The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  Benshaer's hands went to his eyes — or what he thought were his eyes. His fingers found cold, hard river rock in his eye-sockets.

  “What will people think? They'll run from me! How can I blend in with a crowd?”

  “Stop your whining. Would you rather look like a krylaan? If you don't want to scare people, wear a cloak and pull your hood up so people can't see your face.”

  Benshaer looked to the sky and cried out, giving voice to his anger and fear. When the traitor once again faced Raethir Del, the sorcerer shivered. He couldn't read the look on Benshaer's face.

  “Come,” said Raethir Del. “I believe you promised to kill some people for me.”

  Chapter 28

  Visylon let Cabellara amble across the wide fields spanning the valley of the Myan River. For miles south and east of Kophid, the valley stretched, cradling the river as it wandered back and forth. Since the fight with the hudraii and the striped creature at the bog, two days past, Visylon had failed to pick up Enkinor’s trail. He was beginning to despair of ever finding him. The sentara could be anywhere in the world right now, and Visylon wouldn’t know it. Visylon had remained in the lands of Braemya surrounding Kophid, asking questions of the few farmers he came across, but no one had seen another tribesman, or a forest fire, or palace guards out of Kophid.

  Along the Seacoast Road, two women on horseback trailed a caravan of wagons, watching the countryside for trouble in any form and listening for trouble coming up behind them. The women were outriders for the Rhumaer, or wandraii as some called them, for their habit of wandering across the land, setting up camp for some time, and then moving on as it pleased them, taking advantage of sunny days like this one and steering clear of settlements who held a grudge. Not everyone trusted the wandraii. They were rumored to steal children, to seduce men, to heap scorn upon any woman not of the Rhumaer.

  The train of horses, oxen, and wagons making up the caravan could be seen for quite some distance. The Rhumaer celebrated life with the bright colors they painted on their covered wagons, the fanciful ornaments they draped on their livestock, and the trilling music they played when they reached their next unknown destination.

  The caravan was protected by a half dozen outriders. Two rode some distance ahead, one rode on each side of the caravan, and two acted as a rearguard. They were all women, armed with bow and knife. The rearguard had stopped in the road to watch a lone rider winding his way down a low hill, approaching the valley. They wished to see if he was truly alone or possibly a scout, but there were other possibilities to consider.

  Visylon followed a path through the dry grasses that blanketed a hill overlooking the river. The path was laid with fieldstone, suggesting it once had an important function, but it vanished as Visylon descended the hill and entered a stony area surrounding several giant yew trees. The yews, with their ridged trunks, kept much of the hill in cool shadows, but a distinct odor of decay seemed to emanate from a number of caves marking the hillside. The openings to these caves were low and broad, barred with steel gates. Above each opening was a rock inscribed with intricate runes. A congress of ugly mushrooms seemed to pour from each cave.

  Two of the gates closing off the caves lay broken among the rubble.

  The Swordbearer let Cabellara follow a gully where the soil had washed out. The gully turned around an outcropping and Visylon stopped, startled to see two figures on horses waiting twenty feet ahead. Two women, long hair pulled back from their foreheads, blue woad striping their faces, their eyes shadowed in black. Each waited with a bow in one hand and a nocked arrow in the other, watching the Saerani. Visylon guessed there were more weapons concealed beneath their fur robes.

  “Good afternoon,” said Visylon, with a half-smile he hoped was disarming.

  “Are you lost?” asked one of the riders, nudging her mount to keep it still.

  “Lost? I’m not familiar with this countryside, but to say I’m lost would suggest I have a destination in mind.”

  The second rider sneered. “So you’re simply wandering?”

  “I’m looking for someone. Who are you? You seem to think I’m a threat.”

  “We are outriders for the Rhumaer. Our caravan moves beside the river. We’re simply making sure you’re not someone who might mean us harm.”

  Visylon shook his head. “You are in no danger from me. My name is Visylon. My tribe is the Saerani. We live in the Parthulian Hills.”

  The riders said nothing more.

  “Will you introduce yourselves, or am I to assume you might mean me harm?”

  A few moments later, the first outrider spoke. “I am Anja. My fellow sentara is Noora.”

  “You must not realize where you are,” said Noora.

  The Saerani looked around, hands on the reins, wondering if more of the Rhumaer were hiding nearby. Clouds were gathering in the west like a throng of the curious drawn to an execution.

  Visylon shrugged. “It seems like a hillside riddled with caves. Why are all the openings to these caves barred?”

  Noora’s mount twitched, and she patted its withers. “They are tombs of a people who vanished from this region hundreds of years ago.”

  “Are they barred to keep thieves out?”

  “No. They are barred to keep things in.”

  Visylon had seen too much of the supernatural to suit him. “Keep things in? What kind of things?”

  “The undead.”

  Noora said, “Where the grasses stopped, as you came down the hill, marks a perimeter. The far side of the perimeter crosses here.” She indicated a line where the grasses began to grow again. Cabellara stood amid rubble. The Rhumaer mounts stood in grass. “You are not safe within this boundary.”

  Visylon nodded. “I believe you. Will you let me pass?”

  Anja and Noora shared a knowing glance. “We must go. The caravan will stop soon for the night. But, first, convince us you are no threat to us. We’ve heard from a few hudraii that there is a Saerani warrior traveling the land. They say there is a bounty on his head.”

  “News travels faster than I do, it seems.”

  “A bounty on your head? You’re not surprised? Are you the one, or is it the one you are seeking?”

  “I know nothing about a bounty. But if you follow my trail back, you might find the remains of several hudraii and a rather stubborn krylaan who tried to capture me.”

  Cabellara began dipping her head, nervous. The Rhumaer mounts were no less agitated. It was not yet sundown, but the light of day was dimming.

  “Why are you so important?” asked Anja.

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find a friend who I believe is in danger. I have no idea why that is of concern to Raethir Del.”

  The Rhumaer sentari exchanged worried glances.

  “Raethir Del,” said Noora, “the abramusara?”

  “He’s a sorcerer?” said Visylon. Maybe the one who fought Enkinor when the Draelani attacked? “Large man, red hair in a braid?”

  “Yes. And he is no friend of the Rhumaer.”

  Anja said, “That explains why a krylaan was after you. He’s been known to use them, to carry messages and intimidate people. Or pursue someone he wants to kill or capture.”

  “If the sorcerer is no friend of yours, then I would hope you could put your bows away. I am no danger to the wandraii.”

  Satisfied, the outriders replaced their arrows in their quivers and holstered their bows by their saddles.

  “We must go. Our people are only safe as long as we’re near. They will worry if we don’t check in.”

  Without warning, Cabellara reared and threw Visylon, who landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. As he struggled to breathe, the horse galloped away, headed for the river.

  The wind picked up and carried a chorus of howls.

  Dozens of cadaverous faces peered from behind the gates, bony hands gripping the bars as if to test their strength, arms outstretched as if they believed they could summon the living.

  Noora
pulled hard on the reins of her horse, trying to turn it, but it stumbled and fell. She went down hard, hitting her head on a rock and rolling partway across the boundary. Anja’s horse bolted, and she leaned back, trying to stop it. Once she got her mount turned, she saw Noora on the ground and gave the reins a sharp slap. In moments, the horse was carrying her back to the tombs.

  Wraiths poured like green water from the caves. Each one was three feet across, a bulbous mass with tentacles. As Visylon got to his feet, he reached for his sword and then remembered it was with Cabellara. In moments, the wraiths were swarming over him, tentacles reaching, caressing, probing, their touch like ice. He tried to pull them off, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. They sought the warmth of a human body, and Visylon could feel the heat being drawn from him. He tried to shake them off but couldn’t keep his balance. For every one he flung off, two more climbed his legs, three more clung to his arms, trying to pull him to the ground. For being insubstantial, they had tremendous weight. One slithered to the top of his head, and for a moment, he could see nothing but suckers.

  Noora began to scream. She fought to get to her hands and knees. The wraiths were pulling her back across the boundary. As Anja rode up, her mount braced and came to a sudden stop, far from the perimeter. The Rhumaer sentara jumped from her horse and raced up to the boundary. She pulled a knife and tried to cut the wraiths that slithered over Noora but with no effect. She grabbed her friend by the arm and tried to drag her back into the grasses, but the wraiths were too strong.

  Then, from the caves whose bars were busted, came a pack of the undead. A dozen eyeless old women, naked but for loincloths, chanted words as if calling and directing the tentacled wraiths.

  “Malae’k! Malae’k, kuum vendomai!”

  The hags danced and jumped, withered breasts flopping, laughing with pleasure. They summoned more and more wraiths from the tombs and giggled as Visylon and Noora disappeared under the weight of them all. Now, the wraiths were slithering over Anja as well. She cried out as they separated her from Noora. She braced her legs and began backing away, trying to reach the boundary.

  Visylon twisted and turned, trying to free himself. Frustrated and panicking, he began beating at the wraiths. When he brought both arms together quickly, some would fall off. When he tried to dislodge the ones on one arm by swiping at them with the other arm, more would land at his feet. Just as he felt a glimmer of hope, Anja backed into him, and he fell. The Rhumaer woman landed on top of him.

  The pack of female undead were dancing and shambling closer. With a burst of energy, Visylon pushed himself up and heaved Anja back. He was certain if the undead reached them, they, in turn, would become undead. As he began to cross the boundary, fewer and fewer of the wraiths were able to cling to him, and it gave him more strength to add to Anja’s and pull her free as well.

  As the Saerani and the Rhumaer woman tumbled into the grass, the undead howled in anger. They had lost two people to feed on. Now, they turned their attention to the third. As they reached Noora, they began to pull the wraiths free, flinging them to each side. When they grabbed her and bent their heads to feed, Noora screamed again. Her shrieks seemed to go on far past the point of death. When all was finally silent, the undead women looked up with bloody faces.

  “Damn you!” said Anja as she got to her feet and began punching and kicking Visylon. “She’s dead! She died a horrible death and all because of you!”

  Dazed, she staggered and tried to run after her horse.

  The clouds drew back then, and the setting sun turned the horrifying scene the color of blood. Visylon could see nothing more of Noora beneath the undead feeding on her. A number of the undead ran to the boundary of the tomb area and cried out in frustration, unable to cross and feed on Visylon and Anja.

  The Rhumaer sentari were gone. Anja would live, but Noora would join the undead in the hillside tombs. Visylon could not see Anja in the twilight. She had disappeared, no doubt eager to rejoin the caravan of the wandraii.

  As twilight descended, Visylon could think of nothing but taking one step at a time, stumbling downhill, putting as much distance as possible between him and the tombs, the wraiths, the undead. His head spun, and nausea kept creeping up on him. His thoughts were jumbled, his breathing ragged. When he reached the riverbank, he fell with a splash into the dark and slow Myan River. The shock of the frigid water served to clear his head somewhat. But he was ill. With effort, he pulled himself out of the mud and sat to empty his boots of muck and water. He fought the temptation to lie down, feeling sure that if he gave in, he might sleep and never wake. He watched with trepidation while a large shadow waited nearby. It was not until Cabellara dipped her head to drink from the river that Visylon relaxed. Numbed by cold, he got to his feet, speaking gently to the horse. He took her by the reins and walked away from the riverbank. He untied his blanket from his belongings and wrapped it around himself. It took three tries before he succeeded in mounting up.

  With no instruction from her rider, the mare started walking.

  Not until sunup would Visylon allow himself to sleep.

  Chapter 29

  The tiniest of sensations began creeping into his consciousness.

  Sand. Where?

  On his face, rasping his nose, scratching his chin, gritty between his teeth.

  Salt. Where?

  Across his lips, dry and parched. His eyelids and eyelashes were crusted shut. He reached up and rubbed his eyes till he could open them. Gradually, they moistened, and the sting of brine was swept away.

  Water. Where?

  Lapping his boots, soaking his leggings to the knee.

  Enkinor pulled himself up the rocky shore and stood. Startled little birds skittered away on spindly legs. He brushed black sand from his face and arms and looked up.

  There was no castle, no forested hills. Only a deserted beach.

  Where am I?

  He looked down and stared. There were bloodstains on his hands and his clothes.

  It wasn’t a dream? But, good Eloeth, was it some monster, or did I really murder my own mother?

  “No!” he yelled to the sky, fists to his head.

  What happened there? What have I done?

  Another thought came to him. Could it have been Raethir Del? Could it have been him I killed? The sorcerer could change shape just as the creature in the castle had done. If Raethir Del is dead, am I free of the Dreamtunnel?

  How did I get there? Or here? The curse was still upon him. He had not returned to the islands off the coast of For'tros. He was still a captive of the sorcerer's spell.

  Beyond the shore, a broad expanse of water stretched into the distance, but the horizon seemed strangely close. Enkinor wiped his eyes. An illusion? A mirage? The Gauntlets were tucked in his belt. He pulled them on, hoping they might help, but no matter how he gazed at it, the horizon looked like it had been lopped off by a quick swordstroke.

  Beyond the horizon rose pale mists, swirling and sparkling in the sunlight. To either side of him a black beach curved out of sight. Above the beach, a solid wall of foliage was pierced here and there by tall palms with lazy trunks. The jungle seemed to flow skyward up a small mountain.

  He turned back to the water. Strange, he thought, how the water foams and swirls, yet there are no waves. A distant sound like the rumble of a huge waterfall hovered in the air. Perhaps farther down the beach?

  Raethir Del's words in the cave came to mind. The edge of despair ... the shore of fear ...

  He realized his sword and pack were gone. He had the Gauntlets, and that was all.

  Face danger without a blade in my hand? What will I find this time?

  He trudged up the sloping beach and pushed into the vegetation. A thin strand of a path wandered among wispy fronds and wet grasses, broad bushes with leaves an arm's length in breadth, long ferns like feathers from a giant bird.

  Enkinor followed the trail into the undergrowth, glancing every few minutes to the mountain above him, trying to ori
ent his ascent. Perhaps from the summit he could discover where he was. After a while the trail threatened to fade and disappear. When it turned away from the direction of the peak, he left it behind. By the time he found another trail, the thick canopy overhead had risen to dizzying heights and closed. The jungle was now so full of shadow and mist he could see only a few yards in each direction. He could no longer keep the top of the mountain in sight, but at least the ground was sloping upward. He pushed an arm-thick vine out of his way and moved on. A torpid serpent slipped away.

  The sun was setting when he climbed above the tree-canopy and stepped out onto a rocky outcropping. One more step and the ground disappeared beneath him, and he was falling and grasping at the rocks that rimmed a black emptiness, legs dangling, feet trying to find purchase till he was able to haul himself up, sit, and catch his breath.

  He sat at the edge of a crater, the other side some four or five bowshots distant. At his feet, a stygian darkness seemed to swallow the dwindling sunlight. The steep walls of the crater were dotted with tiny airplants watered by warm mists rising from far below.

  To his left, a curious structure of polished black rock sat perched on the edge of the crater, facing the setting sun. A slanted beam rose from a huge slab, with steps set into the beam. Enkinor mounted the steps to a small platform. In every hazy direction he saw water. He was standing at the top of an island.

  The sun was disappearing behind him, casting a long shadow of the mountain across the water. The horizon now appeared so close Enkinor knew it couldn't be the true horizon. The edge, as it were, was irregular. He tried to imagine the water plunging to unknown depths before billowing up in mists just beyond the edge. Yet, the mists were so dense, and the light so dim, he could see nothing of what lay beyond.

  How am I possibly going to get off this place?

  Before him, on the platform, stood a bowl and a lance. The bowl held the ashes of a recent fire. The blade of the lance was strangely curved, with both a pike-point and a hook-like crescent shaped like a crashing breaker. He wondered what its purpose was and how the platform and the lance had come to be placed here. Was the island inhabited?