The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  Kophid seemed to gather more life as the Saerani roamed deeper into the city, inns and taverns filling with thirsty customers. Enkinor knew he'd have to find a place to spend the night, but he was eager to learn where he might find the resari. Laughter and shouting burst from dark windows and tavern doorways where crowds gathered. Two men tumbled into the street at Enkinor's feet, pummeling each other with fists and curses as they rolled with a splash into a puddle. Peering into a poorly lit tavern, Enkinor saw little except the dim figures of those slaking their thirst. The odor of ale and sweat wafted into the street.

  As Enkinor stepped around the brawl at his feet, a painted whore stepped out of the tavern doorway.

  “Hey!” she said, motioning with a crooked finger and a crooked smile.

  She opened her cloak to give Enkinor a good look at her bare breasts, but he turned away, anxious to move on. Insulted, she grabbed the Saerani by the arm and yanked him sprawling into the tavern. Enkinor fell against a small table surrounded by shadowed men with grimy faces, but he managed to steady the table before he dumped their ale in their laps. The men jumped to their feet. One drew a dagger and another an iron-capped cudgel, but they laughed and secreted their weapons when they realized what had happened.

  “That's a girl, Tellie!” said one. “Show him you mean business!”

  Enkinor sidestepped to avoid Tellie's clutches and ducked back into the street. A few quick pats told him his pack and sword and knife were untouched. He trotted down the street, turning at another kink in the road, and stumbled into a street party. The sun had barely set, and already a crowd had carried their revelry out of a tavern and into the street. Sloshing mugs, shouts, and laughter were passed from one person to the next. A woman in a torn, beer-soaked dress sat on the shoulders of the only steady man in the crowd, waving her drink in the air and yelling encouragement to her friends. Couples danced and fondled one another openly.

  With a sigh of disgust and exasperation, Enkinor turned into a narrow lane and escaped the commotion. The darkness seemed to stalk him as he walked a zigzag down the narrow streets to avoid both shadows and passersby. The mud gave way to cobblestones, a sign, he hoped, that he was moving into a better part of Kophid. Temples and taverns, shops and stables, tall buildings all, stood like sheer bluffs along a canyon, crowding in and squeezing every narrow trail of a street into a meandering footpath of an alley. Enkinor gave his sword a slight tug to assure himself it would slide freely from its sheath. He scanned the shadows and tried to relax.

  As the street constricted, the Saerani found himself in a tight gap between two crumbling warehouses. The bright light at the end of the alley cheered him.

  Then, someone stepped in front of the light. A man with drawn sword, carrying a bundle under one arm, entered the alley, his head jerking as he looked in every direction. He saw Enkinor and turned to look behind him for a moment. Without waiting, he dropped his bundle with a clatter and advanced on the Saerani.

  Enkinor bowed and freed his blade in a single, fluid move, drawing it over his head. He lunged at the man, thinking to catch him off-guard by attacking. The stranger parried the Saerani's blade with a downward slash. Enkinor let his sword move with the parry, harnessing the momentum of the other man's sword. He spun around with a two-handed slash that whooshed over the man's head as the stranger slipped in the alley's garbage.

  The man scrambled to his feet and ran off, stumbling in his haste. When a momentary ray of light fell on the man's face, Enkinor cursed. His attacker was no more than a boy, perhaps fifteen years old. The scattered contents of the boy's bundle were stolen gold utensils. Enkinor kicked a goblet ringing across the cobblestones. With a sigh of relief, he sheathed his sword. He would not have wanted the boy's blood on his conscience.

  The Saerani slipped out of the alley. Here the shadows lay not so deep. Those townspeople out and about were better dressed than those who frequented the darker side of Kophid, and they walked with less purpose and less fear as they went on their way. Here also strolled the city watchmen with their blue sashes and shortswords. Enkinor watched as the watchmen seized a ruffian stealing the pouch of a drunken man who stumbled down the street.

  Farther along the cobbled street, the sign of a respectable inn swayed and squeaked. Enkinor shivered a little as he entered the warm, noisy establishment. Laughter pelted him, the crowd jostled him, and the smells of seasoned roast and sweet mead tortured his stomach. He squeezed his way into the smoky hall, ignoring disdainful stares from well-dressed Braemyans as well as appraising looks from, once again, well-painted harlots. These harlots seemed better dressed and better mannered.

  Even as he stood, looking across the hall, the diversions around Enkinor could not distract him from returning memories, memories of screams and slaughter, of sorrow and sorcery.

  The Saerani stopped a serving wench carrying a double handful of sloshing mugs to ask that she bring him a jack of cold ale and a leg of mutton. With a weary toss of her head, she pointed him to the only remaining seat in the inn, a space at a small oak table in the corner where another man was waiting to be served.

  The man said nothing as Enkinor laid his gear on the grease-stained floor, propped his scabbard beside him, and took a seat across the table. The stranger was not wearing business or court attire as the others were. His clothes were cut for traveling, leathers to stand the wear and tear of riding. He was clean-shaven, with long brown hair gathered and tied behind the neck. The stranger rested his elbows on the table, arms crossed.

  At the stranger's side lay the long, slender horn of some forgotten beast. The horn spiraled from its base to a once-sharp tip, now worn smooth.

  “Welcome, tatrai,” said the stranger, noticing Enkinor's curiosity.

  Enkinor lowered his chin, still staring at the stranger.

  The other man grinned for a moment. “Come now. I didn't mean to insult you. Are we not both tatraii?”

  “Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  The stranger started to laugh but stopped short as he noticed the rise of a menacing look in the young man's eyes.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he continued. “The word is Braemyan. You might not know it. It means barbarian, savage, one who is ignorant of civilization.” The stranger puffed up his chest in self-mockery and laughed. “Any foreigner who is not a Paerecisi trader or Seamerchant, the Braemyans call ‘tatrai.’”

  Enkinor relaxed a little. “I am of the tribe of the Saerani. That is how I wish to be known.”

  The stranger folded his hands on the table and, looking at them, nodded. “I am irrilai myself. But that matters little here. The Braemyans will continue with their fears and prejudices long after our bones are dust. Why do you think we share the worst table in the inn? And don't expect the wench to serve you till all the Braemyans have been served, no matter how long that takes.”

  Enkinor studied the crowd for a minute before turning back to the other man. “Well, if tatrai means barbarian, what does irrilai mean?”

  “Let me explain,” said the stranger. “The irril is a very beautiful creature with two horns like this one.” He patted the long horn at his side. “And it runs in herds, and the herds move like lightning on legs. Even when they're still, they're like a gentle breeze. And my people, the irrilaii, at our tortoise-like pace, we pursue these animals as they thunder across the Plains of Forlannar. We are fortunate enough, and likewise saddened, to kill enough irrili to provide ourselves with food and skins.” He paused. “So, tell me, what is a Saerani?”

  “We live on the edge of Lake Cinnaril,” said Enkinor, “where we fish, and hunt, and raise our children. And fight off our enemies.” Enkinor looked the other man in the eye. “Who are you? And what brings you to Kophid?”

  “They call me Longhorn, because of the irril horn I always carry with me. I'm just wandering, exploring. And you?”

  “My name is Enkinor. I'm looking for someone. Someone whom I trust will explain some things to me.”

  “Re
ally? Maybe I can help. I've met many people here.”

  The Saerani tribesman hesitated. “I was told to find a resara.”

  Though it had been many years, Enkinor could still remember his grandfather's last instructions. If there was a chance that a resara could explain the Gauntlets to Enkinor, then Enkinor would find one. But he would not admit to this stranger that he didn't know what a resara was.

  Longhorn frowned a little. “The resari know much that there is to know. Long ago, I'm told, they were more numerous, a common sight in these parts. Now, I'm afraid, there is only one resara in Kophid.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Strigin sits in the palace dungeon with only the rats for company.”

  “Why? What did he do?” Enkinor hoped his alarm was not obvious.

  Longhorn sighed. “For many years the Braemyans have been suspicious of the resari. When Strigin came to Kophid, he kept his identity secret. He was the first resara to visit this city in many years. This was a few months ago, right after Thesir became Sar of Braemya. Then, a couple of weeks ago, a rather fearsome person also came into town, demanding to see Sar Thesir. He exposed Strigin and persuaded Thesir to throw the resara in the dungeon.”

  Enkinor's eyes narrowed. “I guess I'd better be careful if I want to talk to Strigin without joining him in shackles.”

  “Or in death,” added Longhorn.

  The two tatraii sat in silence for several minutes before Longhorn spoke again.

  “I'm leaving. I'm tired of waiting to be served. And I've got to meet with someone.” He stood and picked up the irril horn. “Enkinor, be careful.”

  “Eloeth be with you,” murmured the Saerani as the irrilai slipped through the inn and out into the night.

  Despite the shouting and the laughter, Enkinor had almost nodded off at the table by the time his meat and ale were brought. When he told the serving girl that Longhorn had left, she stomped off, taking the irrilai's portion back to the kitchen. Her cursing carried above the din until she disappeared.

  The Saerani had only taken a few swallows of his own food and drink when a large hand slapped his shoulder. He looked up at a tall, blond-bearded man wearing the brocaded accoutrements of nobility. Behind him stood men and women dressed as he was.

  “Tatrai!” said the noble, laughing and sloshing his ale over the side of his mug. “Pick up your hide and get out of here.” He took Enkinor by the collar of his cloak, intending to heave him out.

  Enkinor swung the large bone in his hand and slammed it full into the man's face. Without a pause, the Saerani planted a booted foot in the man's stomach and kicked him sprawling. The other guests cursed and shouted as they fought to keep from spilling their ale. The nobleman drew a dagger with an almost invisible flourish, but Enkinor was faster. His muddy boot stomped on the man's wrist as his sword pricked the underside of the man's chin.

  With his free hand, Enkinor brought the bone to his mouth and took another bite of greasy meat, trying to look confident and nonchalant. The inn was silent.

  “How would you like me to turn your beard from blond to red?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  The nobleman only glared back, keeping his chin tilted away from the narrow point of Enkinor's blade, mumbling oaths through clenched teeth.

  Never taking his eyes off the nobleman, Enkinor bent over, picked up the man's jewel-handled dagger, and tucked it in his boot. He lifted his foot from the nobleman's wrist but pressed the point of his sword just a little harder into the man's skin. A tiny trickle soon appeared.

  “The floor is where you belong, cur,” said Enkinor. “Just stay there and I'll be on my way.”

  Enkinor threw some coins on the table, grabbed his things, and backed out of the inn. The still-silent crowd parted, and the Saerani disappeared into the dark.

  Chapter 8

  Several blocks from the inn where he had met Enkinor, Longhorn watched and waited in the damp shadows of a broad alley.

  Can he be the one? After all this searching and waiting? Strigin has to see him.

  Someone entered the alley, and the irrilai fought the urge to curse out loud. The man was not a typical back-alleys informant. He was more than well-fed; he was obese. He was more than well-dressed; the gold thread in the lining of his robes gleamed in the flickering light of the large torch he dared to carry. He did not slink down one wall. Instead, he followed the center of the alley, sweeping his torch before him to dispel the shadows. Forgetting his visibility, he made ridiculous attempts at being quiet.

  As the informant passed, Longhorn grabbed him and clamped his hand over the man's mouth before a squeal could escape the man's lips. He wrenched the torch from the man's grasp and tossed it into a barrel full of rainwater.

  “You fool,” said the irrilai. He pulled the noble into the darkest shadows. “If you fail to learn something about stealth, the thugs will have your purse, or Thesir will have your head.”

  The nobleman recognized the voice of his captor and stilled his struggles. Longhorn removed his hand from the man's mouth.

  “I have bad news,” said the noble.

  “Out with it, then. The longer we stand here, the greater the chance of being discovered.”

  “Strigin dies tomorrow.”

  We've come so far, and the answer may almost be in our hands. “What? I thought Thesir's visitor wanted him for torture.”

  “The visitor has not yet returned to the palace, but he sent word by a krylaan. He wants the resara executed at dawn.”

  Longhorn said nothing, frozen by the news. Strigin to be executed. A krylaan in Kophid.

  A moment later, his thoughts were racing and leaping like hounds after a fox. He dismissed his informant — minus his torch — and turned back to the inn. The irrilai had a long night ahead of him. If Enkinor was indeed the one the resari were looking for, there was no time to lose.

  “Can you describe him, sir?”

  “Certainly. He is young, medium build, brown hair and beard. Tatrai. He wears deerskin under a dark cloak, and he carries a packet of gear and a long sword. You'll find my dagger in his boot.”

  The watchman nodded. “Very well, sir. We will do what we can.” He turned to leave, motioning his unit out the door.

  “And, captain ...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I will personally see to your promotion, should you bring me this man.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the watchman, smiling.

  “Or to your imprisonment, should you fail.”

  The watchman bowed in acknowledgment and left the inn.

  Enkinor moved with speed and purpose down gloomy alleys and side-streets, hoping there would not be many watchmen about. He could not afford the risk of embarrassing questions. He pulled his folded gauntlets from his belt and slipped his hands into the cool leather. Enkinor paused in his stride and absorbed the soothing, secure feeling that the Gauntlets imparted to him.

  Why did the fish scales disappear when Visylon pulled the Gauntlets over my hands? Enkinor closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, Grandfather, I have so many questions.

  Memories seemed to take form in the shadows ...

  His grandfather lay on a pallet, preparing himself for the final squeeze of death around his ancient heart. He called Enkinor to him and dismissed the tearful women and his solemn Saerani sons. Without a word, from under the blankets, the old man pulled a pair of leather gloves with flared cuffs. Anvyl Kraes drew twelve-year-old Enkinor to him and pressed the Gauntlets into the boy's hands.

  “Take them, son, as I took them from my grandfather, and he from his, and he from his.” The swarthy old warrior grimaced but continued in a hoarse whisper, “Tell no one. You must guard them well. And if ... if you ever need help, seek out the resari.”

  He closed his eyes and frightened young Enkinor feared his grandfather had breathed his last. But the dying elder opened his eyes again and, weak with exhaustion, waved Enkinor out.

  No one among the Saerani suspected the importance of
Anvyl’s gift to his grandson. Only Anvyl Kraes had known that the true secret of the Gauntlets had never been revealed.

  Enkinor stopped in mid-stride where a larger street intersected his. He slipped into the murky shadows just as a pair of palace guards strolled past, their light armor clanking, laughing and shoving each other, making obscene jests. The Saerani cursed himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. The guards paused as a squad of watchmen approached. Enkinor was just close enough to make out their low voices.

  “Probably a tribesman from deep in the hills. Someone heard them mention the palace dungeon. Something to do with the old man.”

  Enkinor stifled a groan. He had yet to spend a night in Kophid, and already he was a hunted man. Someone must have overheard his conversation with the irrilai. He cursed himself again for not being more careful.

  The palace guards and the watchmen split up and continued on their separate ways, the guards walking somewhat faster than before.

  What little time Enkinor had was trickling away. The Saerani had to find the resara before the palace was alerted. Longhorn had said Strigin was in the dungeon. Somehow Enkinor had to get inside the palace and enter the dungeon unseen. Not to mention, getting back out.

  Now that the watchmen and the palace guards were looking for him, Enkinor had to alter his appearance. But there was little he could do, save to take off his cloak and wrap his sword and pack inside. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and made sure that his dagger was easily accessible.

  Enkinor headed uphill, expecting that sooner or later he would come to the palace wall. As he climbed the cobbled streets, he saw fewer and fewer people about. Now and then, he turned a little to make sure he wasn't being followed. For several minutes he heard a slow clip-clop coming up behind him. Enkinor turned to see a wagon, loaded with short logs, moving up the hill. The man on the wagon seat shook the reins and called out to the horse, giving it encouragement even as he cursed it for not moving faster.