by Mark E Lacy
“Unless Raethir Del has learned to bring the dead back to life,” he mused, “we are finally free of this burden.”
Ki'rana loosed her grip and looked up at their exhausted guardian. “Longhorn, the Gauntletbearer is with the irrilaii.”
Startled, Longhorn looked down at her. “Are you sure? Of course you are. What am I saying?” He took a rag and wiped his blade. “There’s no time to waste. We’re far from the Plains of Forlannar, and we must still reach the Rivertree and the Swordbearer.”
The older resara was already shaking his head. “No, my friend. We can't go with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must leave at first light,” said Ardemis. “Longhorn, you are our only hope. This is our last chance. You must find the Swordbearer and ride with all possible haste for the Plains of Forlannar. If the Swordbearer and the Gauntletbearer are not reunited, we are doomed.”
“Come with me!” said Longhorn, sheathing his sword.
Ardemis clasped the younger man's shoulders and then embraced him. “We would only slow you down. We will move on to Del’rissak and watch for signs of the outcome.”
Then, it was Ki'rana's turn. Once more she threw her arms around Longhorn's neck. No longer able to restrain her emotions, she shed silent tears for several moments. She looked at him with fear and worry. Kissing him lightly on the lips, she whispered, “I love you.”
I love you too, he thought to himself, but he could not bring himself to even whisper it. Unable to speak, he simply returned her kiss.
It was dawn when he saddled his horse and mounted up. She returned to the top of the tower, hoping he would look up and wave but knowing he would not, for the pain it might cause them both.
From the height of Tura Iaphon, she was able to watch him for some time. The grotto still lay in cool darkness when the sun rose and reflected brilliantly off the Falls of Mist. A few lone birds danced in the mist like wind-tossed leaves, while below them, a man on a horse picked his way carefully across the ford. On the other side, the horse shook itself dry, sending sparks of water flying. Then, horse and man climbed up the trail, the mists swallowed them up, and she could see them no more.
Chapter 49
Visylon stood in the doorway of the last room of the Rivertree, sword in hand. The Codex Indrelfis was nowhere to be seen. He had come this far, and now, he found an empty room. The Saerani was the victim of a cruel lie, a false legend. He had risked his life to find a piece of the puzzle that might lead him to Enkinor, and still, there was no clue.
Could it have been stolen? Had someone else finally discovered the Tree’s secret?
As Visylon stepped into the room, the Sword of Helsinlae grew brighter. Holding it over his head, he studied the wall that circumscribed the room. The surface was cracked, black, like logs in a dead campfire. He followed it around, frustration growing, unease creeping across his skin. He prayed that the sword would continue to give him light.
Once he returned to his starting point, the room was no longer empty. In the center, a gigantic wooden heart hung by dozens of veins and arteries that entered every surface of the circular room. The heart and its branches looked lifeless and brittle. The light from the sword cast complex shadows across the floor.
A strange sensation began thrumming through his palm where he held the Sword of Helsinlae. The tip of his sword rose until it was pointed at the wooden heart. The blade tugged with a steady pull, drawn like iron to lodestone.
Visylon waited, gripped by curiosity and anticipation. Nothing more happened. The sword jerked, tugging in his sweating hand as if eager to show him something. As Visylon took a step toward the heart, the sword flared up, and the pull on the blade grew much stronger. He took another step, ducking under a large wooden artery, and the pull doubled in strength, forcing the Saerani to grasp the hilt with both hands. Though he was able to keep his grip on the sword, he could not back up even a fraction of an inch. He braced himself and pulled with all his might, but the sword would not budge. As his arms began to tire, the blade was pulled closer to the heart, and the force grew even stronger.
He struggled to pull the blade free, but finally, with a cry of despair, he released the sword. Like an arrow, it flew straight to the heart and pierced it completely through.
The Sword of Helsinlae was embedded in the Heart of the Rivertree, a foot of steel exposed on either side. The Heart began to beat and quiver, each squeeze of its chambers pumping life into the Tree. A green liquid flowed and spread through all the vasculature till the entire room glowed green from the light of the Heart.
Visylon fell to his knees.
Hail, Swordbearer! spoke a voice in Visylon's mind. The Rivertree acknowledges the power you received from the Tree of Helsinlae, power from the Thraean kings held in safekeeping for centuries.
Withdraw the Sword. The Rivertree yields up the Codex Indrelfis.
“Who are you?” yelled Visylon. “Where are you?”
There was no response, so he slid the sword from the Heart of the Rivertree. There was no resistance at all. The blade came free.
The Heart vanished. The room was once again empty.
Patience, Visylon told himself. Patience.
At the sound of wood creaking, he turned to see a small panel being lowered from the wall like a bridge across a moat, revealing a dark receptacle. Before it could fully open, however, the panel stopped, stuck. By the light of the sword, Visylon reached in and pulled out a book.
The Saerani warrior's hands shook. He sat on the floor and laid the sword in front of him. He brought the book into the sword's light. The Codex? It had to be, but the book was ruined, the cover scorched, the pages so dark from the heat of the fire in the room that the writings could not be read.
For a moment he struggled not to hurl the book across the room. This can't be. The Codex destroyed? He refused to believe his eyes, so he flipped through all the pages till he came to the last two, the ones that were furthest from the heat and smoke. And there, by the light of the sword, he could just make out the dim script.
that the ancient strength preserved in Freedom may be drawn forth by the burden of Fate. And the bearer of this burden shall be called Gauntletbearer.
108 But desire shall give birth to greed, and greed shall foster action, and all will be placed in great danger. And the bearer of this greed shall be called Ban-breaker.
109 Then Death shall give birth to Life, and Life shall give birth to Death, that the Thraean power preserved in Life may be drawn forth by the instrument of Death. And the bearer of this instrument shall be called Swordbearer.
110 The bond of brotherhood shall draw the Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer to their destiny, and they shall stand before the Ban-breaker.
111 The Sword shall bridge the Hands of Guardianship and the Hands of Healing, and the Gauntletbearer shall call upon the Paws of the Bear and speak their name, Urascarrh.
112 Then shall arise the united Servitor, for thereby shall he serve and save his people.
113 And the Servitor will confront the Ban-breaker and vanquish him, and the people will be free.
The Codex ended there. Visylon read the fragment twice more without fully understanding it.
Bearer of a burden, the Gauntletbearer.
Of greed, the Ban-breaker.
Of the instrument, the Swordbearer. Myself. The instrument of death must be the Sword of Helsinlae. The sword took the power preserved in a living tree that drew sustenance from the grave of a king.
Gauntletbearer? Enkinor? He has those strange gauntlets that helped him recover after the Draelani attack. The Gauntlets must be his burden, but they have a purpose as well.
Someone has broken a Ban. Because of his greed, he will take actions that will endanger the world.
Raethir Del?
Part 110. Enkinor and I will face the Ban-breaker.
“The Hands of Guardianship” might refer to Enkinor's hands, a sentara's, but whose were “the Hands of Healing”? A holomusa
ra's? The “Paws of the Bear”, “Urascarrh”, and “the united Servitor” were a mystery, however. Yet, Part 113 was clear enough. The Servitor would destroy the Ban-breaker.
What more had the Codex said? What could he have learned? He would never know.
The Swordbearer studied the final pages, committing as much as possible to memory. He was torn. It would be helpful to take the Codex, but he was not a lexisentara. It was neither his role nor his right to take the book, even damaged as it was. With care, he replaced the book in its receptacle, triggering the panel to close.
Visylon stood waiting.
Patience, the warrior once again told himself. No one would design these mechanisms without constructing an exit.
A sound of gears and moving counterweights caused him to turn. A large panel was sliding up, light spilling in and causing him to squint, fresh air scooting across the floor and stirring the ashes. But the fire-damaged panel ground to a halt just a foot above the floor. Visylon put his sword in his scabbard and got down on the floor to look out. All he could see was the face of a cliff. He unstrapped his sword and pushed it through, praying the panel wouldn’t close and separate him from the blade. He squirmed under the panel and pulled his legs free as wood ground against wood and with a groan and a boom, the panel dropped behind him.
Visylon got to his feet, a welcome breeze tousling his hair, and tried to brush the soot off him. He stood on a small platform attached to the side of the tree. Far below, the base of the Rivertree met the canyon wall. The Esolasha was hidden from view. Above him, the tree towered above the canyon rim.
The platform at his feet had once bridged the gap to the canyon wall. Narrow steps led up the wall, but the platform was broken. Several feet separated him from the other side. He was stranded on the side of the Rivertree, far below the canyon rim, and far above the river.
His only choice was to leap to the other side. He couldn’t reenter the tree. Visylon buckled the Sword of Helsinlae over his shoulder and backed up. In three strides, he reached the edge and sprang. As he landed on the broken ends of the timbers of the other side, they snapped off. Visylon flailed and grasped planks and frayed rope, dangling as the broken pieces crashed far below. Hand over hand, he hauled himself up and turned to rest with his back against the cliff face.
Turning his head, he traced with his eyes the route going up the face of the cliff. He couldn't see where the steps came out at the top, but it looked like a silhouette of someone leaning over the edge, watching him.
Friend or foe?
He pushed himself to his feet and started up the steps. I'll soon find out.
Leaning against the cliff for balance, he watched where he was placing his feet and focused on moving, on not stopping or backing down. However difficult the climb, it was his only choice.
And then it happened. There were no more steps. A piece of the cliff had broken away, leaving a gap he couldn't cross. Twenty feet ahead and ten feet higher, the steps continued up.
A rope dropped in front of him. He looked up.
“Tie yourself up,” said someone at the top of the cliff. “I’ll haul you out.”
Chapter 50
The wind at their backs carried smoke and ashes as the rescuers returned to the irrilai camp, most with an exhausted man or woman sitting slumped behind them. Enkinor slept against the back of his rider and noticed little of the journey.
Because their charges were generally asleep, the riders kept the pace slow. One of their number was sent ahead to let the tribe know the captives had been found, and freed, and were now coming home. By the time they reached the irrilai camp, dawn had come and gone, and the day was warming.
Enkinor was vaguely aware of cheering, weeping, and excited voices, but he slept through most of it. Gentle, caring hands helped him down from the horse, led him into a tent fragrant with herbs, and covered him with a blanket.
Back into his dreams he drifted.
The tents of the irrilaii dotted the Plains of Forlannar like a herd bedded down for the night. In the moonlit distance rode their sentari, watching for raiders and slavers. In the center of the camp, a dozen elders and their chief, Orlefir, sat around the council fire, each with an irril horn in his or her lap. Their heads turned as Enkinor was led from the shadows into the circle.
Orlefir's close-cropped hair and short white beard reflected the light of the flames. He looked to each of the elders and received nods of readiness.
“Enkinor, tribesman of the Saerani, you are welcome among the irrilaii,” spoke the chief. “You are summoned so we may speak and learn with you.”
Bowing, Enkinor replied as he'd been coached. “Orlefir, chief of the irrilaii, I thank you for your welcome.”
A woman with braided gray hair, sitting to the chief's right, spoke first. “We were overjoyed to find our people who were taken by the slavers and to bring them home. How is it that you were among those taken?”
Enkinor turned to her. “I was ambushed and knocked unconscious. When I came to, they had tied me up and thrown me over a horse. Not long after reaching their camp, they decided to let me go. But they had taken something from me, something I couldn't leave without. So, I set some fires, hoping in the commotion I could slip in and recover what rightfully belonged to me.”
“You mean the Gauntlets? We've noted that they are always with you. Are the Gauntlets rightfully yours?”
Enkinor's eyes were wide with interest. “Yes. They were given to me as a child by my grandfather as he lay on his deathbed.”
The elder continued. “Yet, you were found taking the Gauntlets from the hands of a dead hudrai.”
“That is true. When I discovered the Gauntlets were missing, I guessed one of the hudraii must have taken them. I couldn't leave, however, without them.”
A few murmurs spread around the council before the elder spoke again. “Very well. But by your own admission, you are Saerani, from Lake Cinnaril in the Parthulian hills. We were told, however, that the Gauntletbearer would be a 'man of the plains.' How do you explain this?”
“I can't,” replied Enkinor, shaking his head. “Who told you this?”
“How can we be sure you are the Gauntletbearer?” pressed the irrilai elder. “How do we not know that, like the hudrai, you stole the Gauntlets, or came upon them by accident?”
Gauntletbearer? Enkinor paused, his pulse quickening. “The Gauntlets were given to me by my father’s father. A resara named Strigin said this is how the Gauntlets have been handed down for hundreds of years, from grandfather to grandson. Strigin also explained a little to me of the powers of the Gauntlets, powers of which I was unaware.
“But what do you mean by Gauntletbearer? Does it refer to me, since I have the Gauntlets, and they are rightfully mine? And who spoke to you about the Gauntletbearer? How is it that you know about the Gauntlets?”
This time Orlefir spoke. “Several months ago, a small group of resari came to us out of the north. They told us of the Gauntlets and asked if the Gauntletbearer was one of our people. When they learned otherwise, they were very puzzled, for they had determined that the Gauntletbearer was a 'man of the plains'. There are, of course, other tribes roaming the Plains of Forlannar, but those tribes are few in number, small in size, and allied with some of the more aggressive kingdoms to the west. It would be very unlikely that one of them could claim the Gauntletbearer as one of their people.”
“So, what did the resari do?” asked Enkinor.
“They asked for help. They told us of a sorcerer who would attempt to seize great power, a sorcerer that the Gauntletbearer would confront. And they wanted one of our people to help them look for the Gauntletbearer. One of our men volunteered. Outside of the tribe, he's known as Longhorn.”
“Longhorn?” said Enkinor. “I met an irrilai named Longhorn in Kophid, in Braemya. He helped me and Strigin escape from the Sar's palace.”
Excited words spread around the council fire.
“Tell us of Longhorn,” said the elder who first que
stioned him, “and what you did with the resara.”
The Saerani tribesman told them first how he had come to Kophid in search of the resari. Enkinor described his meeting with Longhorn, the flight from Kophid, the fight with the palace guards, and the death of Strigin.
But his story ended there. He found he could not continue, so he said nothing of the Lair of Ualdrar and his encounter with Raethir Del. He said nothing of the Dreamtunnel nor his many experiences under that curse. He simply let the story end and hoped there would be no more questions. If they learned the Gauntletbearer had confronted Raethir Del and failed to stop him, would they still believe him?
Awesome forces are at work, and I am a critical part of this, thought Enkinor. I have a purpose. I have a goal! There is a reason behind all this.
For the first time since entering the Dreamtunnel, he felt a glimmer of hope. No matter how close he came to death as the Dreamtunnel tossed him about, there was a larger plan of some kind, a grand design of which he was a part. Would he finally gain freedom? And revenge?
Strigin told me of the Ban of Irsisri. Raethir Del is trying to break the Ban, and I, the Gauntletbearer, am to be the instrument of his destruction. But how can I destroy Raethir Del when he has placed me in the Dreamtunnel? Has he given up? Surely not. He'll keep trying till he finds a way to get the Gauntlets. And that means I'll see him again someday. I'll have another chance.
Enkinor looked up finally and met the eyes of Orlefir. The irrilai chief turned to the other elders to see if any might question the Saerani further. Then the chief looked back to Enkinor and paused.
“There is more to your journeys, I can tell. More that we would ask you to share but not tonight. Enkinor, are you truly the Gauntletbearer?”
“Yes.”
“How will you defeat this sorcerer?”
“I must find him first.”
Orlefir turned to the others. “Does the council challenge this man's claim?”
