The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  A hush came over the crowd as a stocky man with a belly that flowed over his belt climbed up on the platform and walked out to the middle, next to the edge.

  Longhorn cursed to himself. The man wore false shackles on his wrists bearing the emblem of the Sar of Paerecis. He was an officially sanctioned Paerecisi slaver.

  The irrilai was about to see a slave sale.

  “People of Paerecis! Honored visitors!” said the slaver. “Thank you for coming to our auction tonight. We offer you the best and the finest that gold can buy! We are sure you will not go away disappointed!”

  The man held the crowd in rapt attention. Longhorn could scarcely believe so many people could be interested in a slave sale unless the slaver made a show of it somehow. If this sale went like others he had heard of, it would start with what some would call a specimen.

  “Let's begin!” said the slaver, and he motioned to the end of the platform. “Look what we have to whet your appetite tonight!”

  Two large men came up on the platform, carrying between them, one for each arm, a young woman. They brought her to the middle of the platform. One of the men stepped back while the other stood behind the woman, holding her by the arms. The slaver stepped over and, grabbing her by the hair, lifted her face to the crowds.

  It was Ki'rana.

  “I guarantee you will have many pleasurable nights with this one,” said the slaver with a leer.

  Longhorn hauled himself up on the stage and crouched. Ki'rana looked drugged or stunned. Every muscle in his body tightened in anticipation.

  The crowd was calling to the slaver, yelling, clamoring in their lust. The slaver, by his gestures and mannerisms, was playing the crowd into his hands.

  “What?” he said mockingly. “You don't believe me?” He moved his hand in a flourish to indicate her well-shaped breasts, the swell of her hips. “Surely you can see for yourself?”

  “No!” yelled the crowd as if they had done this many times before. It was their part to play in the show.

  Longhorn began to creep a little closer.

  “Well, then,” shouted the slaver, “do you believe me now?”

  With a practiced move, he ripped her blouse open and exposed her breasts.

  The crowds yelled with excitement.

  The irrilai tribesman went berserk.

  Longhorn closed the distance in two strides. With a mighty swing of his sword, he lopped off the slaver's head. Head and body tumbled into the crowd, and people screamed as warm, red blood jetted over them. Longhorn spun around and brought his blade down on the wrists of the man holding Ki'rana. Louder than the crowd screamed this man as he stared at his severed hands still grasping the woman's arms. The stumps of his wrists squirted crimson pulses across the platform.

  The irrilai threw the limp resara over his shoulder and jumped off the stage, swinging his sword in vicious arcs.

  A line of slaves waiting for sale took advantage of the confusion and added to it themselves. With wild yells, they leapt at their guards, swinging their chains and cracking bones and skulls.

  A horn sounded at the edge of the crowd. A squad of mounted Paerecisi soldiers plunged into the melee, their duty to keep peace, their instincts driving them to engage in a good battle. The crowd panicked. People ran in every direction. Many found themselves in the way of the blood-hungry soldiers and fell, trampled under the hooves of the horses.

  Longhorn searched for the right direction to escape. For just a moment, he was safe.

  Then, he saw him.

  And realized he had seen him earlier in the day, in the market. A cloaked and cowled figure with a familiar walk.

  The mask was different. Turtle-shell covered everything but nostrils, chin, and jaw-line. The man's eyes were gray and vacant, no whites or pupils. Benshaer had followed them and found them in Paerecis.

  One drop at a time, blood fell from the tip of Longhorn's blade. He stood with Ki'rana in the doorway of a closed tannery shop, resting with his back against the wall, the two of them concealed by darkness.

  Darkness that will be no help against Benshaer.

  And I have killed again.

  Ki'rana was conscious now, clutching her ripped blouse together in an attempt at modesty, whimpering softly on his shoulder as Longhorn held her close with one arm. His sword-arm was tired. He carefully lowered the point of his blade till it rested on the flagstones. He looked down at the frightened woman he loved and decided not to disturb her by cleaning his sword. Right now, she desperately needed whatever comfort and security he could provide. And Longhorn realized he needed the comfort of her closeness as well, for Ki'rana was not the only one fighting fear.

  They had known all along that sooner or later, Benshaer would be back on their trail. It was no surprise to see him masked again. Raethir Del would see to that, of course, but for Benshaer to have found them again so soon was uncanny.

  Longhorn wondered what would come next. A fight, here in the streets? Perhaps, but if the traitor had not yet found Ardemis, he would need at least one of them to lead him back to the mapseller's shop.

  Was he out there, somewhere, even now, watching them with his sorcerous sight? Was he waiting for them to return to the other resara, then spring his attack and kill them all?

  This night I have killed one man and maimed another, thought Longhorn. Will I kill yet another before the dawn?

  Gently, the irrilai disengaged Ki'rana from him. “Ki'rana, we have to go on,” he said.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity, Longhorn sheathed his sword across his back. A bare sword on the streets of Paerecis would attract undue attention. He checked to make sure his dagger was handy and free.

  Ki'rana said nothing. She wiped her eyes and looked at him inquiringly.

  “I'm taking you back to the inn,” said Longhorn. He was glad she did not realize Benshaer was out there. Longhorn would keep that to himself as long as possible.

  “You won't leave me, will you?” she asked him, her voice betraying barely restrained hysteria.

  He avoided a direct answer and instead told her, “We'll plan our next move when we get to the inn.”

  “What about Father?” she asked.

  “Maybe we can send for him,” Longhorn replied, not knowing what else to say. “Let's go.”

  The two stepped back into the street. Paerecis had quieted considerably in the short time since the riot at the slave sale. There were very few people walking about. Longhorn looked around carefully but saw no Paerecisi soldiers. From what he had seen, he would place no trust in the city guard.

  Benshaer was nowhere to be seen.

  As quickly as Ki'rana was able, the irrilai and the resara wound their way through Paerecis, ticking off landmarks and occasionally exchanging a few words of direction. Longhorn wanted to reach the safety of the inn where they had stabled their horses. Every time they became lost and backtracked, Longhorn cursed, and his stomach tightened. Every time they found their way again and made more progress, Longhorn relaxed very slightly and pressed on.

  They walked a busier street now and tried not to walk too fast and draw attention. In turn, Longhorn and Ki'rana's attention was drawn to a curious sight. A large, bearded man stood on a corner, swinging a lamp in one hand, a fistful of rolled parchments held high in the air by the other hand.

  “Maps! Maps for sale!” cried the man. “Maps for travelers! Maps for sale!”

  Ki'rana stopped and gripped Longhorn's arm. “That's Father's friend who sold me the map!”

  It only took a moment for the irrilai to make up his mind. He guided Ki'rana over to the man.

  The mapseller took one look at them and said, “Just the ones I'm looking for! I'm sure I can help you.”

  He extinguished his lamp and led them into the shadows.

  “My name is Khartos,” he said. “Ki'rana, you recognize me, don't you? Are you returning to the inn?” They nodded, so he continued, “Good. I'll go with you. Your father's waiting there.”

  He threw his cloak
around Ki'rana's shoulders, and the three of them slipped from the shadows and into the street.

  Chapter 41

  The Paerecisi inn was much like any other in the city. Because space was at a considerable premium in the city, most inns had sold their adjoining stables and converted their lowest floor to stables instead. Travelers therefore climbed stairs to the next floor up to get something to eat and ask for a room. Often, patrons that only stopped in for something to drink found themselves tumbling drunkenly over the railing on their way out.

  Khartos led them to the inn's back entrance. The fewer people who saw them, the fewer questions there would be. While his charges climbed the stairs to their room, the mapseller lingered just long enough to slip the innkeeper a piece of silver in exchange for his silence. Then, he joined the others upstairs to find Ki'rana crying gently in her father's arms. Ardemis stroked her hair and looked up at Longhorn and Khartos with tears in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “What has happened?”

  Ki'rana sat on the edge of the bed. Her father sat beside her and eased Khartos's cloak from her shoulders. He winced when he saw her blouse torn and blood-spattered.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked her, and she shook her head.

  Longhorn gave a quick synopsis, from Ki'rana's abduction by the slavers to his rescue of Ki'rana and the ensuing riot, omitting the violent details out of regard for Ki'rana's state.

  Khartos spoke to the irrilai. “When I realized Ardemis had left you outside, we went out to bring you in. We knew something was wrong when we saw you were gone. We searched the streets for a while, but there were too many people, the crowds too large. I sent others to look for you, as well. We thought you might return to the inn, so Ardemis returned here to wait while I roamed the streets, hoping you'd notice me.”

  The irrilai tribesman removed his scabbard and sat on short stool. Pulling his sword out, he began to clean it.

  “I must tell you,” said Longhorn, as Khartos and Ardemis both noticed the bloodstains on the steel blade, “we are in danger.”

  He told them of Benshaer, and his presence in Paerecis. The irrilai sheathed his sword and looked up at the other three.

  “We must make our plans.”

  Khartos and Ardemis nodded their assent, but Ki'rana stared at the floor, eyes wide with horror, palms pressed to her temples. Longhorn jumped up and held her arms, looking in her eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, fearing that the strain of their experiences had finally broken her mind.

  But Ki’rana turned to Ardemis. “Father,” she said, fear cracking in her voice, “we're coming to a xerad.”

  Ardemis nodded slightly. “You're right, daughter. Your sensitivity increases every day.”

  “What is she talking about?” asked Khartos.

  “A xerad,” said Ardemis, “is an edge of the Fabric, a border on the Weave beyond which nothing is known.”

  “Do you mean the end of time?” asked Longhorn.

  “It's impossible to tell. There may be no existence at all beyond the xerad, or there may be a new Weave altogether.”

  “What is its significance?”

  It was several long moments before the elder resara spoke. “An approach to a xerad means that, for good or ill, events are moving toward a major conclusion. Very soon, either Raethir Del will be victorious, or he will be destroyed.”

  No one spoke for a few minutes.

  Ki'rana took a deep breath, and the three men looked to her. “Father, we must Read the Weave.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “but now?”

  “Yes. We must try again to locate the Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer.”

  Longhorn looked at her, and his heart ached. He knew she had far exceeded her limits. Reading the Weave was no easy matter. The irrilai knew this would cost her even more of the pitiful remnant of mental and physical strength she had left. Yet, love or no love, Ki'rana and Ardemis had to find Visylon and Enkinor. And Longhorn was sworn to help them. Right now, that meant not trying to stop her.

  “Khartos,” said Longhorn, “why don't we check the horses?”

  As the two men left the room, Longhorn glanced back for a moment. Father and daughter sat, hand in hand, already beginning their shared trance. For an instant, Longhorn felt a twinge of jealousy. He could not share Ki'rana's ruta. Then, he shook his head as if to clear it and followed Khartos to the stables.

  The innkeeper looked up from the stew he was sampling from a large pot in the kitchen. Before him stood two men, the Paerecisi and the irrilai who had come in the back with the girl a short while earlier. He drew a dirty sleeve across his face, wiping gravy off his chin.

  “Customers aren't allowed in here,” he said with a growl.

  Longhorn began to bounce several pieces of silver in his hand. Without taking his gaze from the silver, he asked, “Has our bill for the night been settled?”

  The innkeeper immediately softened.

  “Yes, yes, but perhaps we can be of further service?” he replied, avarice in his eyes.

  “Perhaps,” said Longhorn, and he looked at the innkeeper. I am so short of strength and patience, thought the tribesman. I just want to sleep. But not tonight.

  “But,” continued the irrilai, “only if you know how to control your tongue.”

  The innkeeper's eyes narrowed slightly. He nodded to them both. “I'm your man.”

  “Good. When dawn comes, we will be off. Is there another way to the stables? A more discreet way, let us say?”

  By way of answer, the innkeeper crooked a finger and led them to the back. In one corner stood a door. He opened it, and the smell of hay and horse manure wafted into the kitchen.

  Longhorn gave the man three pieces of silver, subtly referred to the consequences of indiscretion, and borrowed a lantern.

  Below, in the stables, a dozen or more stalls were occupied. One of the horses blew and stamped. Most of them had been in strange surroundings frequently enough to not be frightened by the smell of strangers. Longhorn found their mounts and checked them. All had been given water and feed and appeared more rested. While Khartos held the lantern and watched, Longhorn saddled them, carefully checking their girths.

  “Why are you saddling them now?” asked Khartos.

  “I lied to the innkeeper. We'll leave several hours before dawn. If Benshaer makes a move tonight, it will be in the wee hours of the morning.”

  When Khartos and Longhorn returned upstairs, Ki'rana and Ardemis were just rousing themselves from the Reading trance. Ki'rana looked ill, so Longhorn helped her into a bed. She fell asleep even as her father began to talk.

  “We only found the Swordbearer. Ki'rana had no more strength to continue. The Swordbearer is now in Apracia.” For a moment, Ardemis placed his face in his hands, fighting exhaustion. “He must have gone around the Yalventa. The Forest is too dangerous. I think we should make directly for Apracia.”

  Longhorn told the resara he had readied their horses for a quick departure.

  “But we should leave soon,” said the irrilai. “I don't know what Benshaer will try next.”

  Khartos nodded. “What can I do to help?”

  “How well do the guards watch the city gates?”

  Khartos laughed to himself. “Not very well. That's why you'll see a number of soldiers.”

  “Then tell me how to reach the road to Apracia.”

  Once Longhorn learned what he needed to know, Khartos had a suggestion. “Why don't you and Ardemis try to get some sleep? I'll stay here and wake you a couple of hours after midnight.”

  Longhorn wanted to protest, but he didn't have the strength. Ardemis crawled into another bed, and the irrilai stretched out on the floor.

  Khartos passed the time by studying his maps.

  Longhorn fought to wake up but couldn't seem to clear his head. Khartos began shaking him more roughly until Longhorn protested and sat up with a groan. Ki'rana and Ardemis were already up and ready to go.

  If I look as bad as t
hey do, the irrilai thought, we may scare the horses.

  Silently, they left the room and glided downstairs. No one sat at the tables. One drunk was asleep on the floor, snoring loudly in a puddle of ale. They entered the kitchen and opened the door leading to the stables. Longhorn went first, followed by Khartos, Ki'rana, and finally Ardemis.

  Longhorn had reached the bottom step when he realized he had forgotten to light his lamp, but the stable doors were open wide to the street, allowing a little light to enter. For a moment, the irrilai stared at the floor of the stable between the two lines of stalls. It almost looked like piles of hay in the middle of the floor. His ears picked up a sound near the piles, and he grabbed Khartos by the shoulder.

  Someone moved along the piles of hay, and something was gurgling, like a liquid being poured. Longhorn noted the tiniest of reflections from the liquid. Whoever was in the stables, they were pouring the liquid all over the hay.

  The person moved out of sight. A spark flashed and fell into the hay. Flames leapt from the floor to the rafters and shone on the arsonist's masked face.

  It was Benshaer, and the stables were on fire.

  Longhorn and the others jumped into the stables, yelling. Benshaer saw them, looked directly at Longhorn for a moment, and fled.

  For a moment, Longhorn thought to pursue him. The yells of his comrades and the neighing of frightened horses reminded him of the danger all around him, and he turned back.

  Frantically, they worked to free the horses. The large beasts, eyes wild with terror, whinnied and reared. Careful of falling under flailing hooves, the men grabbed reins and pulled. Each of the horses took two or three of the men to bring them out into the street, away from the conflagration. By the time all their horses were rescued, people from the inn were working to free the others and put out the fire.

  But the flames raged, the animals screamed, and people wept with frustration.