The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  “It'll be my hide, damn it, and yours too, Molly, if you don't get us up there in time for me to do my work.”

  Enkinor paused as the wagon drew near.

  “Pardon me,” he said to the driver. “Would you mind giving me a ride? I'm tired and need to get off my feet. Feels like I've been walking all day.”

  The driver was dressed in warm clothes flecked with sawdust and tree sap. He sat hunched over, elbows on his knees.

  “What?” He stopped the horse. “You think this old nag can pull you too? She's having a hard enough time as it is.”

  The horse turned its head and looked back.

  “You on your way to unload your wagon?” asked Enkinor. “Maybe I could help.”

  The driver thought about this for a moment, running his hand through his gray-streaked hair and picking out a wood chip. “What the hell. She'll make it. And I could use some help.”

  Enkinor climbed up on the seat. With a cluck to the horse and a shake of the reins, the driver got them rolling again.

  “Isn't it a bit late to be delivering a load of logs?” asked the Saerani.

  “Aye, to be sure,” said the driver, keeping his tired eyes on the horse and the street. “But I've no choice. The Sar commands it, and I do as he says, or my wife may never see me again.” He paused. “Sure, my supper will be cold, time I get back. But I've more to do than just dump these. Got to build a fire-rack.”

  “What's that?”

  The driver looked him over. “Hmmph, not from around here, are you? Fire-rack's pretty simple, and pretty nasty. Those planks back there with the logs are for building a frame. A frame they can tie a man to, so he can be roasted slowly over the burning logs as punishment for being someone the Sar doesn't like.” He hawked and spit on the cobblestones. “I wish to Eloeth I'd been a farmer instead of a sawyer. Then maybe I'd never have to come near the palace.”

  “You have to build this thing near the palace?”

  “Aye, within the very grounds. Inside the walls. Strict orders they gave me. Build it inside the palace gates, where the people can see it through the bars, see the poor bastard scream out as his flesh sizzles.”

  “Why inside the gates?”

  “Thesir probably fears someone will try to rescue him.”

  Enkinor felt suspicion crawl like a caterpillar up his spine. Strigin?

  “I just wish they'd given me more notice,” said the sawyer. “I had to drop everything to tend to this. Left my poor wife by herself, I did.”

  “Must've been a sudden decision on the part of the Sar.”

  “Perhaps. I don't envy the man who dies tomorrow.”

  As they neared the palace gates, Enkinor turned and pushed his bundle beneath some of the logs. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. He needed to look just like someone that had come along to help the sawyer.

  “Open up!” called the sawyer, bringing the cart to a halt. “Logs for tomorrow's fire-rack, by order of the Sar.”

  Two guards came over to the iron bars of the gates and looked out.

  “Get out of here, old man,” said one.

  “You want one of these things up your arse? The Sar will do it himself if you don't let me in so I can do my job.”

  “No one told us about any execution.”

  “Too bad. I just found out myself. Barely saved these from going through the mill. Are you going to let me in, or do you want to find yourself tied to the rack tomorrow?”

  The guards finally capitulated. One cranked the bar out of the gates. Then, they opened the gates wide enough for the wagon to come through.

  “Wait,” said the guard on Enkinor's side, just as the wagon was halfway through. He took his sword and placed the point at Enkinor's chest. “Who's this?”

  The sawyer rolled his eyes. “Well, he ain't my mother. He's my journeyman. I'm getting too damn old to do this by myself. Let 'im be.”

  The guard lowered his sword, and Enkinor slowly released the breath he had been holding. The wagon moved on through, and the gates were pulled shut.

  The Sar of Braemya stood at a sculpted balcony overlooking the courtyard where two men were unloading logs for tomorrow's execution. The fire-rack would be built close enough for the people to watch a man die, but not so close that it blocked the gates. A broad mosaic of flagstones swept between short rows of dwarf cedars and up to the entrance to the inner courtyard. Thesir stepped back into his chambers.

  I am ruler of Braemya. This is intolerable.

  The light of a single candle in a brass holder reflected off his oiled black curls and black goatee.

  A krylaan. Gods, he sends a message by a krylaan to intimidate me. Seven feet of solid muscle. Cloaked and hooded, thank the gods. And those damn red eyes.

  I will not be frightened into this. I will not be ordered around like someone's servant. And certainly not ordered around by someone else’s servant.

  He stomped out of the room. His boots played a staccato beat on marble risers as he swept down the stairs from his chambers to the first floor, his robes billowing behind him.

  Damn him. Damn all of them.

  The guards noted his rapid pace and moved to join him, but he waved them off. Thesir turned into a tapestried hallway.

  How could I let him do this to me?

  The Sar found another hallway, turned a corner, and slowed his pace.

  Stand up to him, and I may die. Give him what he wants, remove just one stranger from our midst, and all will be well.

  Thesir moved with care down the damp stairwell, watching his footing. At last, he stopped before the bars of a cold and musty cell far from fresh air and natural light, a single torch doing little to illuminate the scene.

  “Thesir,” said the man sitting in the corner.

  “Yes, old man, it's me.”

  “How good of you to come. I've been waiting two weeks. Two weeks waiting to learn why you threw me in here.”

  Thesir grasped the bars and looked at the moldy flagstones of the floor. The man in the cell took his time in getting up, willing his aching joints to loosen, and shuffled over to the bars. His gray hair was cropped short, his gray beard but two weeks old. He waited till the Sar looked up and met his gaze.

  “Thesir, I demand to know why.”

  The younger man looked up. “You won't be in here much longer, Strigin.”

  “Fine. But you still owe me an explanation. Pardon me if I don't hurl invectives at you, but your moldy dungeon has dampened my anger a bit. Just a bit, mind you.”

  Thesir's eyes narrowed. “Strigin, why did you come to Kophid? What brings a resara here?”

  “That's an ironic question. I come to Kophid, spend a few months here, minding my own affairs. Then I get hauled off to your dungeons, and now you ask me why I'm here?”

  “Are you really a resara? No one has seen a resara in twenty years. I don't think they exist anymore. I think you're an impostor.”

  Strigin moved closer to the bars. He brought his face near Thesir's and looked at him with contempt. “What are you afraid of, Sar?”

  “You're looking for something, aren't you?” said Thesir. “What is it? Who is it?”

  “You threw me in your dungeons so you could ask me what I'm doing in Kophid? I don't think so. You're afraid, Thesir.”

  Thesir took a deep breath before responding. “You are in my dungeon because someone wants me to keep you from your goal, whatever that may be. But now, they've sent word saying they're not satisfied with simply locking you up. They've demanded your execution, and I have agreed.”

  Strigin turned away and said nothing.

  “Tomorrow, Strigin. At dawn.”

  The resara was silent for several long moments before turning around to look at the Sar once again. “I could almost laugh, Thesir. Someone with power over the Sar of Braemya is having me executed because apparently he thinks even the bars of your dungeon won't keep from doing some mysterious thing that he doesn't want me to do.”

  The Sar kept his silence.
>
  “What is he afraid of,” said Strigin, “and why are you afraid of him?”

  Thesir drew a dagger and tested its edge with his thumb. “I fear death,” he said, not looking at Strigin. “And you, are you afraid to die, resara?”

  “No. But I fear for others. Many people may die if I'm not permitted to complete my task.”

  “Which is?”

  Strigin was silent.

  Thesir sheathed his dagger. “I will grant you one last request.”

  The resara turned back to the corner of his cell, kicked some straw together, and sat with his back against the stone wall.

  “Very well. I'll have some bread and water sent down later.” The Sar turned and vanished up the stairwell.

  The resara pulled his knees to his chest. I'm going to die. And now, there will be only three.

  Chapter 9

  The sawyer and Enkinor threw the last logs onto the pile. Only Enkinor's gear and the lumber for the fire-rack itself remained in the wagon. The sawyer paused and wiped his brow.

  “I'm mighty grateful, stranger. Would've been a lot of work at the end of a long day, doing it by myself.”

  “I was glad to help,” said Enkinor in a low voice. “And I appreciate the ride and getting me through the palace gates.”

  The sawyer gave the tribesman a careful look. “This was what you wanted, was it?”

  Enkinor nodded.

  “You know,” continued the older man, “I don't know what you're up to. I don't want to know. Don't go tangling me up in your business.”

  “I won't involve you,” said Enkinor. “But I need one last favor, and then you'll never see me again.”

  The sawyer considered this for a moment. “I have no love for the Sar. What is it?”

  “Did you notice one of the guards got bored and left? There's only the one, now. What do you think of this ...”

  Enkinor shared his idea with the sawyer while he helped pile the lumber for the fire-rack to one side of the log pile. As the Saerani finished carrying the last of the lumber from the wagon, the sawyer walked over to the guard.

  “I need ale,” said the older man with a grumble. “Or at the very least, a drink of water.”

  The guard sneered at him but walked with him into the guardhouse. As soon as they were in the guardhouse, Enkinor grabbed his bundle from the wagon.

  “I'm done,” the Saerani called. “I've had enough. I'm finding a drink to hold and a woman to quench my thirst.”

  Enkinor grabbed one of the gates, swung it open till it creaked, and then swung it closed without going out. “See you tomorrow!” The Saerani slipped behind the courtyard cedars.

  The sawyer ran out of the guardhouse, wiping the water from his mouth, and took hold of the gates. “All right, you bastard,” he called down the dark street. “But you better show up on time next time!”

  As the sawyer began arranging the lumber for the fire-rack, Enkinor moved deeper into the shadows and untied his bundle. With a flourish, he donned his cloak and strapped his sword once more across his back.

  Next to the bushes was a small wooden door. Enkinor raised the latch and swung the door open quickly, hoping it wouldn't squeak like the gate. He slipped through and closed it behind him without a sound.

  The Saerani had entered the palace gardens. Squeezing through the thick bushes lining the wall, he took a swift look around. He crouched beside a shallow marble channel filled with moving water. Well-trimmed shrubbery ran along both sides of the gutter, while concealed jets sprayed water that filled the channel. The barren branches of the foliage failed to slow the progress of the late autumn wind. Torchlight danced across the dormant gardens.

  Enkinor watched as a pair of palace guards appeared, strolling with glossy black beasts on leashes, beasts that glided alongside the guards like liquid darkness. Umars? Then the rumors must be true. The Braemyans use these giant cats like weapons. Large as a man, the umars were noted for their tremendous strength and speed. With their acute senses and tracking abilities, they were more valuable than the palace guards, who were in truth nothing more than handlers.

  The Saerani stepped into the channel and caught his breath as the clear, cold water soaked into his boots. The mist from the fountains washed Enkinor's scent from the air and kept the umars from catching the odor of mountain pines, sweat-soaked leather, and the smoke of old campfires. The constant splashing covered any noise Enkinor might make as he crept along.

  He waded along the channel till he came to a low footbridge arching over the waterway. Enkinor hauled himself up and sprang into a half-crouch on the path, watching for more guards. He moved the nobleman's dagger from his boot to his belt and crept down the path. At the sound of approaching voices, he stopped and looked back with dismay. His wet footprints twinkled in the torchlight. Without a moment's delay, Enkinor jumped behind a hedge and flattened himself to the ground as yet another pair of guards with umars walked on by.

  “It's time we were relieved,” said one. “Is Torkar's still open? I'm thirsty.”

  “I don't know,” said the other. “But if it's not, we'll wake him up and get him out of bed.”

  Enkinor narrowed his eyes to slits so they would reflect little light. One of the big cats swung his head toward him as it walked by. The umar paused. The guards stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “I don't know. I think Mella's seeing ghosts tonight. She keeps stopping and looking.” The guard gave the leash a tug. “Come on, girl, let's go.”

  The cat looked up at him and moved on.

  Once the guards were out of sight, Enkinor followed the shrubbery until he found his way out of the maze of hedges and paths. The palace stood before him, ornate columns marking a breezeway running along one wall. Pink marble seemed to glow in the dark. The palace guards and the silent umars slipped through a vaulted gateway.

  Moments later, Enkinor followed. The guards and the umars had disappeared. The Saerani found himself in a tunnel-like hallway. As he inched along one wall, he noticed doors leading into the palace. At the end of the hall was a small atrium, open to the night sky. The miniature courtyard held only a few ornamental trees, some late-blooming flowers, and a stone bench. An alcove in each of the two side walls of the atrium showcased a marble statue of a nude woman cradling flowers in her hands.

  Enkinor heard voices behind him coming into the hall. His only choice was to enter the atrium and climb into the darkness behind one of the statues. Footsteps echoed down the hall as the Saerani pressed himself into the shadows and squatted low.

  “What time is it?” asked a female voice.

  Enkinor watched as a short figure, cloaked and hooded, was led into the atrium and over to the bench by one of the palace guards.

  “It is well past midnight, my lady. Please wait here. He will be with you shortly.”

  The woman had not been sitting long when a dark-haired man in expensive robes entered the atrium and walked up to her. She stood as he approached. With a casual gesture, the man pushed her hood back and tipped her chin up, so he could look in her eyes. She was framed by a mass of auburn tresses. Only the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes said she was older than she seemed.

  “Thank you for coming, Aylan,” said the man.

  “This is hardly safe, my Sar.”

  “Please, for tonight, I am Thesir to you.”

  The woman began to protest, but the Sar took her by the arms and shook his head.

  “We are hidden from view. Only Braum knows your true identity, and I trust him completely, as you may.”

  “I can't stay long, Thesir. I may be missed. If my husband ever learns, he will beat me.”

  “He will do nothing of the kind. I am Sar. He should not need to be told that if he lays a hand on you, he will lose that hand.” Thesir dropped his hands and took Aylan's in his own.

  Aylan looked away. “I saw a fire-rack in the courtyard.”

  Thesir smiled just a little. “You're right; it is indeed a fire-rack. Please, let's not
talk about it.”

  “But who—”

  “Ssshhhh,” said Thesir, placing a finger against her lips. “Come, let's sit and talk.” The Sar sat and pulled her down beside him. “It's been so long since we've been able to do this.”

  The two of them chatted about small things, gossip, the weather, the price of goods in the market, but stayed away from anything to do with ruling Braemya. Enkinor was trapped until they finished talking. As the night wore on, his impatience grew. Surely Thesir will wind up taking her to his room. In the meantime, Enkinor grew more and more tired and would have fallen asleep were it not for his fear for Strigin.

  Aylan protested more than once that she was staying longer than she intended. Each time, Thesir talked her into staying just a few minutes more. Now and then, they would pause in their words and exchange deep looks into the other's eyes, a small kiss, a light caress. For hours, Enkinor listened and learned nothing useful. He worried about the cramps in his legs and the numbness in his buttocks.

  “Thesir, I must go. You know I must. I need to catch a bit of sleep before the sun comes up, or I'll be good for nothing. My husband will think I'm ill, or suspect I'm hiding something.”

  The Sar looked at her. “Yes, I know. I understand. I ask too much. Forgive me.”

  Aylan stood. Thesir took her in his arms, and she rested her cheek against his chest for a moment. When he eased his grasp, she stepped back and pulled her hood back over her head.

  “Braum,” called Thesir. The guard appeared at the entrance to the hallway. “Please escort my lady out. See that she gets home safely.”

  Once the woman and the guard had left, Thesir stood for a minute in thought. He looked at the statues of the flower-ladies, bowed to each of them, and then left for his chambers.