The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  Enkinor stood and stretched until he felt the sting of blood returning to his muscles. He waited until the sting was gone before slipping from behind the statue and leaving the atrium. Back in the hallway, he stopped.

  This is lunacy. I don't know where I'm going. The only thing I know is most dungeons are below ground.

  The Saerani selected a door at random and opened it a crack to see if anyone would see him go in. There was no one there, so he entered and closed the door behind him without a sound.

  Enkinor followed dark passages lit by only a few smoldering torches. He stumbled once and caught a vase before it could hit the floor. There was no one in sight, as all had been in bed for some time save the Sar. Enkinor wandered, trying to make a circuit of the first floor, until he picked up the warm, yeasty aroma of bread baking in the kitchen for the Sar's breakfast table. The smell was strong enough to make his mouth water as he followed it through the corridors.

  He had almost reached the entrance to the kitchen when he heard a jingling noise approaching. Enkinor crouched in the shadows of the storeroom and closed the door, peering between the door and the jamb. A few moments later, a stubble-faced man, his belly bursting from beneath a grease-stained shirt, came down the hall and sauntered into the kitchen.

  “You’re filthy, Fasso. Get out of here!” said a female voice. “I have too much work to do, and the sun will be up far too soon.”

  “Quiet, Lucy. I’m just getting the prisoner his last meal.”

  The cook muttered several curses before Fasso emerged moments later with a mug of water and a crust of bread. The man belched as he passed the storeroom door, the odor of garlic following him like a cloud. At his side hung a large ring of keys and a rusty dagger.

  The dungeon keeper?

  The Saerani allowed Fasso a short lead. Once the dungeon keeper was out of sight, Enkinor followed the sound of jangling keys and low, rumbling belches. The man led him on a circuitous route that seemed to take them every way but down. Enkinor began to worry that the keeper might be going back to bed rather than the dungeon, but then he felt a chilling draft caress his face. He turned a corner in time to see the keeper's head disappear down a spiraling stairwell. The Saerani gave him a short lead again before entering the stairwell and descending.

  When the dungeon keeper reached the bottom, he took a torch from its bracket. The dancing light of the brand glittered on the moist stone floor as the keeper passed out of view. Enkinor waited and listened.

  “Sar's orders, old man. A last meal. Such as it is.”

  For several moments, there was nothing to hear. Then he heard a grunt and a moan, followed by a sound like pottery shattering against rock. Silence returned.

  After a few minutes, Enkinor inched his sword from its scabbard and descended. He peered around the cold wall into the dungeon. Fasso’s torch lay sputtering on the floor beside him. The man still grasped with both hands a rusty dagger he had driven upward beneath his breastbone. The stench of burning blood drifted above the man as the dark pool beneath him reached the dropped torch.

  The Saerani fought down a rising fear and entered the silent dungeon. He stepped around the dead keeper, taking care not to step in and track his blood. The dungeon was cold, and damp, uncomfortable but not enough to sicken or kill a prisoner. It smelled of mold and rats, of wet straw and overflowing slop pails. One by one, Enkinor stepped past the six barred cells, not eager to disturb whomever — whatever — might be squatting in the shadows.

  The cells were all empty. The door of one still hung open.

  No one was there.

  Did the keeper find his prisoner gone and kill himself? Out of shame or out of fear for what the Sar would do to him?

  Enkinor froze. Voices echoed down the stairwell. He flattened himself against the wall near the dungeon entrance and listened.

  “That's what Dice told me, I swear it,” said a high voice. “An armed warrior, bigger than my brother Ralm's ox, and he's going to set the old man free.”

  “That's a lot of goat piss, Hennig, and you know it. There's no one down here but one unlucky man, soon to be escorted out for his last sunrise.”

  Footsteps and more torchlight had almost reached the bottom when someone spoke again.

  “Wait a minute. Something really stinks down here.”

  “Ah, come on, Hennig. Fasso probably just farted as he made his rounds.”

  Two palace guards stepped into the dungeon. One held a torch. One had drawn his shortsword. Both were transfixed by the sight of the dungeon keeper's corpse.

  “Saerani!” cried Enkinor as he leapt and knocked the guards sprawling over the corpse and slipping on the blood-slick flagstones. The Saerani whirled to run out and found his way blocked.

  A third guard stood there with drawn sword.

  Enkinor glanced over his shoulder and saw the first two guards getting to their feet. He made as if to turn and face them. Recovering his stance, he parried the plunging thrust made by the third guard. Enkinor sliced upward, catching the guard by surprise across the throat. The man fell, choking, victim of the longer Saerani steel.

  Enkinor spun around, his back to the stairs, and faced the first two, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. These men looked much less eager to press their luck.

  “Need some encouragement, Braemyans?”

  Enkinor feinted a thrust at one. As the other Braemyan slashed downward, Enkinor slipped, trying to avoid the red puddles. The Saerani hit the floor hard and dropped his sword but managed to pull the dungeon keeper's corpse up to catch the Braemyan's next blow. The guard's sword parted the corpse's torso and caught on a rib. In the moment it took the guard to lean over the corpse and free his blade, the Saerani drew the nobleman's dagger from his belt and slit the startled guard's throat.

  The last guard took a relaxed stance, weapon poised. Here may be a worthy opponent, thought Enkinor, snatching up his blade and moving from the floor to a crouch. But the Saerani was backed into a corner. His longer blade meant he would have to rely more on the point of his sword than its edges.

  Smoke began to fill the room. The torch the guards had dropped had set the straw to smoldering.

  The Braemyan swirled his shorter blade in invisible arcs and advanced on the Saerani. Enkinor stood and thrust his sword into the pattern of flashing steel coming at him. Their blades clanged as they met, hissed as they slid against each other in fury. The Saerani found he could do little more than thrust and parry with his longer sword. He sidestepped, hoping to move around the guard, and nearly stumbled over one of the corpses. As he moved back for a better defensive position, Enkinor tried to kick one of the other corpses out of his way.

  For only a moment they paused. Then, Enkinor leapt forward, pressing the attack, raining blows with his sword. He forced the guard back against the iron bars of a cell. The guard ducked, and Enkinor's sword sent sparks flying as it struck the bars. The Braemyan thrust out as he stood. Enkinor fell back as the guard's sword opened a gash in the Saerani's sword-hand. The pain made Enkinor angry and, for the first time, a little worried. He renewed his onslaught, pressing the Braemyan back with short, forceful strokes. In his haste to retreat, the guard slipped in a pool of blood. Enkinor's sword plunged into the man's chest, breaking ribs as it pierced his lung.

  The smoke from the burning straw was growing thicker. Through stinging eyes, the Saerani looked again with disbelief at the empty cells. With a cry of frustration, he ran coughing from the dungeon.

  Chapter 10

  The horses snorted and whinnied, not recognizing the leather-clad man who approached with quiet words and a handful of sugar. Longhorn selected a glossy bay, strong and calm, and carefully entered its stall. A minute later, he led the mare out and bridled and saddled her. A shorter man, slight of build, with short gray hair and a gray beard, looked on. A stablehand lay gagged and bound in the corner.

  The irrilai stopped what he was doing. “Strigin, listen!”

  Distant shouts. The palace alarm
bell was pealing. At the clatter of running footsteps, Longhorn drew a slender dagger from his irril horn. The stable doors opened a crack, and a man with bloodied sword slipped in.

  “Longhorn!” said Enkinor, but the irrilai silenced him.

  The shouts began again and grew closer. The horses nickered a little, frightened by the smell of blood. Enkinor wiped his blade on a rag and slid the sword back in its scabbard.

  “Get a horse,” said Longhorn. Holding the mare steady, he turned to Strigin and helped him mount up. “This is the Saerani. Flee now. I will open the postern gate. Farewell.”

  He clasped hands with the resara and left.

  Enkinor found a black mare still bridled and saddled. Strigin held the reins while Enkinor threw the stable doors open. The Saerani placed a foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the horse's back, realizing as he mounted that he knew nothing about riding a horse. With a yell, Strigin spurred the mare and thundered out, Enkinor close behind, scattering a squad of palace guards. The narrow postern gate was open, the bars thrown aside. Longhorn had disappeared. Ducking their heads, Strigin and Enkinor galloped through the gate and into the deserted streets of Kophid.

  Moments later, a cloaked figure rode into the city, horse sweating and lathered. The man cursed the people of Kophid for their stupidity. Why have city gates if they are left open all night, manned by those too stupid to do anything else? Too long the Braemyans had basked in peace.

  When he reached the top of the hill, the palace guards hurried to unbar the gates, ducking his curses. He left his mount in the courtyard and stormed up to the Sar's rooms. Before Thesir's bodyguards could react, he thrust them aside and threw open the doors. At the Sar's bedside, he took hold of Thesir and shook him awake. The Sar sat up with a start.

  “Raethir Del! What are you—”

  “Where are they, Thesir?”

  “They? What are you talking about?” He heard a bell ringing. “Is that the alarm?”

  “Don't play with me,” said the sorcerer. “Where are Strigin and the Saerani?”

  “What? I know of no Saerani.” Thesir stood and grabbed a robe from his clothes rack. “And Strigin is in the dungeon awaiting the execution you demanded. You must’ve seen the fire-rack outside.”

  A boy ran into the room, wide-eyed and smelling of horses, and bent his knee. “My liege?”

  “What is it?” said Thesir.

  “Someone has stolen two horses from the stables.”

  “They have escaped,” said Raethir Del, scowling. “Quick, boy, get me a fresh mount.”

  “Where are the guards? Damn it!” said the Sar.

  A guard ran in and gave Raethir Del an uneasy glance before speaking to the Sar. “My lord, there is a fire in the dungeon and a stench like burning meat.”

  The Sar looked at Raethir Del. “How did you—”

  “Thesir, I must have these two men. Both of them. Now.” The sorcerer whirled and followed the stablehand.

  “Lead the way!” said Enkinor.

  Strigin wheeled the mare to the right and galloped down the street. They zigzagged between houses and leapt over garbage piles, splashing through stagnant puddles and startling an old beggar hobbling down the street. A minute later, from the direction of the palace, came a loud Hooo-wahhh! Hooo-wahhh!

  “What was that?” shouted Enkinor, clinging to his horse's reins and mane as he leaned close to his mount and tried to stay in the saddle.

  “A horn,” said Strigin, looking back over his shoulder. “A signal to close the city gates.”

  The resara spurred his horse faster.

  Enkinor feared their mounts would stumble as they rounded the corners. Strigin turned downhill away from the palace. Enkinor followed, certain he would bounce out of the saddle and over his horse's head. He leaned back a little, hoping to keep his balance, and slapped his horse's rump to force him to keep from losing ground.

  The cobbled street curved away at an angle, making their descent less steep, but as they rounded a leaning warehouse, watchmen began to appear in the streets. A few noticed the two riders and pointed them out.

  Another horn sounded far behind.

  “The North Gate is closed,” said the resara. “Hurry!”

  They turned onto a broad street leading straight downhill. As they galloped past dark mansions and sleepy shops, a clot of watchmen began to gather far down the street.

  “What should we do?” said the Saerani, but Strigin galloped straight ahead, never slowing down. The watchmen realized at the last moment that Strigin wasn't bluffing. They dropped their weapons and dived for safety as the Saerani and the resara plunged through them and kept going.

  Another horn sounded to their right. Ahead, several merchants' carts were crowding the street, slowly making their way to the morning market. Strigin led Enkinor around a corner, down a side street, and finally back onto the original street past the logjam of carts.

  Moments later, the loud blast of yet another horn echoed down the street. Enkinor guessed they had only been a block or two from freedom.

  “The South Gate is closed,” said Strigin. “The East Gate is our only hope.”

  Wasting no time, the resara turned his horse into a hidden alley.

  To Enkinor, it seemed like they galloped for hours through the back streets of Kophid, racing toward futility. Time and time again, the Saerani expected to hear the final horn. Were the guards asleep? Was the East Gate already closed?

  Enkinor and Strigin rounded one last corner and clattered down the street. The East Gate lay directly before them. A lanky, gray-haired farmer was just pulling his donkey away from his overturned cart. A mound of yellow squash lay dumped right in front of the gate. Even now, the sentries were pulling the doors shut. With a yell to rival a war-cry, the resara kneed his horse hard, leapt the mounds of squash, and slipped through the narrowing gap in the gate.

  Enkinor's horse balked. It swerved and stalled, wasting precious seconds. The gate shut in their way, and the sentries scattered as the Saerani's mount reared and pranced, throwing its rider to the ground.

  Enkinor picked himself up, dazed and bruised, unaware of the drumbeat of approaching horses. His own horse was high-stepping in fear, its reins held by a sentry, as a rider came galloping up and stopped in front of the Saerani. The man threw back his hood, freeing his long, red braid. Enkinor's stomach clenched as he recognized the sorcerer from the Draelani attack.

  “Seize him,” Raethir Del ordered. The guards complied with haste. Before Enkinor could react, his arms were pinned to his sides, and the point of a sword was pressed into his back.

  Raethir Del dismounted and stepped over to the tribesman. Enkinor watched as the guard holding his horse moved closer to see and hear better, no doubt thinking a tavern tale was in the making.

  “All right, Saerani. Give me the Gauntlets.”

  Hate had replaced Enkinor's surprise. He answered Raethir Del by spitting in his face. The sorcerer wiped his face and glowered.

  “Fool,” said Raethir Del. “I wasted so much time before. Guards, remove his gloves.”

  The sentries looked at each other, eyebrows raised. One took Enkinor's arm and began to remove a Gauntlet. The man began to laugh nervously. He looked at his comrades like someone was playing a joke on him.

  The Gauntlet would not come off.

  Raethir Del stopped the sentry and pushed him aside. He tried himself and then backed away, shaking his head, unable to take his eyes off Enkinor's Gauntleted hands.

  “This is impossible.”

  Raethir Del wants the Gauntlets? The realization was like ice around Enkinor's heart. Why won't they come off? A rising fear began to grip the Saerani. He had to escape.

  “Guards,” said Raethir Del. “Stretch him out on the ground, face-down.”

  Enkinor twisted in the grip of the other men, afraid of what would happen next, unable to focus on freeing himself. The sentries swept his legs out from under him and shoved his face into the road. Each sentry pinned an a
rm or a leg as Enkinor tried to squirm free.

  “Maybe there's another way to remove your Gauntlets, Saerani,” said Raethir Del. “Guards, bring an axe.”

  Enkinor turned his head to see what was going on. A man ran off and soon returned with a short-handled war axe, double-bladed with a pike on the end.

  “Now,” said Raethir Del, “sever this man's arm at the elbow.”

  “No!” said the Saerani, trying to break loose.

  “But, sir,” said the guard, “what has he done? I can't do this. I have no authority.”

  “You will do as I say,” said Raethir Del, “or I will have your fellow guards do it and then carry out the same on you.”

  A moment later, the guard brought the axe crashing down on Enkinor's elbow. The Saerani cried out at the pain, but as the axe head shattered into dozens of pieces, he realized he was unharmed. He flexed his fingers and pressed them against the cobblestones. The grip on his arms eased for a moment, long enough for Enkinor to twist his head and see a flicker of astonishment on the sorcerer's face before it was replaced by anger.

  “Give me a sword!” said Raethir Del.

  Someone pressed a hilt into his hand. Enkinor turned his head away as the sorcerer swung with all his might. The bruising pain of impact was followed by the clatter of steel on the cobblestones. The blade had snapped at the hilt.

  Murmurs of amazement among the sentries echoed Enkinor's own thoughts. Though his arm throbbed with pain, it was still intact, neither cut nor broken. The Saerani felt a strange desire to laugh.

  “Give me another sword,” said Raethir Del. “Turn him over.”

  Enkinor could not imagine what would come next. His breath was coming hard and fast, fear barely kept at bay. The sentries rolled him onto his back, his arms still pinned. Enkinor watched as Raethir Del raised the sword high, point downward, both hands wrapped around the hilt.

  A roar and a blinding flash split the early morning darkness. The guards jumped in alarm. Enkinor scrambled to his feet and threw his shoulder into Raethir Del's stomach, knocking the sorcerer to the ground. Another roar and flash followed as a flareburst streaked inches above their heads and hit the gate with a shower of sparks, bursting the doors open.