Barran. The woman stared after him for a moment, then turned to go into the hut. ‘And remember, don’t go shouting for your men. You know what happened last time.’ Fiarn raised his staff warningly. As he drew nearer, Barran took his hand from his staff but made no effort to stand. If need arose he could do the man greater damage, more quickly, from this position than standing face to face. Fiarn was taller and heavier than he was, though he doubted he was as strong. And he could see a hint of that slowness about him that pervaded the miners. Everything about him confirmed street fighter rather than soldier, but Barran still needed to know a great deal more about what was happening here before interfering. He would have to hold his tongue and await events. Act slow and stupid. He allowed himself to look confused as he met the man’s gaze. ‘What’s your name, traveller?’ Fiarn asked, towering over him. ‘Barran, sir.’ ‘What are you doing in the Thlosgaral, Barran?’ ‘Came here by chance, sir. Thought it might be a short-cut. I’m not from round here. I was looking for work. I’m a farm labourer by trade, but these good people helped me when I lost my horse.’ He became earnest. ‘You haven’t seen a horse wandering about loose, have you, sir? He’s a . . .’ Fiarn raised a hand to silence him and then stared into his wilfully vacant eyes for a moment in amused disbelief. ‘It’s either sold or eaten by now . . . farmer,’ he said, scornfully emphasizing the last word. Ellyn came out of the hut. She had a small pouch in her hand. Fiarn glanced from Barran to the purse and back again, then abandoned his interrogation and, shaking his head, turned back to Ellyn. ‘Have we seen a horse! Not often you come across someone even stupider than a miner,’ he announced, for everyone’s benefit. His men laughed. Snatching the pouch from the waiting woman, he took a handful of coins from it and dropped the rest on the ground. ‘Just have it ready for me in future,’ he said grimly, holding a fist in front of her face. ‘I know how much you get and I’ve had enough of these games.’ Suddenly he was angry. ‘You people have no gratitude for anything. You owe for the equipment, the right to dig here, and for protection from the robbers who haunt this place. Robbers who wouldn’t hesitate to slit your throats while you slept . . . children and all. Don’t forget it. Do you understand? Explain it to your husband very slowly when he gets back. He doesn’t seem to have grasped his position fully yet and I don’t want him coming round causing problems again. He was lucky not to have been more badly hurt than he was.’ They were gone. Ellyn crouched down and picked up the money then silently returned to her work. Barran watched the three women for a while before he started working again. So many thoughts filled his head that he felt as though he was cutting through dense undergrowth in search of a clear path that lay nearby. Slowly it emerged. These people had a valuable resource which they bargained away more foolishly than children. Then they allowed themselves to be robbed in silence. There was money to be made here. All that was needed was a little more information so that a plan could be formed. Then a little determination – a characteristic Barran had in great measure. That, and other less commendable traits. For as long as he could remember, he had earned his living by fighting for other people. Through the years, all manner of lords and dukes and petty princes had employed him and his kind when their greed, intransigence, or just plain folly, had transformed a dispute of words into a dispute of swords. Without fail they had all claimed to be injured parties fighting for natural justice against treacherous enemies, though Barran could scarcely recall a time when he might have been inclined to believe such protestations. Fighting first for one side and then the other as his commander of the moment negotiated better terms was a common occurrence. One thing Barran did remember from the earliest days was that, on the whole, he was brighter than most of his companions and, fortunately for his continued well-being, bright enough to keep such knowledge to himself. And two things he soon learned. One was that while fighting and pillaging might satisfy certain needs within him, the money and power that he craved was to be found not by those who fought but by those who commanded their services. The other was that – like the merchant – those who had to buy the swords of others for their protection invariably became hostage to them. He had resolved long ago to profit from the first and avoid the hazards of the second. Thus, he had worked diligently at the art of soldiering. He had a particular aptitude for the darker side of that art, for he could be vicious and cruel, delighting in hurting others, sometimes even where no gain was apparent – and the adulation and acclaim that that had brought him soon taught him the fundamentals of true leadership. Eventually he came to have his own band of mercenaries and for a while it prospered. But despite his clear-eyed schemes and his savage bravery, slowly but inexorably the wild vagaries of combat took away trusted friends and battle-hardened allies alike, and left him approaching the middle of his life with no more wealth than he had once set out with, but many more scars, both inward and outward, and an increasingly desperate view of what lay ahead. Yet it was all he knew and he could but follow the call to arms wherever he heard it. And it was following such a call that had brought him to the Thlosgaral. Rumour declared that it was the Great Lord returned to mete out vengeance to those who had once dispossessed and banished Him, but Barran gave such nonsense no heed. It was more practical considerations that had lured him north – a reliable contact who had paid a portion of cash in advance, the promise of a good, well-written contract, offering many benefits not least amongst which was equitable shares of all profits from the campaign. The events of the last two days however, had dispatched such remaining enthusiasm as he had for joining another army. The merchant had shown him the presence of great wealth in the vicinity; Fiarn had shown him opportunity. And here he was, a wolf amongst the sheep. With each blow of his hammer he saw a sunlit path to power and riches opening before him. He stopped hammering and began to sketch out his new future. He must wait a little and build up his strength, learning what he could about the crystals, the merchants, and Fiarn and this whole frightful place. Then he would probably have to deal with Fiarn. Unless the man had others more powerful behind him, that shouldn’t present too much of a problem. Only a fool would have approached a stranger and stood in front of him as he had – so vulnerable. He must have become so used to bullying women and weary men that he had lost whatever fighting edge he had once had. And there was that hint of the miner’s slowness about him. Barran pursed his lips and nodded to himself, but even as he reached this conclusion, old habits cautioned him sharply – casually underestimating people thus could prove fatal. ‘Work, Barran, if you want food.’ He started, jerked suddenly back to the present. It was Ellyn. He grunted and began breaking the rocks again. The admonition was timely – assume Fiarn is sharp and dangerous, he thought sternly. Assume he has allies. But don’t linger. This is no place to be for any length of time. Again he felt afraid. The emotion inspired him. ‘The man frightened me,’ he shouted across to the women. There was a slight faltering in the rhythm of the beating pestles. ‘He frightens everyone,’ Ellyn replied. She did not seem inclined to continue, but Barran noticed her jaw tighten. This woman was not yet completely crushed. Probably because of the children, he thought. One day, her anger might spill out. ‘Where I come from, a debt is a debt. A lawful thing. Something to be given and repaid without reproach by either side. Why did he come with so many men and threaten you like that?’ Ellyn’s pestle came down with unusual force, disrupting the rhythm. ‘You must come from a long way away, Barran. Debts to the likes of Fiarn are never paid off. He and his kind own this place.’ ‘Own it? How can someone like that own a place like this? Is he a Lord or a Duke?’ All the women turned to him, pausing in mid-stroke. Managing an expression of naïveté, he looked at them briefly, without stopping his own work. ‘There’s no Lord, no Duke, dispensing justice and maintaining order around here, man. Not even in Arash-Felloren. Fiarn’s just a bandit.’ Ellyn almost spat out the words. ‘One of a score or more such living off the backs of the mining families. The only respite we get from them is when they fight amongst themselves for the right to persecute us.’ Barran shook his head in feigned bewilderment. ‘You should stand against him. There must be law somewhere hereabouts.’ Ellyn’s shoulders slumped, her anger crushed like the rocks under her pestle. Barran cursed himself. Somehow he had stopped her talking. He took a chance. ‘Why don’t you stand against him?’ he demanded. Ellyn’s temper flared briefly. ‘Because others have done it, and been killed and maimed for their pains. Get on with your work and be quiet.’ Barran was content to accept the rebuke. In that short exchange he had learned a great deal about life in the Thlosgaral. And even more about his future. And it was good. Merchants desperate for the crystals, bands of men terrorizing the miners and fighting amongst themselves . . . It all held out great promise. As if in confirmation, there was a cry from one of the children and the three women abandoned their work to examine the latest find. Later, the men appeared. They had had a bad day. A rock-fall had buried much of the work of the previous days and one of them had received an ugly gash to his arm. As a consequence they looked set for several days’ hard work before they could expect to mine any further crystals. Ellyn read her husband’s face as soon as he emerged from the hut, and Barran in turn read hers. She had become increasingly nervous as time passed and now he could see her struggling not to flinch away even though she was holding her husband’s gaze as she told him what had happened. For her pains she received a back-handed blow across the face that knocked her to the ground. It was followed by a furious tirade. The children scuttled hurriedly into the late-afternoon shadows. Not an uncommon scene then, Barran thought, but he watched impassively as Ellyn struggled to her feet, in the shade of her glowering, fist-clenched husband. Almost reluctantly her hand came to her bruised face. Suddenly, and to his considerable surprise, Barran found himself attracted to her. Too long without a woman, he thought, as he looked at her, dishevelled and degraded. But it was not that – not that alone, anyway. There was something beneath the grime and despair. That strong face, and that momentary flash in her eyes as she had struck the ground – a flash that spoke of a knife between the ribs of her sleeping husband one night. He added a caveat – if this place doesn’t eat the heart and brains out of her first. Then he looked at the husband. Jaw jutting in wordless anger, the man seemed about to strike her again, but though she backed away she did not cower. And there was that flash again. Dangerous, thought Barran, though he doubted that the man saw it. ‘I couldn’t do anything else, could I?’ Ellyn shouted. ‘He’d have started on me or the children, you know that.’ The man turned from side to side, like a trapped animal. Barran braced himself. Uncharacteristically he felt that he would intervene if the man renewed his attack on the woman, even though doing so might bring the rage of all of them down upon him. But no attack came. Instead the man let out an almost animal cry. Ellyn reached out to touch his arm but he dashed her hand aside. The two stood silent and motionless for what seemed to be a very long time, then the man said, ‘Enough.’ His voice was suddenly very soft and controlled. At its touch, every part of Barran became alert. The man had passed beyond a certain point. He was going to do something wildly dangerous. Watching him intently, Barran could feel his own hands shaking and his breath coming faster. He paid no heed. They were familiar and appropriate responses and he was too experienced a fighter to be afraid of being afraid. His body was preparing itself and he knew he could trust it. If the man turned against him, he would be ready – and his injured leg would not impede him. Ellyn, though schooled in different sensitivities, also felt the change. ‘What are you going to do?’ she said, bending forward urgently and trying to catch her husband’s eye. He did not reply and she repeated the question even more anxiously, this time seizing his arm. ‘Get our money back from Fiarn,’ he replied simply, brushing her aside roughly and picking up a long hammer. Ellyn did not respond immediately but gazed at him vacantly as though unable to grasp what he had said. He was almost out of sight by the time she recovered. Then she was running after him, shouting, ‘No! He’ll kill you this time.’ When she reached him she seized hold of him and was dragged over the rocks for several paces before he stopped. Her shrill pleading ended abruptly as Aigren struck her again. She lay still. Aigren walked away without a backward glance. It was only a little later, as the women were bathing Ellyn’s bruised face and trying to console her, that Fiarn and his companion returned to the camp. They were carrying Aigren. As they dropped him on to the ground, Barran did not need to look at him to know that he was dead. Ellyn made to move to him but Fiarn grabbed her roughly. ‘Didn’t I tell you to keep him away?’ he snarled. She was wide-eyed with fear. ‘He was always trouble.’ He kicked the body and swore. ‘I’ve let you get away with too much. And what have I had in return? Endless ingratitude from Aigren and the lowest yield of any of my mines.’ He was shouting now. ‘I’ve had enough of you. I’m doubling the Landgeld on this place. You can . . .’ ‘No! You can’t!’ Ellyn snatched herself free and struck him a stinging blow across the face. Don’t do it, Barran thought, reading the woman’s temper as Fiarn recovered from the shock and, his face contorted, lifted an arm back to strike her. White and shaking, Ellyn let out a piercing shriek and leapt at him, hands tearing at his face, feet lashing out wildly. Fiarn crashed to the ground, Ellyn flailing on top of him. It took Fiarn’s companions some time to drag them both upright and, even then, three of them were having difficulty in restraining the demented woman. Fiarn’s face was alight with rage. He stepped back and pulled out a knife. ‘No! Put the knife away. We need to talk.’ Barran’s powerful voice cut through the din. The camp was suddenly silent and all turned towards him – even the miners and their wives who until now had simply been watching events, completely bewildered. Barran remained seated, his staff resting casually across his knees. Fiarn’s expression became one of disbelief. ‘Talk?’ he mouthed. ‘Talk,’ Barran confirmed purposefully. Fiarn gestured to his companions and made a circling motion with the knife. ‘Fetch that oaf here. We’ll see how well he talks with his tongue cut out.’ As the men walked towards him, Barran took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, at the same time forcing himself to relax. He tested his grip on the staff. This was going to be very dangerous. He would have preferred a great deal more information before making a move against Fiarn but, if Ellyn was killed, this group would disintegrate and . . . And there was something about this woman . . . Damn! Why was he doing this? Two men were in front of him. All choices were gone now. He let them reach down and take hold of his arms but resisted as they tried to drag him to his feet. Then, carefully favouring his uninjured foot, he stood up suddenly and drove his staff straight upwards. Propelled by legs, arms, and many years of harsh experience, the ends of the staff caught each man under the chin with appalling force, lifting both of them off the ground. The two of them were still collapsing as Barran slid his hands together and swung the staff round to bring it down with a crushing blow on the head of a third. Urged by panic rather than consideration, Fiarn’s fourth companion lunged out and grabbed the staff hastily. He was a big man and seeing his inadvertent success he grinned triumphantly at Barran. There was still a vestige of a grin on his face when Barran let go of the staff and drew a knife and stabbed him under the ribcage. Almost gently, Barran eased the staff from the man’s dying grasp. In the span of scarcely half a dozen heartbeats, Fiarn’s power in the Thlosgaral had been destroyed. All he could see, however, was Barran’s awful focused intent as he moved towards him, his limping gait serving only to make him more frightening. The blow that knocked the knife from Fiarn’s trembling hand was scarcely necessary. He reached out to grab the end of the staff in the vague hope of defending himself, but it vanished upwards. As his eyes followed it, a blow behind his knees swept his legs into the air and sent him crashing down on to the rocky ground. Through the clamour of his frantic breathing and his pounding heart, Fiarn became aware of a foot on his chest, the end of the staff pressing on his throat, and a voice saying, ‘We need to talk.’   * * * *   Within three years, Barran, with Fiarn as his lieutenant, held sway over more than a third of the mines that worked the Thlosgaral. Unlike his rivals however, Barran had extended his enterprise to include nearly all of the crystal merchants. His power grew relentlessly.     That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com. For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com.     Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor   The Call of the Sword The Fall of Fyorlund The Waking of Orthlund Into Narsindal Dream Finder Farnor Valderen Whistler Ibryen Arash-Felloren Caddoran The Return of the Sword   Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0˙˙˙ɎWžőž“ž1žĎžmž žŠžGžĺžƒ # Ă„G ˆĎ ŠY é ’{  ˆř˙˙˙Verdana defaultdefaultř˙˙˙Verdana hr_file_0 para0hr_file_0 para0̙č˙˙˙źVerdana hr_file_0 para1hr_file_0 para1̙ö˙˙˙źVerdana hr_file_0 para2hr_file_0 para2ö˙˙˙źVerdana hr_file_0 para3hr_file_0 para3ü˙˙˙Verdana