The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  For a few minutes, Visylon thought about what he was going to do, all the while slashing and parrying the invisible blades of unseen foes, feinting, ducking under an imaginary crosscut, leaping high over another. Is this what Enkinor felt? Lunge and block. Was it because he couldn't explain what he needed to do, that he left no word and melted into the hills? Spin, parry, and disarm. Since I also cannot explain, must I do the same, and disappear? Diagonal slash, diagonal slash, crosscut, crosscut, turn and down-slash. Diagonal slash, diagonal slash, crosscut, crosscut, turn and down-slash.

  He was caught up now in the rhythm of swordplay. Soon, all cares and concerns began leaking out like water from a burst flask. For long minutes he continued, sweat bathing his body, warming in the cool autumn night.

  In time, Visylon noticed a figure standing in the shadows, watching him. He began to slow his movements, letting his heart and muscles return to rest before he stopped. When at last he finished, the figure in the shadows walked over to him. It was Srellis.

  There was no doubt in his mind. Visylon recognized her, even in the dark. She wore leggings instead of a woman's dress — traveling as a trader was not kind to a woman's clothes. Her billowy tunic was tied with a sash instead of a man's belt. She bore no sword, but the dagger strapped to her leg was as long as her thigh, and Visylon knew its leather-wrapped hilt was sweat-stained from much practice and occasional necessity. Her hair was cut in short bangs in the front, longer in the back. Disgraceful, the Saerani women said behind her back.

  “Are the Games tomorrow, that you should practice with such intensity,” she asked, “or are there evil spirits in this clearing, battling for your soul?” Srellis's face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the amusement in her voice.

  “Neither,” said Visylon.

  Why did she have to return today? One more night and this could have been avoided.

  He sheathed his sword, patted his clothes to wick away the sweat, and wiped his brow on his sleeve. “How was your journey?”

  “Good. The Seamerchants are not so stingy this year. We now have enough corn meal to last the winter. Or we would've had enough, had the Draelani not destroyed much of our stores.”

  “Did you hear the details of the attack?”

  “Yes, a hundred times over since we returned. I'm glad you weren't hurt.” Srellis stepped a little closer to him, close enough to touch him, close enough to make him a little uneasy, but she kept her hands folded in her arms across her breasts.

  “Thanks,” said the warrior, and he grinned a little.

  While Srellis's feelings for him did make him somewhat uncomfortable, he was nevertheless flattered. For some time, Visylon had been unable to sort out his confused feelings for this young woman with her unorthodox lifestyle and her thinly disguised interest. Saerani women were typically mothers, their love and their marriages and sometimes even the number of their children determined by contracts between heads of families. It was rare when one chose, or was allowed to choose, another path for her life.

  “Did you hear about Enkinor?” asked Visylon.

  “Yes. Why has he gone?”

  “I don't know.” Visylon fingered the hilt of his sword, wondering if telling her his decision and swearing her to secrecy would be the wrong thing to do. “Srellis, tomorrow I'm leaving as well.”

  “What? Doesn't the tribe need you here?”

  He didn't answer immediately. “I must go and find Enkinor. I want no one to know.”

  “Why are you telling me, then?” she said with lowered voice.

  It was several moments before he could find the words to answer her.

  “Because you more than anyone would be disturbed by my leaving.”

  Srellis would not look at him, only at the ground. The silence was so long that Visylon wondered if he had made a mistake in being open with her.

  At long last, she bowed slightly to him. “I'm honored, warrior.”

  Again, Visylon was at a loss for words.

  Srellis looked him in the eye. “Don't be shocked, Visylon. When I say I'm honored, I'm not lying.”

  Visylon smiled, embarrassed. “Then I am honored as well,” he said, bowing low. He turned toward the camp. “I'll need one of the horses.”

  Srellis shook her head. “They're all out.”

  “But you just got back!”

  “And another group just went out with them,” she told him.

  “Already? I'm surprised Saeron would let any of the warriors leave now.”

  “We have to go back,” said Srellis. “We must replace what the Draelani destroyed. And I don't have to tell you that it's not gotten any safer for a trading party without an escort. The sentari are no longer sufficient. Remember the hudraii who ambushed us last time you rode with us?”

  Desperate men. Two of them for every Saerani including the traders. In the end, only the traders and their escort of warriors stood, but most were wounded to a varying degree.

  “Alright. I'll head for Kophid, buy a horse there.”

  Srellis placed a hand on his arm. “Let me go with you.”

  He pressed his hand over hers. It was so tempting. She'd be the next best thing to having another warrior with him. It would give them a chance to sort things out between them.

  Visylon shook his head. “I can't. Something tells me I have to do this alone.”

  Srellis smirked. “That's exactly what I expected you to say.” She removed her hand and looked away. “Saeron will reprimand you for leaving now. You may not be allowed to return.”

  “I'll have to take that chance. Come, help me pack. But we must be careful, or our secret is forfeit.”

  And taking her by the hand, they slipped into the darkness.

  Chapter 6

  Visylon untied his cloak and loosened the collar of his tunic so the evening air could cool him. What happened to the damn trail? This is the last time I try one of Srellis's shortcuts.

  He climbed a wooded hill, finding his trail ever more difficult to follow as the sun disappeared and plunged the forest into gloom. Shadows and windfall draped everything, filling gullies, disguising bushes as boulders. As the warrior stepped around a rotting stump, he came to a halt. He didn't have to reach out and touch what he saw to know it was not a barren bush. Standing straight up from the ground were the antlers of a giant stag, nearly two yards across. A rusty blade stabbed the ground at the base of the rack. Visylon recognized the warning, a rare but well-understood sign.

  Beware. This land is haunted.

  The tribesman drew his blade, though he doubted it could help him if he faced what haunted these hills. But he could not turn back and waste precious time. He would have to cross the hill, put a good distance between himself and the ominous sign, and get a few hours of rest before pushing on to Kophid. Enkinor had too great a lead on him. Visylon had to keep moving.

  The Saerani glanced up and saw no moon or stars to guide him. The wind gathered itself and set the forest floor in motion, leaves taking flight like startled birds. The treetops swayed and moaned softly in the breeze. Visylon chose what he hoped was the right direction and gave the antlers a wide berth.

  After another half hour in the growing darkness, the warrior had not yet crossed the hill. Instead, he found himself following the top of a narrow ridge that spurred out from the hill. He stopped for a moment and listened, something tickling his awareness. The wind had stopped. The trees listened with him. Far below, he could hear the gurgle of a stream. He knew there were deer moving down to drink, hidden in the damp night mists. He could smell decaying leaves and the faint, sweet odor of incense.

  Visylon looked around, trying to judge what direction the odor was coming from. With no breeze to carry the smoke, he couldn't begin to guess where the incense was burning. There was also the slow, soft beat of a drum and the muted call of horns. He turned around again, unable to locate the source of the sounds and the smells.

  He tried closing his eyes so he could better focus on his other senses. It seemed he
could taste mead in the back of his throat. He felt like a chunk of grief was stuck there, and only a long swallow of drink could help him move on.

  Visylon opened his eyes. Among the trees was a train of shadows, a procession, people cloaked and hooded in darkness, moving a step at a time along the ridge. They made no sound, but the horns began to weep softly.

  Behind him, he heard a crunch and the snap of tree roots breaking as the ground broke apart.

  Visylon spun around, instinctively slicing the darkness with his blade. Amid the crackling leaves where he had passed moments before, the head of a bear erupted from the ground. The bear's dark fur glowed with a soft light even as the beast continued to rise. The Saerani shivered. The bear's head was attached to the body of a man. As the beast-man emerged from the soil, he shook off the dirt that stubbornly clung to him. The creature was draped with bearskin but otherwise wore only a loincloth. In each hand he held a bracelet of claws. He looked at Visylon and began to shake the bracelets. Tick-tick-clack. Clack-a-clack. Tick-tick-clack. Clack-a-clack.

  To Visylon's left, leaves and dirt geysered as another bear-man rose from the ground, facing the Saerani. Visylon threw off his cloak and crouched slightly, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his blade. He started backing up, not sure what he faced. He doubted he was safe, even if the creatures bore no weapons.

  The second bear-man dipped his head toward Visylon, almost like a bow, and brought forth his own bracelets of claws to join the first bear-man in his rhythm. Tick-tick-clack. Clack-a-tick-clack. Tick-tick-clack. Clack-a-tick-clack.

  The two creatures began moving toward him, naked feet pawing the ground in time to the rattle of the claws.

  So, the haunting is real. Or is it?

  “Who are you? What do you want?” said the Saerani, standing his ground.

  The creatures before him might not mean him harm, but there was something alarming in the red glow of their eyes, like they had long ago given up being human.

  The bear-men said nothing, only continued their slow advance, the rhythm of the rattling bracelets, the pattern of their feet. A few moments later, another bear-man burst from the dead leaves on Visylon's right.

  Tick-tick-clack-a-tick. Clack-a-tick-clack. Tick-tick-clack-a-tick. Clack-a-tick-clack.

  Visylon backed away, wondering if they were steering him toward something. He had no idea what lay behind him — a bluff to tumble over, an enemy with weapons, or simply leaves and trees for miles around. But he was afraid to take his eyes off the bear-men.

  “Hail, warrior,” spoke a deep voice behind him.

  The bear-men vanished, and Visylon whipped around, dropping to one knee, sword raised high in defense.

  Before him stood a giant of a man, clad in chain mail and light armor. No helmet covered his long brown hair and beard. At his side he clasped a long halberd, butted against the ground, its point sporting semicircular blades. Like the bear-men, the giant's form glowed with a supernatural light that failed to illumine the forested ridge.

  “No, I am no ghost,” said the giant, answering Visylon's unspoken question. “Neither am I incarnate,” he added with a smile. “I will not harm you. I am Anquilon, Champion of Thrae. Put your sword away and follow me. If I wanted to harm you, you would already be dead.”

  Visylon stood, hesitated before sheathing his blade, and followed the giant as he turned and walked away.

  The glowing apparition walked along the ridge top until the trees gave way and exposed a rocky peak at the end of the ridge. Visylon imagined he saw the cool night winds whip the Champion's hair and beard. In moments, the giant clambered up the rocks, his greater reach and stride a distinct advantage. Visylon took great care in finding his fingerholds and toeholds as he followed the luminous form. When he reached the top, the two of them barely had room enough to stand. The wind picked up, rending the clouds, letting moonlight spill through and splash across the peak.

  “I've waited a long time for you,” said the giant to Visylon.

  “How can that be?” said the Saerani, finding his voice.

  “You are the one. The one I was told would come. And so, I must now give you your charge.”

  “To do what?”

  Anquilon pointed his halberd. “See you that sister peak over there?”

  Visylon nodded. The other peak was connected by a narrow saddle of rock to the peak on which they stood.

  “Then hear me. On that peak stands a lone cedar. You must cut it down.”

  Visylon looked up at the giant, wondering if this was all part of some bizarre dream. “Why?”

  “You may be a formidable warrior,” said Anquilon. “Perhaps few can stand against you. But neither strength and skill at arms, nor intelligence and cunning stratagems, will be sufficient to accomplish the quest you follow.

  “By destroying the tree, power will be placed in your blade, the last of the power of the kings of Thrae. This tree grows from the grave of Helsinlae, who ruled Thrae hundreds of years ago.”

  Visylon wanted to challenge the reality of the Champion of Thrae, but he felt compelled not to argue, that he must follow through with Anquilon's charge. There was a power behind the giant's words, a power like that which had whispered to Visylon on the shore of Lake Cinnaril. This was part of a plan. Whether he understood the plan or not, he would have to go through with it.

  “What is this power? When and how must I use it?”

  “It will awaken what you didn’t know slept within you. And when the time comes, it will play a key role in the completion of your quest. Time is running short. Destroy the tree,” said Anquilon. “You must become the Swordbearer.”

  The Saerani warrior stared out into the dark reaches of the night. In those dark reaches, another peak, barely visible, stood as it had for hundreds of years, crowned with the burial mound of an ancient ruler. Visylon turned to see the armored giant had disappeared.

  Without waiting, the Saerani warrior swung himself down the rocks and began a slow traverse of the knife-edge saddle between the two pinnacles.

  The ridge was narrow, notched like a battle-worn blade and stained with splotches of dark moss on the gray granite. There were many cracks in the rock to use for handholds, some large, some small, always in awkward locations. Sometimes Visylon straddled the saddle-like ridge as if mounted on the back of a giant serpent. Other times, he climbed and stood face out, hair tossed by invisible mists, only to turn and face the rock, clinging to it like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam.

  He moved as if hypnotized, drawn to his goal, focused on reaching the tree and following his instructions. Yet, he also asked himself again and again, what am I doing? Why am I risking my life at the command of a ghost? What does this have to do with finding Enkinor?

  At last, Visylon reached the other side and pulled himself up, clambering to the top of the sister peak. An oblong cairn of rocks marked the humble burial site, looking more like a pauper's grave than a king's. Rising from the middle of the cairn was a young cedar, ten feet tall, dark green and vibrant.

  An evergreen — symbol of life and freedom. How ironic its intimate contact with death. How tragic to have to kill it.

  Visylon drew his blade from its scabbard. He hesitated, sword poised. I must destroy the tree. So he instructed me.

  As the blade struck the base of the cedar, a tingling sensation seemed to creep up the blade. It pulsed into his hand and up his arm. He tried to ignore it, but at the second blow to the tree, the quivering power entering the sword shook him from head to feet.

  Visylon felt a twinge of fear and a burst of excitement.

  The Saerani brought the sword down a third and final time, severing the tree at the base. A wave of power surged through Visylon's body. The warrior staggered and struggled to regain his balance as his blade rose on its own accord, pointing to the sky. Visylon gripped the hilt with both hands, fearing he might lose the sword to whatever power controlled it.

  With a flash, the blade burst into brilliant flame. For several moments,
tongues of fire danced along the metal before dying to little flickers. When the flame died out, the sword was once again cold, dark steel.

  Exhausted, the Swordbearer sat, his back against the stones of the grave, and held the blade close to his chest. In moments, he was fast asleep.

  Chapter 7

  Enkinor stepped out of the forest, blade and scabbard strapped between his shoulders. Behind him, his path lay like a tangled thread across the Parthulian hills. In three days' time the faint trail had led him from Lake Cinnaril to the countryside of Braemya. He gazed now across open fields and pastures to the small city of Kophid. The sun was setting over his shoulder, lighting the tips of Kophid's spires and towers with candle flame. Soon, the Braemyans would bring forth torch and lamp to push back the creeping darkness.

  The Saerani guard made for the city gate, lengthening his stride so he could enter Kophid before they closed the gate for the night. Enkinor took a direct path across shadowed fields of trampled grass and horse-churned mud. Kophid's western gate was small, scarcely ten feet high. Its wooden doors, banded with black iron, stood open and unguarded. Inside the gate, the street was empty except for a pair of dogs fighting over a greasy bone.

  He hesitated. Not exactly what I expected.

  Enkinor walked through the gates and entered the city, expecting to be challenged at any moment.

  The trill of a flute caused him to turn. Beside the gate, one of the city guards played a lively tune while another squatted with a little monkey, trying to teach it to dance. The monkey-trainer looked up, saw Enkinor, and started to say something, but just then, the monkey turned a flip in the air, and the guard cheered it on. Enkinor was forgotten.

  The Saerani tribesman followed a muddy street flanked by vacant shops and abandoned warehouses, their shutters squeaking in the breeze. A brown rat, big as a cat, slipped through a gaping door, skittering along the wall and into an alley. As Enkinor followed the street around a bend, he stumbled onto a small market. The last of the farmers and merchants were loading their wares in carts and covering them with canvas. One of the merchants was tying up his coins in little bags to keep them from jingling. Another was fending off a last-minute haggler whose bodyguard stood close at hand, eying Enkinor and watching the growing shadows for trouble. Enkinor gave them all a wide berth and continued down the street.