The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

“You must leave now, quickly,” said Khartos, “before the guard shows up.”

  “No!” said Ki'rana, eyes wide, hair disheveled. “We have to help those people! There may be children in there!”

  Her father took her gently by the shoulders. “This is terrible. It is murder, and it is Benshaer's work, but we must go. Others will help. If we fail to stop Raethir Del, many more people than these will suffer.”

  As tears welled up in her eyes, Ardemis pulled her close and held her for a few moments.

  Khartos looked at Longhorn but spoke to them all. “Go now, hurry. I will warn all the people I can.”

  The resari mounted their steeds. Then, Longhorn too swung into the saddle and took the reins. They hurriedly shared their farewells with Khartos, the look in their eyes saying much more than their few words, before wheeling their mounts around and galloping away.

  From the shadows, a masked man watched and cursed quietly. Behind him, the flames roared higher, leaping to nearby buildings, consuming the wooden structures and anyone inside who wasn’t roused by the panicked shouts in the street.

  Chapter 42

  Visylon strolled through the palace gardens of Apracia, enjoying the cool night breezes, consciously setting aside his uneasiness over having to surrender the Sword of Helsinlae at the palace gate. By custom, weapons were not permitted here. After three days of helping the musari trace the plague through Apracia and getting by on very little sleep, the crisp air felt refreshing. The musari had succeeded in containing the plague. There were no new outbreaks. They were free, now, to focus their energy on curing those whose disease was not yet advanced. Meanwhile, until the plague was gone, the city would remain under quarantine as a precaution.

  As a small expression of his gratitude, the Sar of Apracia had invited Visylon and Hyphos and several others to dine with him at the palace. The fare was limited, as fresh food in the city had become scarce, but it was still received by the Sar's guests with gratitude. When the empty dishes were carried away, and he had drained his final glass of wine, Visylon had guessed he could take his leave without offending his host and excused himself from the Sar's table, anxious to plan his departure from Apracia.

  He strolled silent paths among the palace’s barren trees. Starlight and statues were reflected in the still pools, the water dappled with maple leaves.

  Enkinor, where are you?

  He was tired, so tired. And the food and wine only made him more aware of how tired he was.

  I need some guidance. I'm wandering blind.

  He had no trail to follow, no clues to Enkinor's whereabouts. Some would say he should trust in Eloeth to lead him. Visylon was not at all sure he had that much faith. He felt certain he needed to leave Apracia, but he had nothing to go on. Which direction? The only direction he could rule out was the one back through the Yalventa.

  Lost in thought, his reactions and senses dulled by wine and fatigue, Visylon failed to notice a faint rustle, a slight change in the shadows.

  Within moments, both arms were pinned behind his back. A lantern flared in the darkness and was thrust in his face so he could see nothing. He struggled to free himself till a voice said, “Hold, if you value your life!”

  Visylon stilled, panting.

  “You are Visylon, a Saerani warrior, are you not?” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Visylon tried to turn his head and see who spoke, but someone grabbed him by the chin and pulled his head back. A strong hand clasped his throat.

  “Don't think of calling the palace guards, Saerani. If we must take you somewhere else, we may not be as courteous.”

  “Release me, then,” said Visylon through clenched teeth.

  “No. You will meet us on our terms, and you will respect our anonymity.”

  “Why? Who are you?” said Visylon. “What do you want from me?”

  “We want answers.” The hand on the Saerani's throat was withdrawn, and he lowered his head, but with the lantern in his face, there was still no way for him to see his captors. “We know who you say you are. News travels fast. Perhaps you tell the truth, but perhaps there is truth you are withholding.”

  “Ask your damn questions then. Get this over with.”

  There was a long pause, as if to spite Visylon, to emphasize who was in control.

  “Judging by recent events, it would seem someone wants you dead, warrior. Who? What makes you so important?”

  Visylon said nothing. Only the musari know what's happened. Who are these people?

  “We're waiting for an answer, Saerani. Did you not just say, 'Get this over with'?”

  “He calls himself the 'Gatekeeper',” said Visylon.

  “Gatekeeper? Who is the Gatekeeper?”

  “Raethir Del. A sorcerer who wants me captured.”

  “And why is that?”

  I'm too tired to play games tonight.

  “I can only guess it's because I bear the Sword of Helsinlae.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What is the Sword of Helsinlae to this sorcerer?”

  Does he know what the Sword is? He didn't ask.

  “I don't know,” said Visylon. “I'm searching for one of my tribesmen whom I believe is also in danger from this sorcerer. All I know is the Sword of Helsinlae is part of my destiny.”

  Someone snapped their fingers, and Visylon was released. The lantern was set on the ground, but all he could see was a glowing after-image. Several cloaked figures backed away from him, save one. This one approached him, but Visylon could discern no features in the dark. The man bent his knee in respect before rising.

  “How may I be of service, Swordbearer?”

  “Hyphos!” said Visylon. There was no mistaking the voice. “I don't understand. What is the meaning of this?”

  Hyphos dismissed the others, and they merged with the darkness.

  “If you are who I think you are, you are worthy of our respect, and you are owed our cooperation.”

  “Jumping me in the dark and holding me against my will is your idea of respect?”

  “I'm sorry, my friend. The holomusari, and of course the people of Apracia, will forever be indebted to you. This is no way to treat a friend, but I had to learn the truth of who you really are. You showed up on our doorstep in Jest, dying from a sorcerous taint we had to remove from you. You told me you were looking for someone in danger, that you'd faced perils both natural and unnatural. You admitted there was more to your story, but you put me off. In the Yalventa, there were hudraii following you. Again, you put me off.” Hyphos shook his head. “You've given me plenty of reason to demand answers, and now I learn you carry the Sword of Helsinlae.”

  The Saerani narrowed his eyes. “You've still not explained why I must tell you anything.”

  “How did you get the Sword?”

  Visylon explained it was not Helsinlae's sword. Rather, it carried within it some of Helsinlae's power. He told of his encounter with Anquilon in the Parthulian hills, the instructions he'd been given, and how he had followed those instructions.

  “That is the truth, Hyphos. What else do you need from me?”

  “The whole truth, my friend?”

  Visylon drew a deep breath, fists clenched.

  “I cannot be too careful, Visylon. I may be able to help you, but to do so, I must set aside a lifelong vow, if only for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “There are things I must reveal to you,” said the healer. “I have another ruta besides holomusara, one that has never been revealed to anyone. If I share this knowledge with you, can I trust you with it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hyphos pressed the fingertips of his hands together before him. “First, do you know of the High and the Hidden rutaya? The High rutaya include the abramusari, the sorcerers; the musaresari, the Readers of the Weave; and the holomusari.

  “The Hidden rutaya are less well known and for a reason. Members of the Hidden rutaya are sworn to secrecy. If no one knows they're members of one of these rut
as, it's easier for them to guard what they are sworn to protect. They include the abrasentari, who guard arcane knowledge; and the lexisentari, the loreguards. The loreguards protect other types of knowledge, knowledge that must be preserved but, at the same time, can't be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

  Hyphos crossed his arms, sliding his hands up his sleeves.

  “Visylon, I am a lexisentara as well as a healer. I break my vow of secrecy, now, and risk having my rutas taken away because I have information that may help you.”

  Visylon was intently curious. “What information?”

  “As the Swordbearer of Helsinlae, you should know there is one surviving relic of the times of Helsinlae, a manuscript known as the Codex Indrelfis. It is believed to describe important events of the future that are tied to the power of the Thraean kings.”

  “Where is this manuscript? Who has it?”

  The man who was both holomusara and lexisentara sighed. “The Codex was placed in safekeeping in an enormous tree, the Rivertree. All we know is that it speaks of the Swordbearer and that he will play a part in protecting all peoples.”

  “I need to see the Codex.”

  “If anyone has a right to see it, you do, Visylon.”

  “There must be danger involved, am I right?” said the Swordbearer. “I can't believe it would be easy.”

  “Yes, there is danger,” replied the lexisentara. “The tree stands in a gorge, completely straddling the Esolasha River, and the only way to enter the tree is by boat. No easy task, given the current of the Esolasha. If you fail to disembark within the tree, you will be swept over the Falls of Mist and die. Many have attempted to enter the tree, searching for rumored treasure, but no one entering the tree has ever emerged.”

  Visylon scratched his chin. “How do I get a boat?”

  “There is a boatwright living a couple of miles upriver from the tree. He keeps a boat on-hand, always, for the next fool braving the river. I will give you a message to take to him. He will give you what you need.”

  “Assuming I find the Codex, how will I get back out of the tree?”

  “We don't know.”

  “Don't know?”

  “We can only trust that the loreguards who constructed this gave that consideration as well and planned for it.” Hyphos paused. “Visylon, there is more that I must ask. How is it that you, a warrior, also have an aptitude for healing?”

  “Healing? I'm no healer.”

  “No? You showed innate skill when we freed that person of the demon curse in the Yalventa.”

  “What? All I did was hold him.”

  “That, my friend, is disingenuous. Your help was critical. As it has been over the last few days, as we've fought to contain this plague.”

  Visylon shook his head in denial. He recalled how uneasy he felt as he helped Hyphos with the demon.

  “Don't worry, Saerani. You've done far more than I expected of you when you came to us. I'm not going to coerce you to stay here. I know you must go on to find your friend. Come, I'll write you a message to get you your boat and one to tell the city guards to let you break quarantine and leave the city.”

  Chapter 43

  A swarm of bees was approaching.

  Enkinor couldn’t see the swarm, but he could sense how close it was.

  But it wasn’t a swarm, he realized shortly. It was a horde, a tremendous gathering, a moving like a migration of every bee in the world.

  No, these bees weren’t migrating. They were amassing. They were pursuing. They were coming for him.

  He wanted to run, but he couldn’t will his legs to move.

  The bees were coalescing into a sinuous band of intent. They streamed through the air, moving as one, never deviating from their course. In time, the lead bees began to rise into the sky, their brethren following. When the air began to grow too cool at altitude, they slowed and dove back down, the tail of the horde following across the apex of their ascent.

  Like a living spear, they dove toward Enkinor.

  His legs wouldn't budge. Move, damn you, he told his feet, but nothing happened. Fear was overtaking him. If he didn’t run, the horde would reach him and swallow him up.

  He looked up at the sky in panic and finally saw them. They were still some distance away, but the gray-black spot that marked them was growing larger by the second. Any moment now, they would touch him and carry him off.

  Enkinor woke with a start, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. He sat up, looked above him, saw only the underside of the thatched roof of Maeryl's hut.

  There were no bees. It had only been a dream.

  “Maeryl,” he said, turning to her pallet, but her pallet was empty, the sheets undisturbed. She had not slept there that night.

  Something wasn't right, and it wasn't just that Maeryl was gone. The sense of foreboding he'd felt in his dream was not passing. He could sense something ominous approaching. There was the slightest vibration in his bones, like a hum. Like the hum of a horde of bees.

  The Dreamtunnel.

  The Dreamtunnel was nearing, soon to carry him off again.

  It was already hot in the hut. Sunlight streamed in through the windows.

  How could I have slept so late?

  He dressed quickly, tucking the Gauntlets in his belt, and stopped. She handed Raethir Del the secret of the Dreamtunnel, he thought. She gave him its vradu name, and now the beast returns to swallow me again.

  Outside, it was warm. There were no morning breezes. He stepped to the riverbank and watched a little fog coming down the river, soundless, furtive.

  No, not fog. Smoke? Where's it coming from?

  As he looked, a wisp snaked its way toward him from upriver. Even as he watched, the smoke took on more form and substance. It wormed its way past him, headed for the Sea.

  Why would Maeryl be burning something?

  At his feet, a large spiral was traced in the sand. Maeryl's footprints led away from the spiral and up the river.

  Something was clearly wrong. She was gone, there was smoke, and the Dreamtunnel would arrive at any time.

  A weapon. He needed a weapon, but he had no sword. He rushed to the hut and looked for Maeryl's knife, but it was gone. There was her fishing spear, but the head was too small to serve as a weapon.

  Enkinor ran up the riverbank and splashed into the shallows. It was easier to run this way than try to fight the undergrowth and follow a winding trail. In time, he came to a fallen bridge made of large slabs of stone. Pieces lay broken, half in the water, half on shore. He climbed around the aged and weathered stone and continued up the river.

  Just past the ruined stonework, the river turned. On the inside of the bend, where the river had deposited mud, he found enough footprints in the mud for half a dozen men. Maeryl and Enkinor were no longer alone in the Gardens. And Maeryl was surely in danger.

  The footprints led him into the jungle. He came across more stone slabs like those used for the bridge across the river. They were scattered across the jungle floor, draped with sinuous vines. Some lay against others in haphazard fashion, lush ferns sprouting from cracks and crevices. Enkinor scrambled over some rubble, still following the trail. The smoke had disappeared for the most part, but he could still smell it.

  A short way into the jungle, the Saerani spotted movement. He dropped to a crouch behind some foliage and peered out.

  On the edge of a clearing, a large campfire smoldered. Within the clearing stood more of the monoliths. Six stone slabs stood arranged in a circle. Several men in loose-fitting uniforms marked by insignia were alternately standing and sitting around, their gear propped irreverently against the slabs. Maeryl's captors laughed and jested with one another, evidently pleased with the living treasure they had found in the jungle.

  In the middle of the circle of monoliths was a black, six-sided obelisk with perfectly smooth, straight sides. The monument was fully as tall as the monoliths, with a single iron ring set in one side at head height. Maeryl's hands were tied to the ir
on ring. Her mouth was gagged, her tunic ripped. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  Enkinor looked down at his side and found himself face to face with Maeryl's jaguar. Before the Saerani could react, Panta nuzzled him and spoke.

  Those animals like you, they may kill her. The creature paused. My anger burns. I will kill them all.

  “Patience,” whispered Enkinor. “We must plan, and plan carefully, for we are outnumbered, and we must free the tendara.”

  A short while later, Enkinor casually approached the clearing and the soldiers. The Saerani made no effort to conceal his approach. He wanted the soldiers to hear him coming. He watched with wry amusement as the soldiers turned in his direction and fanned out, arrows nocked to bowstrings.

  “Halt! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The men began to close in, abandoning concealment. The soldier in the middle of the group approached with confidence, no weapons drawn. Like the rest, his face was furred with stubble. Behind the haughty smile were several broken teeth.

  Enkinor counted six men. Maeryl had been left alone.

  “My name is Enkinor. I've been crossing this jungle for the past few days. Started to break camp this morning when I thought I heard a scream.” He smiled, a lustful gleam in his eye. “Must've been that shapely woman you have tied up,” he said, nodding toward Maeryl.

  “Yes,” admitted their leader. “Interested? Maybe we can do business.”

  The other men began to grumble and object, but their leader silenced them with a glare.

  “No, I don't think so,” said Enkinor, using a tone that suggested his mind could be changed.

  “No? I can't believe it. How often do you find a well-shaped female in the middle of the jungle? How often do you find any female in the middle of the damned jungle? I bet it's been many months since you last tumbled a wench. Come, we'll introduce you.”

  The leader of the soldiers gave his name as Herkar, sergeant of an exploratory band of the Farennet army. Enkinor noted as Herkar led him to the clearing that the others had slung their bows over their shoulders, confident in their leader's unspoken judgment on the lack of danger.