The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  The Gatekeeper looked around the cabin. Torkar's third man, a lean man with a narrow face, sat on a stool, honing the edges of his weapons. This man barely glanced at Raethir Del. On the floor, leaning against the far wall, hands tied behind their backs, were Ardemis and his daughter.

  “Where is the irrilai, Torkar?” said Raethir Del.

  A pause. “We didn't get him.”

  “What? Why not? Where’s Benshaer?”

  The Aldirgi merchant thought he'd look the sorcerer in the eye but found he couldn't. “Benshaer went after him. Told us to go on and he’d catch up with us.”

  “Fool,” said Raethir Del through clenched teeth. He might have been referring to either Torkar or Benshaer. “I told you to wait, no matter what, till you had them all. A day's delay so you could still travel by night would have been well worth the prize.”

  “Benshaer said to go on.” Torkar shrugged. “I'll give you a break on my fee.”

  At that, the sorcerer laughed. “I won't bargain with you, merchant. You deserve nothing.” Raethir Del turned his attention to the resari. “Leave us,” he said over his shoulder to the others.

  “No,” he added, looking at Torkar's man who still honed his weapons, “on second thought, Edge, you stay.” He nodded at the man's instruments. “We may have use for you and your toys.”

  Raethir Del hooked his foot around the leg of Edge's stool and pulled it over by Ardemis and Ki'rana. He sat down, smiling.

  “So, here we have the last of the musaresari. It would be a simple matter to kill you both. Your ruta would be gone, your knowledge lost. You would no longer have a chance to thwart my plans.”

  Ardemis smiled to himself. “Are you sure? My guess is you worry about what may have been already set in motion. And that killing the last resari may not prevent the fate promised to the one who breaks the Ban of Irsisri.”

  “I will ask you questions. You will give me answers.”

  “Why? Why should we help you?” said Ardemis. He couldn't see the fear on his daughter's face. Raethir Del took note, however.

  “I won't kill you, but I am prepared to use extreme measures to persuade you if necessary.” Raethir Del looked at Edge, who leaned against a wall, running his thumb lightly across the edge of a dagger.

  Ardemis and Ki'rana said nothing.

  “First question: What will be the fate of the one who breaks the Ban of Irsisri?”

  Ardemis laughed. “Do you think us fools?”

  Raethir Del cuffed him across the jaw. “Answer my question.”

  “You will be destroyed, Raethir Del,” said Ardemis with scorn. “Indrelfis promised this.”

  “Destroyed by whom? The Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer?”

  “Any simpleton could figure that out.”

  This time, the sorcerer's blow was faster and carried more force. Ardemis fell to the floor and was still.

  The Gatekeeper turned to the woman. “Perhaps you would be more willing to cooperate.” Before she could respond, he asked, “What is the vradu name for the Gauntlets?”

  Ki'rana's face trembled as she glanced back and forth from Raethir Del to her father lying unconscious on the floor.

  “We don't know!”

  “Does the Gauntletbearer know?”

  “We don't know that either! Believe me, we've searched for years for a clue to the vradu name, but we've learned nothing.”

  “Who placed the secondary on the Gauntlets?”

  “What do you mean?” Ki'rana fought back her tears, looking from the still form of her father to Raethir Del and back again to her father.

  “There is now a secondary spell on the Gauntlets,” said Raethir Del. “I tried to take the Gauntlets by force but couldn't.”

  Ki'rana was quiet for a few moments. “We weren't aware of a secondary. Indrelfis must be responsible, but there's no way to know for sure.”

  Ardemis groaned, attempted to move, but couldn't rise. Raethir Del lifted him roughly and leaned him against the wall. Ardemis winced and tried to open his eyes.

  The sorcerer got right in his face. “How do you think the secondary works? Would you know? Is there anything different about the Weave near the Gauntlets?”

  Raethir Del took Ardemis by the throat and turned to Ki'rana. She was silent but couldn't hold the sorcerer's gaze. She looked away but couldn't completely hide her surprise. She reminded him of another woman who had once divulged her secrets, the spellguard who had given him the vradu name for the Dreamtunnel.

  The sorcerer stepped outside and allowed himself a small sigh of satisfaction. As he did, a sudden gust hit him, and he stumbled. He regained his balance, and the wind hit him again.

  The others watched, untouched, as Raethir Del braced against the wind. Around him, nothing moved. The dust did not rise, the grass did not flatten, neither did the trees sway. No matter which way he turned, the sorcerer was buffeted by the wind, but when he faced downriver, the wind diminished to a strong breeze.

  Relying on intuition honed by a lifetime as an abramusara, Raethir Del made a decision.

  “Torkar, stay here and guard them.”

  “Stay here? But, I have a business to—”

  “Shut up, Torkar. I'll be gone for a while. See that you don't fail me again.”

  Before Torkar could summon the courage to protest once more, Raethir Del walked off into the woods. When he reached the end of the island, he stopped and looked back, not knowing what he was expecting to see, only to have the wind shove him back toward the water. The wind carried with it the smell of rain, of lightning-seared air, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Raethir Del changed into an eagle and let himself be carried away.

  Hidden behind bushes of ripe cardinal-berries was an irrilai tribesman, crouching with wet clothes and wet hair. He arrived at the clearing in time to see Torkar step outside and talk with his two men. From the brief snatches of conversation he overheard, he gathered that Raethir Del and his captives were inside the cabin. That the captives were the resari, Longhorn had no doubt. Their horses were tied nearby.

  Shortly, his patience was rewarded, for Raethir Del came out and spoke to the men. The sorcerer stepped out of the clearing, several feet from Longhorn, and transformed into a bird.

  Torkar mumbled something to his two men. One of the men, a lanky youth with dirty hair tied behind his neck, rolled his eyes and looked disgusted. The other man, a rotund fellow with short black hair and several days' worth of stubble on his face, spat and cursed and started to argue with Torkar. The youth simply picked his teeth with a broken fingernail and wiped his hand on his pants.

  “Damn you, Morg,” said Torkar to the larger man, “do as I say! We may be here a long time, and I won't traipse back to the raft every time we need something. Unload! Now!”

  Morg scowled. He headed for the raft, pushing the youth before him. Torkar stood for a moment, as if he couldn't make up his mind, before following the men into the forest.

  Now? thought Longhorn. No, it will be easier at dusk, when there's just enough light left among the shadows to confuse the unwary.

  The day was slowly nearing its end as Longhorn returned to the island from the riverbank, swimming half-submerged as he held two sacks out of the water to keep them dry. When he reached the island, he checked the contents of the bags. Satisfied they were still dry, he closed them up.

  Back at the cabin, Morg and the youth had resumed their resting spots near the door of the tiny shack, their work done and their backs sore. Torkar was gone. Longhorn had watched him ford the Myan on his horse, a packet of expensive lace and linen under his arm, a large jug of wine tied to his saddle horn. A village lay nearby. Perhaps the Aldirgi planned some romance.

  Longhorn crouched again with wet clothes. This time, he bore his irril horn and his sword harnessed across his back.

  Now. Now is the time.

  He began at the clearing's edge, eyes on Torkar's men, alert to any signs of wakefulness. He emptied most of the glittering po
wder from one sack in a large pile. Using the remainder, he dribbled a meandering trail through the brush. When that sack was empty, he began using the other, weaving a line of powder like a drunkard's walk over mounds, across trails, under logs, and along gullies into the island. When the powder was depleted, he took some lengths of rope to complete his preparations.

  The island was silent, save for the peeping of frogs and the rattling of insects. Morg and his companion had woken from their nap long enough to drink themselves back into light slumbers. Longhorn looked around the forest and listened. He sensed something was amiss but couldn't tell what it was.

  Ki'rana, he whispered. Let's get you out of here.

  The irrilai lit a punt stick and blew on it carefully. Cupping one hand around his mouth, Longhorn screamed like a frightened woman. He waited a moment for Morg and the youth to jump to their feet and stagger around. Touching the punt stick to the powder pile, Longhorn stepped back several feet.

  A large flash of light leapt from the ground like a demon of green fire climbing from some underground hell. Slowly it dwindled from a man-size flame to a knee-high glow.

  “Look,” Morg said, grabbing the youth by the arm, pointing at the unearthly flame. The glow began gliding across the forest floor. “Come on!” Morg dragged the reluctant youth into the woods.

  Longhorn waited a few minutes till the distant yelps told him Torkar's men were now dangling from the snares he had set. He smiled at the thought of how they must look as he trotted through the clearing to the door of the cabin, irril horn in hand.

  Another man jumped from inside the cabin and thrust his sword at Longhorn's stomach. The irrilai whirled his horn like a quarterstaff. He parried the blade of the man called Edge and stepped out of range, holding the irril horn at ready.

  Longhorn had miscalculated. Torkar had three men, not two.

  “Lay down your weapon,” said Longhorn. “I don't want to kill you. I only want your captives.”

  Edge laughed. “Kill me? With a stick?”

  Torkar's only truly dangerous man launched a fierce attack. He slashed at the irrilai but turned the blade just as Longhorn swung his horn to block it. Edge's sword skated down the length of the horn till it bit into Longhorn's hand. The irrilai hissed in pain, pulling his hand away in reflex, narrowly avoiding having it severed by Edge's reverse draw.

  Even as Edge drew back for a thrust, Longhorn advanced, pressing the other man back, raining blows by flipping each end of the horn back and forth. He gripped the horn more tightly than usual, for the blood seeping from his injured hand was making his grip slippery. Two of the fingers on that hand didn't want to close.

  The irrilai crouched low, sweeping the horn across the man's feet. Edge jumped, and as he came down, he put all his weight behind an overhead blow. Longhorn lost his balance and fell to one side just as the sword bit into the dirt. He scrambled up and counterattacked, thrusting the end of the horn at Edge's face. Edge tipped his head to one side, but the end of the horn opened a gash on his cheek. A flare of anger showed in his eyes. Longhorn faked another thrust and followed by swinging the other end of the horn up in a groin attack.

  Edge swept his blade in an arc and parried Longhorn's weapon again. The irrilai lost his grip. The horn went tumbling end over end to rest in the dust.

  Longhorn drew his sword and adjusted his grip, his good hand near the pommel, the working fingers of his injured hand loosely holding the hilt near the guard.

  “I warned you.”

  Edge simply smiled and renewed his attack. Longhorn met him with steel, sparks flying as the swords clashed, metal hissing as blades scraped along one another. Each of the men thrust and parried, trying to get around the other one's guard. They traded minor cuts that were more annoying than harmful. For a few minutes, Longhorn tried to disarm the other man rather than hurt him, but the irrilai was tiring, and he was sure his opponent knew it as well. Already, he was forced by his injured hand to use a single-handed grip.

  This must end, thought the tribesman. May Eloeth forgive me.

  Longhorn took the offensive, drawing on what little energy and stamina he had held in reserve. As fast as he could, he slashed from every possible direction, lunging and forcing Edge to skip back. Longhorn stepped quickly, maneuvering the other man toward the wall of the cabin where his range of motion would be limited. Feinting a thrust to draw Edge’s weapon down, the irrilai spun and sheared the other man’s head from his shoulders.

  Longhorn paused to catch his breath. After a few moments he recovered his enemy's head. He placed it in position at the neck of the corpse on the bloodstained ground and knelt briefly in silence.

  I have broken my oath.

  Standing, he moved around to a window in the cabin. In the dim light he saw Ardemis and his daughter. He ran inside and cut their bonds.

  The resari stood and rubbed their rope-burned wrists. They brushed the straw and dirt from each other. As Longhorn stood waiting, bloody sword in hand, father and daughter embraced before turning to him tear-stained.

  “Where is Benshaer?” said the irrilai.

  Ardemis and Ki'rana glanced over his shoulder. Longhorn spun on one foot into a defensive stance as someone came running up to the cabin door.

  Before him stood a tall man, clothes dripping, wet hair slicked back, sword in hand. A black mask covered his eyes. Within the holes of the mask, nothing could be seen.

  “I am here, Longhorn.”

  Chapter 24

  When Raethir Del had soared many miles, and the wind carrying him had at last dwindled and disappeared, he tipped his wings and circled. A large courtyard stood hidden in a shallow space among the hills, far from the nearest road. Whatever estate or fortification once surrounded the courtyard had long ago vanished. Now, the crumbling walls embraced a dozen great oaks. The abramusara descended and resisted an avian urge to perch high in one of the bare trees. Instead, he landed in the middle of the clearing, among the oaks, and allowed himself to return to human form.

  Is this it? The sorcerer had questions but sensed he had nothing to fear.

  A rumble of thunder caused him to look up. Where there had been clear sky moments before, there were now angry thunderheads. The gray masses began to turn, rotating on an axis above his head. Raethir Del watched the gathering forces in awe. The clouds began moving faster, but neither gathered strength nor funneled down. Rather, they approached the ground like a monstrous fog until the gray-black masses had reached the crowns of the oaks, and the branches seemed to shiver as they shredded the descending clouds.

  Six pieces of cloud floated down and surrounded him. As each reached the ground, it changed into a small cloaked and hooded form that came to rest, bouncing gently, a foot off the ground.

  A sibilant voice came from all sides. “Raethir Del.”

  The sorcerer turned to face each of the small figures around the clearing.

  “Relax,” said the voice. “You know us, and you know we will not harm you.”

  The Gatekeeper released his pent-up breath. “I've not seen the cumulae in so long I'd almost forgotten you. I hope you take no offense.”

  “We are not offended. We wish to speak with you.”

  Raethir Del bowed slightly in each of the cardinal directions. “The cumulae honor me. How may I serve you?”

  “We do not ask for your service. We have come to offer you a small token of knowledge.”

  The musara tried to conceal a slight frown. “Why would the cumulae be so gracious?”

  He hoped that did not sound impolite. He really did not want to risk offending these beings.

  “You cannot harm us,” said the cumulae. “You cannot command us. But once you place the Gauntlets on your hands, we wish to serve you.”

  Raethir Del tried not to look startled by their knowledge of the Gauntlets. “And what would you desire in return for this service?”

  “Pieces. Parts. Of the humans who die at your feet.”

  “And the knowledge you wish to share?”


  A low hum seemed to pass among the small beings, and as one, they settled to the ground, where they stood, looking up at the sorcerer. Only bloodshot eyes could be seen within each hood.

  “What is your plan, Gatekeeper?”

  “My plan? The Dreamtunnel will keep the Gauntletbearer at a safe distance while I find a way to nullify the secondary spell protecting the Gauntlets. Once the secondary is broken, I simply return to the Lair of Ualdrar, where this all began, and break the Dreamtunnel spell. The Gauntletbearer will reappear, and I will kill him and take the Gauntlets.”

  For a few moments, the cumulae said nothing. Raethir Del guessed that they were satisfied with his answer.

  “Do you know of Icefast Hold?” said the cumulae.

  “The hidden armory.”

  “The same. You must find it. Within it is a tool you need to break the spell protecting the Gauntlets.”

  “What tool?”

  “The Staff of Khymera.”

  “You mean—”

  “Khymera is entombed in Icefast Hold.”

  That was interesting. He would’ve never guessed it.

  “But how do I find the Hold?”

  “Our cousin, your fellow musara, has a map showing its location.”

  “Nelador? If he has the map, why hasn't he gone to the Hold?”

  “He believes the Hold is only a repository for weapons of war. He does not suspect Khymera lies there in deathly repose with her Staff.”

  “I'm sure the Staff has great power. But in what way can it help me with the Gauntlets?”

  “The Staff is what enabled Khymera to master the art of bending demons to do her will. If you want the Gauntlets, take the Staff and command a demon to sever the spell protecting them.”

  “And the vradu name for the Staff?”