The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  “We will share it with you. The Staff has no power over us.”

  Chapter 25

  “Well, irrilai, don't you recognize me?” The masked man standing inside the door to the cabin laughed long and hard as he drew his sword.

  “Longhorn, he betrayed us!” said Ki'rana.

  Longhorn stared at the man, not understanding. Something kept drawing his attention to the man's eyes.

  “Should I lift my mask? Would that help?”

  “Benshaer told Raethir Del about the Gauntletbearer,” said Ardemis. “He told him about the Swordbearer as well. Because of this, we stripped him of his ruta and took his natural eyesight. He is no longer a musaresara.”

  The irrilai shuddered. If the former resara's eyesight was gone, how then could he see? The inside of the cabin had grown quite dark as the sun had set. Even Longhorn could not see clearly.

  “Yes, Ardemis,” said Benshaer, turning to the elder resara. “My natural eyesight is gone. The Gatekeeper has given me something much better. Now, I can tell the color of a man's eyes in total darkness.”

  Longhorn's mind was racing. Benshaer, a traitor? One of Raethir Del's pawns?

  The traitor stood between them and escape.

  “Longhorn,” said Benshaer, “lay down your sword.”

  I wish I could, thought the irrilai. I'm so tired. And sick at heart. Will I have to kill again for us to escape?

  “I can't do that,” said Longhorn. The resari still stood behind him. Keeping his eyes on Benshaer, he said, “Ardemis, Ki'rana. The window.”

  Ardemis moved slowly to one side. He opened the inside shutters. A cool breeze swept in, carrying with it starlight and night-sounds and a clean forest smell that revived the senses.

  Ki'rana looked to her father. Their eyes met, and they understood, saying nothing. She glided over to her father's side.

  Benshaer jumped into his attack.

  Longhorn stepped in front of the resari and brought his blade up to block the traitor's slash.

  For an instant, Benshaer paused, surprised by the speed with which the irrilai responded. Longhorn should have been exhausted. Then, the masked traitor began his attack in earnest.

  Ardemis helped Ki'rana out the window and began climbing out himself. Benshaer fought to get past Longhorn, but the irrilai planted himself in the way like a rock. He stood fast, trying to buy the resari time, even if it meant losing his life by not flowing around and away from the traitor's attack.

  But Longhorn had no training in making such a defense work. Benshaer pressed his larger size into the attack. The irrilai lost his balance, falling to the floor.

  He looked up, expecting to see cruel steel descend and cleave his life from his body. Instead, Benshaer swung back and put all his strength into a horizontal cut aimed at Ardemis.

  The resara's legs snaked out the window just as Benshaer's sword sank into the log wall where the resara had just been. And the blade was stuck fast.

  Longhorn leapt to his feet and brought the flat of his blade against the back of the traitor's skull. Benshaer sank to the floor, unconscious.

  The irrilai yelled, battle-lust and hatred sweeping over him. Placing his foot on Benshaer's head, he raised his sword high over his head with both hands, poised for a decapitating stroke.

  And stopped. For many long moments, he stood thus, battling his emotions. At his feet lay a defeated enemy, a man who had betrayed himself, his friends, and everything the musaresari stood for. Why did he do it? He thought of what this man had done, what he might have caused, from hurting the people closest to him to possibly placing the world in the Gatekeeper's hands.

  “Finish him,” said Ardemis. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  Longhorn fought the weariness in his arms, holding the heavy steel aloft. Break my oath again? No, I will not. He lowered the point of the sword to the floor and leaned on the pommel.

  What sorcerous gift bestowed supernormal eyesight on Benshaer?

  Longhorn rolled the man over and stared at his face. Watching for signs that the traitor was rousing, the irrilai tribesman pulled the mask off Benshaer's head.

  Longhorn winced. Benshaer had no eyes, nor eyelids. Only two dark sockets.

  A thought came to him. Was the mask the means by which Raethir Del had given the man his unusual vision?

  Longhorn tied Benshaer up and left the cabin. Outside, while Ardemis watched and Ki'rana cried, he threw the mask into the river.

  Chapter 26

  Enkinor brushed the snow from his clothing and found his sword. A stiff wind was sweeping the snow across the ground and into deep drifts. By the light of a sallow moon, he saw the white ape and its captive several yards away. The creature had broken a trail through the snow. Invedra was beating the beast with her fists, flailing, trying to get loose.

  “Invedra!” he called.

  The ape turned and threw the girl into the snow. Enkinor wrapped both hands around the hilt of his sword and crouched slightly. With a roar, the ape closed the distance between them and lunged at Enkinor. The Saerani stepped aside, swinging his blade, but his blow went wide. The ape lunged again. Enkinor lost his balance and scrambled away as the simian's giant hands grabbed for him. The tribesman floundered in the snow as he struggled to get to his feet, only to be knocked to the ground by the ape. The sword flew from his hand. Invedra stood and screamed as the ape lifted the Saerani into the air.

  Enkinor braced his arms against the ape's white chest. The creature opened its jaws wide and tilted its head, fangs ready to tear out Enkinor's throat. The Saerani tried not to look at the jaws, but the monster had him in a death-grip that threatened to crush his aching ribcage. Enkinor tried to pull his knees up to gain some leverage, but it was no use.

  The wind whipped Invedra's hair as she looked on in fright, melting snowflakes joining her tears. Enkinor could feel the ape's fetid breath on his face as it growled, drawing him closer. The Saerani couldn't tell which would snap first, his arms or his ribs. He tried to dig his fingers into the ape's chest, but its fur was too thick. All he could do was resist, and he knew he couldn't resist forever. If the ape didn't crush him first, Enkinor would die from suffocation. With only moments of strength remaining, Enkinor had nothing left but desperation. He gave the ape a sharp push, hoping to gain even an inch if possible, bent his head down, and let go, ramming the ape in the face. The creature bellowed in rage and relaxed its hold on the Saerani just long enough for the tribesman to whip his hand down and draw his dagger. As the ape crushed him again to its chest, Enkinor brought the dagger up and plunged it into the ape's throat. He gave the blade a cruel twist and jerked it out. Crimson blood jetted forth as the monster dropped Enkinor in the snow. The ape made as if to come after Enkinor, but after a few steps, it staggered and fell. A pool of blood and pink slush began growing beneath the dead ape.

  Enkinor looked over at Invedra. He wiped warm blood off himself with handfuls of snow before stumbling over to the girl and clasping her to his chest. He didn’t hold her long, however, before he recovered his sword and dagger. Enkinor considered how satisfying it would feel to show the people of For’tros the head of Invedra’s true captor, but there was no time to decapitate the ape. They were not clothed for a snowy land, and there could be more danger nearby. He had to get Invedra back to the island, but how? Where was the spot where they had come through?

  “Invedra, help me find our tracks,” said Enkinor.

  The drifting snow was already blanketing the monster’s corpse. They walked slowly around the scene of the fight, fearing that the snow had already erased any signs of their tracks, when Invedra noticed the slight indentations revealing the direction they had come from. The two of them hurried to retrace those steps, but nothing happened.

  The portal that had carried them to this snowy land was gone.

  “Where is it?” said Invedra, looking around as if the portal would reveal itself.

  Enkinor studied the snow. This had to be the way they came
in. What happened to the portal? Did it move, or were they trapped, never able to return?

  Enkinor instructed the girl on what to do. Teeth chattering, they clasped wrists. Extending their free arms, they began walking in a circle around the ape's carcass, hoping to find the portal. After one circuit, they moved a little farther away from the ape and tried again. Enkinor fought his impatience, telling himself if they moved too fast they might miss the portal, but also fearing that every minute they stayed in this land, they were less likely to find their way home.

  The ape was almost buried in a drift when, with a cry of surprise, Invedra stumbled and disappeared, pulling the Saerani after her.

  They sat in the middle of the island trail, melting snow running off them and soaked up by the sandy soil. Standing, they shared a smile and a short embrace of relief and, for Invedra, gratitude.

  Their moments of relief were cut short. Distant shouts carried on the evening breeze. Human voices, not something supernatural. The townsmen of For'tros had made it to the island.

  Enkinor turned and took Invedra by the shoulders. “You must go. Tell your people what happened. But tell them I died defending you.”

  “What?” she said, eyes wide with disbelief. “You must come back and—”

  “I can't take any chances, Invedra,” said Enkinor.

  “But why wouldn’t they believe me? I can't take them back to that place and show them the ape. You’ve got to come back with me and tell them the truth.”

  “Invedra, they won’t listen to the truth. They won't want to. And twenty or thirty to one makes the odds just a little too unfavorable for my liking.”

  They both turned at the sound of nearing voices.

  “I need you to stall them while I get away,” said Enkinor. “Tell them anything. Just buy me some time.”

  Invedra turned back to the man at her side, but he was already gone.

  It was dark, but Enkinor had the flickering starlight and the crashing breakers to keep him company. He could risk no fire. He had tried to circle back to where he had beached the khayan, but the villagers had left a few of their men to guard their boats. Hoping to wait them out, Enkinor had waded through the warm shallows to another island only a spear-cast from the one where he had left Invedra. Here it was that he lay curled beneath his cloak, drowsy and hungry, his senses trying to remain alert a short while longer. What little strength he had regained resting in Sturmig's barn had been used up. With any luck, the new day would bring him enough strength to slip back to the mainland and return to Kophid.

  He wondered who, if anyone, could help remove Raethir Del's curse. The resari? Strigin was dead, and Enkinor knew no others. Another sorcerer? Probably a dangerous option. What would his freedom cost him?

  Sometime later a peal of thunder roused him, and he realized he had dozed off. He sat up and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. No longer did rustling mangroves and gritty sand surround him. No longer did the breeze carry the tang of salt and seaweed. He was no longer by the Seacoast.

  Still captive. Who can free me?

  Enkinor stood from a thick bed of pine needles. Brewing storm winds moaned with malevolence through the branches of tall firs and spruces. A flash of lightning showed him his pack and sword lying nearby. He retrieved them, donned the Gauntlets, and set off in haste. Without some form of shelter, he would soon be caught out in a thunderstorm.

  A dream this time, or reality? Which would it be?

  The forest of evergreens seemed endless, but Enkinor kept walking toward the thicker, younger regions of the woods, hoping they were on the fringe. At last, he emerged, damp from the first sprinkles of rain.

  Before him stood the tall, gaunt necessity of ancient warfare. It was a castle, cold and dark, deserted and dead. Surely this could defend him against the assault of a thunderstorm.

  A large entryway, tall and broad enough to admit armored riders three abreast, stood with raised portcullis. Enkinor walked through it into the inner courtyards, watching for wild animals that might not wish to share their shelter. After he stepped into the courtyard, the spiked portcullis fell with a crash behind him. Enkinor whirled, startled, drawing his sword in reflex. He searched for the winch to raise the iron-barred gate. Finding none, he returned to the courtyard, determined to find another exit, perhaps a postern gate, before he settled down to wait out the storm.

  A streak of lightning spread across the sky like pale blood-veins. The flash silhouetted the battlements and crenellated towers above him. A flicker of light, perhaps a candle flame, danced for a moment in one of the tower windows.

  What was that?

  With no further warning, torrents of rain broke loose from the bulging clouds above. The cold drops fell so hard they stung. Enkinor ran to the inner keep, the main living quarters.

  The stout, armor-plated doors were designed to withstand any onslaught save a battering ram. They stood half-open. In their haste to leave, the last inhabitants of the fortress had failed to close the doors on their way out.

  How did I know that?

  Enkinor slipped inside, watching the shadows with care. The air within was a trifle less chilling than outside, but the farther he walked down the entrance corridor, the warmer the air seemed. The Saerani shivered. The corridor was lit by blazing brands in brackets at regular intervals.

  Where are they? Who are they?

  He stopped and listened, afraid the storm winds outside were playing tricks with his hearing. No, that was laughter!

  Enkinor started to call out but changed his mind, not knowing who or what he might rouse and how they might respond.

  The weary Saerani pondered for a moment the propriety of entering a great hall with drawn sword, a stranger uninvited and unannounced. The voices and laughter grew louder as he trotted down the corridor, already imagining the warmth of the hearth, a refreshing goblet of wine, and a plate of food. He didn't notice the absence of guards. Instead, he listened hypnotically to a pleasant tune performed by a practiced minstrel.

  The doors to the great hall stood wide open. Enkinor strode in, confident yet somewhat embarrassed, sword still in hand.

  And stopped, tracing a warding gesture in the air with the point of his blade, for the hall was empty.

  The only sound was the crackle and muted roar of a giant hearthfire. Before him lay a long oaken table set with silver goblets and eating-ware. The table was laden with a stuffed swine, roast pheasants and duck, loaves of bread, and numerous covered dishes. The food was still steaming, the goblets perspiring. Enkinor raised a drink to his lips and drained it.

  Had there been signs of a hasty exit, he would've announced his peaceful intentions for the benefit of those in concealment. But there were no such signs. A layer of undisturbed dust blanketed the floor. The high-backed chairs along the table were neatly arranged, and no further sound could be heard in the keep.

  Enkinor stepped into an adjacent hallway, eyes darting and missing no detail. A draft set torchlight dancing among the cressets. Hurrying down the hall, he came to a large pair of doors like the others. The heavy wooden doors were closed but not barred. Enkinor opened them by throwing his weight into the pull.

  He stood at one end of a large room almost identical to the great hall. Another fire blazed in a twin hearth. Here, though, no dining table stretched across the floor. Instead, an elaborate mosaic of black and red spirals patterned the floor from one end to the other.

  And the room was empty.

  An enormous tapestry covered the wall on one end. Within its faded weave were detailed battles and coronations, from gaping wounds to twinkling jewels. The more Enkinor studied the tapestry, the more it disturbed him, for here and there the weavers had given hideous and grotesque shadows and outlines to the men and women depicted. By the light of the hearth, spirits seemed to hover over each man, woman, and child. Enkinor shuddered.

  He turned to stare at the other end of the room. The opposite wall was curtained from side-to-side and ceiling-to-floor. Before it stood a large c
arved chair with a high back, perched on a small dais like a throne.

  A dozen arrows pierced the front of the chair. Behind the chair, the curtains billowed in silence.

  Enkinor grabbed a torch and raced to the curtains. He jerked them aside and found a hidden passage, dark and dank. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The passageway smelled of decay. Cobwebs hung in tatters. Someone had just come through this way.

  As he entered the passage, a hidden door sprang shut behind him. I'm being maneuvered. I've been maneuvered ever since I entered this place.

  Whisperings slithered toward him, amplified by the dark rock of the narrow passage. Enkinor stepped up his pace, hoping he wouldn't trip over some unseen and unsavory obstacle. Spiderwebs brushed his face with a delicate touch. The passage made a right-angle turn, and he narrowly avoided crashing into the wall. The whispering, now louder, changed into an inhuman moaning, carrying with it the misery and pain of some tormented creature. The passage began to lighten, and Enkinor ran faster, more sure of his way. Another right-angle turn and the Saerani stumbled back into the keep, in another section he hadn't visited.

  Through narrow windows high above, the moon, full and brilliant, was pouring its light into a broad, dark hallway. The torches here were not lit. To Enkinor's left, just down the hall, a twisting staircase led to the deep darkness of rooms above. The moaning had stopped.

  “Help me, oh gods, help me!”

  The cry echoed down the hallway. Without a moment's hesitation, Enkinor ran toward the opposite end of the hallway, sword in one hand, torch in the other.

  “No ... no ... nooooooo!”

  Enkinor turned into an open room in time to see a man's legs disappear through the stone of the wall. Someone or something was dragging him to the other side. The screams were silenced by a loud crunching sound.

  As he stood there, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard and seen, the Saerani's attention was drawn to the mossy cracks in the mortar among the stones in the empty room. He brought the torch close to the wall. The dark green moss seemed to be moving, pulsing. It began to ooze from between the stones and drip to the floor, forming dark green puddles. He backed out one step at a time, sword on guard, waving the torch from side to side, certain something was about to leap on him.