The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  The men on the lead horses dismounted, laughing at Enkinor's dunking. Enkinor turned his head to glare and groaned when he saw where they had brought him.

  A slave camp.

  Several large tents were pitched in a bare spot above the river bank. On the far side of the camp, a number of men sat chained together in the dry grass. Their captors, dressed like Enkinor's in a variety of ordinary garments, strolled and talked, entertaining themselves with dice carved from bone and women carved from poverty. Some of the slavers stood guard with coiled whips, occasionally breaking their boredom by bullying the prisoners sitting huddled in the grass. Each prisoner's hands were shackled to a long, heavy chain.

  Enkinor was cut loose from the horse and slid to the ground with a painful thump. The slavers left his hands tied but cut his feet loose before jerking him up and dragging him toward the other prisoners. There, they untied his hands and shackled him to the chain before he could react.

  Enkinor held his arms around his knees and shivered in his wet clothes. A thought occurred to him. He looked at his shackled hands and his empty belt.

  The Gauntlets were gone.

  Where are they? What happened to them?

  Enkinor sat quietly with the others and tried not to show his panic, fighting the futile desire to jump up and rush his captors.

  How could I have lost them? The episode in Kophid with Raethir Del proved the Paws of the Bear could not be taken by force. But if they simply fell from his belt, they could be anywhere between where he was captured and this camp.

  The Saerani sentara wanted more than anything to shout and give voice to his anger and frustration. How would he escape the hudraii slavers? How would he find the Gauntlets?

  For hours, he thought about them. He was tempted to think they were lost forever, but he couldn't accept that. He devised and discarded one escape plan after another. When thirst and hunger and fatigue claimed him at last, he fell over, asleep, his manacles clanking softly.

  He awoke at dusk as the chain moved. The other prisoners were cramming crusty bread in their mouths, moistening it with swallows of water from earthen mugs. Before the Saerani was his own bread and water. He picked them up, hesitantly, and began to eat.

  As he tried to swallow, Enkinor studied his surroundings. The slave camp was sprawled at the outer side of a sharp bend in a small river that narrowed and deepened as it turned through the bend. The ground rose just slightly between the river and the hudraii camp. The small fires that the slavers had started for cooking their own food could probably not be seen from the opposite bank.

  The evening breezes pressed the dry plains grass. As Enkinor finished his bread and water, one of the slavers approached him, accompanied by a man clad in furs like the Waryndi, head bald, beard gray. Dangling from his ears were the talons of an eagle. The amulets that adorned him looked like dried body parts of small creatures. If FeraCryst were to tell him this was their tribal izar, Enkinor would not have been surprised.

  “This is him,” said the amulet-man, nodding at Enkinor. “Let him go.”

  “Damn you, Talis. He's the strongest and healthiest of the lot. Are you sure it's not someone else?” asked the slaver.

  Talis looked insulted. “Trust me. Let him go, or we will all suffer for it. I felt it as soon as your men brought him in.”

  The slaver took stock of Enkinor, weighing his choices. Enkinor was afraid to move, afraid to do the slightest thing that would tip the slaver's mind in the wrong direction. He had to escape. He had to recover the Gauntlets. Whatever had led the one called Talis to seek Enkinor's release, the Saerani was grateful for it.

  “Very well,” the slaver said at last.

  He bent and unlocked the shackles that held the Saerani. Enkinor got his feet under him and pushed himself up, stamping his feet to get the circulation going again.

  The slaver backed away a little. “No tricks, dog, or I'll cut your throat, Talis and his premonitions be damned.”

  Talis had not moved. “Come,” he said. “We’ll give you a few things and see you on your way.”

  The amulet-man turned and walked toward the tents, Enkinor close behind, the other prisoners watching in disbelief.

  “No horse!” called the slaver after them.

  Two hudrai slavers stood guard over the Saerani tribesman while the shaman entered his tent and prepared some meager supplies for Enkinor. Enkinor could think of nothing but how to recover the Gauntlets. How could he regain them when he didn't know where they were? There was no way he could retrace the route by which the slavers had brought him. If the Gauntlets were dropped along the way, he would never find them. There were miles of endless grassland to search.

  But if he had dropped the Gauntlets when he was captured, and one of his captors had taken them, then the Gauntlets could be somewhere within this camp.

  At that moment, Talis brushed a flap aside and emerged with a small pack he handed to the Saerani.

  “A little food, flint and steel, a flask of water. No weapons, no horse. Now, get out of here before he changes his mind.” The look Talis gave him was not unkind.

  “What about—” began Enkinor, thinking about asking for his Gauntlets.

  “Yes?” said Talis, a little annoyed.

  Enkinor thought better of his request and quickly thought of something else. “Could I have a blanket? The night will be cold, I expect.”

  The shaman ducked back in his tent and pressed a thin rag of a blanket into the Saerani's hands.

  Minutes later, Enkinor was walking into a chilly Forlannar night, the slaver camp and the river at his back. The relief he felt at being free again was fleeting. The Gauntlets were gone, and he was still a captive of the Dreamtunnel.

  A half mile from the hudraii slave camp, Enkinor stopped. He gathered what he could find for a fire and went to work with the flint and steel that Talis had provided. The Saerani cared not if they saw his fire. He needed the flame, and he did not want to go too far from the camp. The slavers would see the Saerani one more time. Enkinor had convinced himself that the Gauntlets were on the hands of one of the hudraii.

  He nursed his fire, keeping it low but hot and smoldering. As the night deepened, the Saerani sat and planned. The stars overhead grew bright, and the breeze at his back continued to wash the plain with coolness.

  It was all he could do to be patient, to hold his worries at bay, to wait for the right time of the night. But when the right time came, Enkinor went into action. He judged the first watch would end soon and that the hudraii sentries would be drowsy and not very alert. Carrying burning brands that glowed warmly, Enkinor started at one end of a large semicircle, facing the camp and the bend in the river, and began starting small grass fires. The crisp, dry blades caught instantly, fanned by the breeze. Flames rose in moments as Enkinor worked his way to the other end of the semicircle, setting over a dozen fires along the way.

  By the time the hudraii realized what was happening, billowing flames and smoke were rolling toward their camp.

  Only a mile or two away, a band of tribesmen reined their horses to a halt. For days, they had been searching for the hudraii, hoping to find them and free their prisoners, most of whom were irrilaii.

  Ahead lay a river, and beyond the river, a long line of fire was growing. The irrilaii smelled smoke, and the wind carried distant shouts and the whinnies of frightened horses.

  At the command of their leader, each irrilai man and woman in the band drew their bow from the sheath on their saddle, nocked an arrow, and spurred their horse into a mad gallop for the fire.

  The slave camp was in chaos. Men were running in every direction, half-dressed, trying to gather important possessions, trying to save the horses, arguing over the fate of their captives. The flames were rushing toward them, and their only escape was the river.

  The manacled prisoners huddled together, afraid they'd be killed if they tried to escape, burned alive if they didn't.

  Enkinor had only one choice. He held his breath and s
printed through the flames till he entered the hudraii camp. He dropped to the ground, coughing as he rolled with tearing eyes, putting out the flames on his clothes.

  No one even noticed him.

  Battle-cries came out of the darkness beyond the camp. Enkinor watched as dozens of riders plunged into the water and clambered up the riverbank, headed for the hudraii camp.

  Enkinor jogged through the camp, eyes following each fleeing slaver, desperately searching for the hudraii who had captured him. His only hope was that one of them would have the Gauntlets. As the slaver who had released him ran past, a black-fletched arrow buried itself in the man's chest. The key to the manacles hung by a rawhide thong around the man's neck.

  The captives were clustered, milling about, avoiding anyone with a weapon in hand. Enkinor could release them, or he could continue searching for the Gauntlets.

  The Saerani knelt beside the slaver and drew the man's dagger. With one quick jerk, Enkinor cut the rawhide thong. Dodging fleeing slavers and mounted raiders, he ran to the captives and freed them. As he returned to the slavers to find the Gauntlets, he glanced back and saw that the raiders were now herding the freed men into the safety of the river.

  Their leader held aloft an irril horn like the one Longhorn had carried. Irrilaii! Longhorn's people!

  The plainsmen were quickly executing judgment on the slavers, an arrow through the heart for each one. Even the shaman who had sensed something unusual about Enkinor was dead, smoldering grass beneath him charring his lifeless flesh. A few hudraii remained, moving in close to the irrilaii mounts so the tribesmen could not use their bows. One was trying to slip away, unseen.

  A man wearing the Paws of the Bear.

  Enkinor ran, leaping over bodies, dodging horses, coughing through the smoke. The slaver had paused behind one of the tents, uncertain, squeezed between foes and flame. Then, the Saerani appeared before him, dagger in hand.

  The hudrai was very young. A few wisps of blond hair showed beneath the boy's cap. There was fear on his face as he drew his sword, preparing to defend himself.

  “Give me my gauntlets,” Enkinor ordered.

  The hudrai just looked at him, confused.

  Enkinor did not know what to do. The boy must have taken the Gauntlets when Enkinor dropped them. He couldn't have taken them by force. The Saerani had to get them back, but perhaps he could not take them by force, either.

  “Give me the gauntlets,” said Enkinor, “and I'll ask the irrilaii to spare your life.”

  Still, the hudrai did not move. He was nervously watching the executions taking place around him, glancing back at Enkinor every few seconds.

  “Please,” said Enkinor in a calmer voice, his hand held out before him. “They are sought by a sorcerer who will do anything to have them, including consign you to a living death. I cannot let him have them.”

  Damn. Am I going to have to kill the boy to get them back? Can he even be killed while he wears them? Or is it still a matter of using force?

  But the Saerani's words had at least some effect. The youth looked as if he was weighing in his mind whether he should believe him. Enkinor, waiting with painful patience, was relieved to see the boy begin to remove one of the Gauntlets.

  An irrilai rider thundered up to them, sighting down his arrow on the breastbone of the hudrai. He paused, corded muscles tensed, as if hesitating to execute someone so young.

  The boy glanced at Enkinor for a moment, panic in his eyes. Then, he turned and ran.

  “No!” said Enkinor.

  It was too late. The boy had taken only two steps before the irrilai released his arrow. With a groan, the youth fell, pierced from back to front by the crimson-stained shaft. Enkinor rushed over to the boy and, kneeling beside him, gently raised his head.

  “Give me the gauntlets before you die!” he whispered, but the eyes of the hudrai were fixed and lifeless. He was already dead.

  The Saerani lowered the boy to the ground.

  Enkinor was afraid to move. The Gauntlets lay before him, on the hands of a dead man. Would the spell that prevented Raethir Del from taking them from Enkinor also prevent Enkinor from taking them from the dead hudraii?

  The irrilai rider approached. “Come. We do not plunder a defeated enemy,” he said.

  Enkinor turned and looked up at him. “This enemy has something that belongs to me.”

  Knowing he could no longer delay, he bent over the dead hudrai and tugged loose one of the Gauntlets. For a moment, Enkinor held the Gauntlet in his hands. Not wanting to draw undue attention, he swallowed his relief instead of giving voice to it. He pulled the other Gauntlet from the boy’s stiffening fingers and donned them both.

  He stood, bringing his Gauntleted fists to his eyes. The tribesman extended his hand and pulled Enkinor up behind him. With a battle-cry, the irrilai joined the others.

  Chapter 47

  No experience in whitewater? You’re even more of a fool than the others. And I don’t have to tell you where they are now.

  In the end, thanks to the note from Hyphos, the boatwright gave Visylon a khayan and a double-bladed paddle and then threw in some advice.

  When the river enters the base of the Tree, you'll see vines draped from one side to the other. Only way to enter the Tree is grab a vine, let go of your boat, and pull yourself to the side of the tunnel.

  Remember, you won't have a second chance. A hundred feet past the Tree are the Falls of Mist. Miss the vines and you'll wish you never chose to do this. You won't survive the falls.

  Visylon studied the boat. It was the same shape and length the khayans used by the tribes on Lake Cinnaril, but it was covered, bow and stern, with canvas decking. Under gray skies, he hoisted the boat on his shoulder and carried it down to the river.

  The Esolasha was running fast. The riverbanks were narrow, the hills on each side low and unassuming. Downstream, the river dropped, and the banks closed in. The boatwright had told him the gorge would deepen. By the time he reached the Rivertree, the river would be two hundred feet below the canyon rim. Visylon watched the swollen current, knowing with every moment he delayed, gathering his courage would become more difficult.

  He lashed the Sword of Helsinlae to the bow decking where he could quickly free it. Stepping into the water with the boat, Visylon held it against the current and grasped the paddle in his other hand. As he jumped in, the khayan tipped, and he struggled to right it. He slipped his legs under the decking. Before he could even begin to paddle, the river caught him and swept the boat away.

  Cold loneliness washed over him as he took in his surroundings and watched the river ahead. The Codex Indrelfis was his only clue to understanding what was going on with Enkinor. The only way to find the Codex was to surrender to the river, let it carry him to the Tree, and pray that the Tree would give up its secrets. There was no going back. The Esolasha had him in its grip and would show no mercy.

  For several minutes, there was little to do but now and then guide the khayan around large rocks. The river tried several times to spin him around, but each time, he muscled the boat back in the right direction. The Swordbearer expected growing danger as the canyon narrowed and he drew closer to the Rivertree, but he was still unprepared when the current whipped him around a blind turn and propelled him directly at a long tree trunk that spanned the narrow river like a low bridge. Only a space of several inches separated the log from the foaming water. Visylon thrust the paddle deep in the water and pulled toward shore, but the current was too strong. He didn't want to wedge the boat under the log, so he paddled hard to turn parallel to the trunk. As he hit the tree broadside, he tensed his arms and absorbed the impact with the end of his paddle.

  In the fraction of a second that Visylon fought the river as it pressed him against the tree, his upstream blade dipped into the water, and the current flipped him. He reached for the boat, but the khayan filled with water and was sucked under the trunk. Coughing up water, clinging to his paddle, the Saerani warrior grabbed for the trun
k with his free hand. His only means of entering the Tree was gone, the Sword of Helsinlae with it.

  Cold, his clothing soaked, Visylon struggled to stand and was surprised to find the water was only thigh-deep. Fighting the pull of the current as it tried to suck him under as it had the boat, he forced his way to shore, anxious to keep the khayan in sight.

  The flooded boat bobbed its way downstream. With relief, he watched the khayan bump into the rocky shelf of a small island. The stern came around, and the current pushed the boat with a scratching noise onto a gravel beach dotted with shrubs and driftwood.

  Visylon stepped onto the wet log bridging the river and began to inch his way across it, crouched low, using the double-bladed paddle for balance. Once across, he waded through the small side channel and scrambled over the rocks to the khayan. He tried to turn the boat over, but it was too heavy. He tried to rock it from one side to the other, but it wouldn't move. The Saerani warrior yelled in frustration.

  For a moment, he considered abandoning the boat and climbing out of the canyon, but neither turning his back on the Codex nor scaling the steep sides of the canyon was truly an option.

  A half-submerged log in the shallows gave him an idea.

  Visylon pulled the boat off the gravel and dragged it over to the log. He squatted and lifted one end of the khayan up in the air, turning the boat on its side, tipping it and dumping some of the water. Now that the khayan was a little bit lighter, he rocked the boat back and forth. Each time, more water sloshed out. After several minutes, the boat was empty.

  The Swordbearer stood for a moment, eyes closed, wishing for rest, knowing the hardest part was yet to come.

  Cold water slammed against the wall of the canyon and sprayed over the boat as Visylon and the khayan were slung around a turn. He pulled hard and steered the boat through a chute before the backwash could dash him against the rocks. The boat dropped several feet and entered the churning water bow-first, peeling, then leaping up and out and falling back to be swept on down the Esolasha River. The Saerani tried and failed to keep the khayan lined up with the current. The boat turned like a floating leaf, and for a moment, Visylon was carried backward toward the next rapids. He leaned as far as he dared and plunged his paddle deep. Coming around, he back-paddled to keep from being sucked into a whirlpool and struggled back into the main current. The canyon walls closed in sharply, the khayan gathered speed, and the Swordbearer plunged into the Throat of Eso.