by Mark E Lacy
Jogaziddarak once more entered the world of man.
The demon turned his gaze on the mortals at his feet, a growling laugh slipping through rows of knife-like teeth. As the creature examined the feathered woman, his tongue snaked out of his mouth for a moment. Then, he turned to the naked sorcerer.
It is done, said the demon. The bond between this man and the Gauntlets has been severed.
Raethir Del was at a loss for words. “So soon?”
You underestimate me.
“Then, he must be here, in Paerecis?”
Yes.
“How do—”
But he will be gone by morning.
“What? You said—”
You only have yourself to blame. The curse you bestowed upon him returns to claim him once more.
“Yes, yes, but how do I find him? Where in the city is he?”
Jogaziddarak snatched up the Staff of Khymera. With a laugh and a rumble of thunder, the demon returned to his own plane, leaving Raethir Del with no answers.
Now, thought the sorcerer. I've got to get moving now. There is so little time. He looked down on the beaded woman, aching to revitalize his powers but anxious to find the Gauntletbearer.
Raethir Del watched as a shower of falling stars scratched the darkness. A bad omen, he thought, and he left the woman writhing silently on the roof.
His head bobbed gently, and Enkinor awoke, disoriented. He leaned on the notched and stained counter of a Paerecisi tavern. What did I do, fall asleep? Pass out? Where am I? For a moment, he thought he was back in Kophid, but that seemed very long ago. How long, I wonder?
A pewter tankard of ale sat before him. Enkinor brought it to his lips and took several swallows. His Gauntleted hands were calm and relaxed. Have I escaped? he thought. Am I free?
No, just another town, a little further out, a little further down the road. There will be no more help here than the other places. Hasten, curse! Pluck me away again, I care not.
Then, he remembered. From the Plains of Forlannar to a tavern in Paerecis in moments. He had spent all yesterday drinking, hoping to numb the shock of learning his heritage and being torn away from it moments later. He had considered getting drunk again tonight but had changed his mind. Loneliness had renewed its assault, but he wanted to face it unimpaired by an excess of drink.
Here, and now, he realized there was a span of time he could not account for. Whether several seconds or several minutes he did not know. It felt like something had happened, and he had missed it, and if he only tried long enough and hard enough, it would finally come to mind. At the same time, he felt vulnerable, bare, like something had been taken from him. He immediately looked at his hands, but the Gauntlets were still there. A quick inventory told him his weapons and his money had not been pilfered.
With a peculiar sense of dread, Enkinor finished his ale and pushed his way out of the noisy, bustling tavern, leaving the commotion behind.
He descended the stairs with care and stepped into the dark and quiet street. The cool night air revived him, washing away his lethargy but not the sense of hopelessness. How long will this go on? Where shall I go? What shall I do, sit and wait?
Visylon walked along the cobblestoned streets of Paerecis, leading his horse by the reins, lulled by the rhythm of the horse's clip-clop on the stones. It felt good to be out of the saddle and stretch his legs, but fatigue was descending on him. Though he needed a place to eat and sleep, he passed a couple of inns without realizing it.
At first, upon entering the city, he found himself threading his way through the last crowds of the day. Few people took notice of him, but the ones who did gave him wide berth. Though Paerecis was frequented by people of all types, from all regions, Visylon's haggard appearance and large sword suggested he was not one to trifle with.
Now, the streets were empty. Only a handful of people braved the dark.
Del'rissak. I've got to get to Del'rissak. Visylon knew he could not go on, that he needed to rest, however briefly, before setting out again. His horse needed rest as well. Yet, something drew him on.
Enkinor wandered the Paerecisi streets, trying to escape the fear that doom was near at hand. It was some time before he realized the only sound he could hear was the scuff of his boots against the cobblestones. When he stopped, a susurration approached, a sound like seashells scattered by the surf. The street before him was dark but empty. He watched as, little by little, the stones of the street seemed to ripple, flowing toward him.
Sorcery? Enkinor felt no need to risk more contact with sorcery. He turned to the alleys on his right and left, looking for a way to escape, only to see undulations sweeping toward him from there as well. Behind him, the street quivered as he stood, hemmed in on all sides.
Enkinor drew his sword and waited.
Something was moving in the street. Thousands of small animals of some kind. Whatever it was had almost reached him when he realized a population of rats was surrounding him. It was the scritch of their paws on the cobblestones causing the nearing whispers. Several feet away from him, they stopped. He stood in a ten-foot circle, rats on every side. There was now no sound, no movement.
A moment later, the tide of rats receded and vanished. The Gauntletbearer waited till the street no longer rippled with rodents before sheathing his sword. Like so many of his experiences, he could not explain what happened or why it happened. He simply tried to take it in stride.
Where am I going? Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking. Do I have a room somewhere? Where did I spend the night last night?
Get some others to help me? There's not enough time, thought Raethir Del as he left the inn and the woman behind.
The sorcerer was dressed once again in black leather. He started with the larger streets but was soon forced to search the maze of smaller streets and alleys that branched away from the primary avenues. Meanwhile, an army of rats skittered far and wide, helping him look for the Gauntletbearer. Twice, he thought to follow a different path, and twice, the rats steered him away from areas they had already checked.
Now, the rodents stood before him, squeaking with excitement, jumping with impatience. He followed them through an alley that opened onto a larger street.
And then, Raethir Del saw him. In the dim light, he saw a man coming down the street toward him, head down, face in the shadows. His identity was not clear, but there was no mistaking the Gauntlets he wore on his hands.
The sorcerer could call the city guards to apprehend the Saerani, but he couldn't risk the Gauntletbearer escaping like he did in Kophid. If Raethir's quarry got away, the sorcerer would lose more than his chance to claim the Gauntlets. He would lose his soul to Jogaziddarak.
Do something, he told himself, and do it now.
Enkinor continued through the dark night, senses heightened by the bizarre behavior of the rats and yet inattentive to danger. He stepped through a large puddle and stopped.
Another splash behind him and the pffft of a drawn blade. As Enkinor turned, a searing pain raked his side. Instinctively, he booted his assailant back, so he could draw his sword. He gasped as his wound began to part and bleed. Had he not turned when he did, his assailant's dagger would have been buried in his back.
The attacker recovered his balance. Even in the dim light, Enkinor could see the man who faced him was Raethir Del.
“The time has come,” said the sorcerer, drawing his sword.
Chapter 53
The wound in Enkinor's side caused his muscles to spasm with pain. With the pain came the realization that Raethir Del could hurt him and that the protection of the Gauntlets was gone.
If Death has finally treed me, at least the hunt is over.
The sorcerer lunged at Enkinor, and the battle for the Gauntlets began. Blow by blow, Enkinor focused on defense, forced into doing little but trying to parry his opponent's sword. Needing more space to maneuver, Enkinor allowed Raethir Del to force him out of the alley and into a torch-lit street.
“Hey, what's this?” said a voice behind Enkinor. “A hundred strobi says I can kill him first.”
The Gauntletbearer glanced over his shoulder to see a short and stocky Paerecisi soldier. At his side stood yet another, hardly out of his teens. Both had drawn their swords.
“I’ll take that bet,” said the young soldier.
Raethir Del paused and cursed under his breath. He had no need of soldiers eager for a fight.
“What, sorcerer, did you hire some help?” said Enkinor.
“I wouldn't trust something so important to anyone else, Saerani. The Gauntlets are now mine. Their protection has been abolished.”
Now, Enkinor understood the unusual sense of vulnerability that had come over him in the tavern. How Raethir Del had accomplished it he didn't know, but if the sorcerer was to be believed, Enkinor might lose both life and Gauntlets this night.
Enkinor glanced around quickly, sizing up the soldiers, maintaining a relaxed and alert stance. Find the weakest link in the chain, and break through. He turned to the youngest one. This one approached as if invited, smiling and thrusting, overconfident. The Saerani parried the swift thrusts and then rushed at the soldier, his blade sweeping before him like a reaper's scythe. The boy backed away, astonished, as Enkinor pressed him back into the darkness. Enkinor spared a quick glance over his shoulder. The other two were advancing warily. He renewed his onslaught, beating the youth back, driving him to his knees.
The boy-soldier looked up in fear. He stumbled to his feet and took the Saerani sword in the bowels. A gasp of fright and pain and his life spilled out before him. He fell in his own offal, weeping with his last breath.
Whirling around, Enkinor cursed, disgusted. Raethir Del and the other man had allowed Enkinor to kill the young soldier, confident of their own skill and wanting more freedom to swing their blades. They moved to each side of the Saerani before he could turn and escape. With a quiet sigh, Enkinor anticipated death.
“Saerani!”
The battle-cry tore through the night air. Enkinor turned to see a man drop his horse's reins and draw his sword, running over to him.
The Gauntletbearer was too shocked to wonder if this was another enemy. He simply stood in the street, trying to discern the newcomer's identity in the darkness.
“Enkinor! Eloeth be praised!”
“Visylon!”
Raethir Del swore loudly. Another Saerani? Here, now? It could not be a simple coincidence. Not when all his attempts to prevent this had failed.
Gods, is this the Swordbearer? Raethir Del shivered.
The Gatekeeper leapt forward but could not catch the two Saerani off-guard. The Saerani men moved to stand back-to-back, blades swinging. Visylon faced the stocky soldier, Enkinor the sorcerer.
Visylon stifled a cry of surprise as the stocky soldier's sword descended to cleave his skull. The Saerani warrior sidestepped and laughed heartily as the steel missed him and struck sparks from the street. The Sword of Helsinlae flicked out with an invisible flourish and nearly pierced the soldier's chain-mail tunic. The soldier cursed as broken links bit into his chest and then screamed a war-cry as he charged the Saerani warrior.
Enkinor rushed Raethir Del, believing speed was a greater asset than strength at this point. The sorcerer was not an accomplished swordsman, but he knew enough to be dangerous. Raethir Del fully expected Enkinor's movements, having witnessed them only minutes before. He parried Enkinor's death-carrying swipes, stood his ground, and then began pressing the Saerani back. Enkinor struggled to avoid the rain of blows falling on him from every side. He feinted a faster retreat. As Raethir Del skipped to close the distance, Enkinor fell to one side, under the sorcerer's defenses. The Saerani brought the point of his blade up under Raethir Del's guard and thrust into his abdomen. The sorcerer fell and rolled, clutching his belly.
Visylon's opponent was sweating with the effort of parrying, shield-less, the lightning movements of the Swordbearer's blade. Visylon chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the challenge, caught up in the ingrained rhythm of parry and thrust, parry and swing, parry and thrust. His arm was growing numb from the repeated blows his sword was absorbing, so he concocted a ruse. When the soldier's blade was poised properly, the Saerani warrior gave the other man an opening. The instant before the soldier's sword would have removed both of Visylon's legs above the knees, the Saerani leapt high above the street. The Paerecisi sword flew by harmlessly beneath him. Visylon swung his own sword in a curving arc that half-severed the soldier's neck.
Before the soldier had crumpled to the ground, Visylon had turned to his comrade. Enkinor stood, blade in hand, staring at the still body at his feet.
“Enkinor, let's go,” said Visylon, and he tried to draw his friend away.
“You don't understand,” Enkinor said, shrugging off Visylon's hand. He turned and looked Visylon in the eye, taking him by the shoulders. “Look at him! Why isn't he dead? I ran him through!”
“Who is he?”
“Raethir Del,” said Enkinor. “The sorcerer who helped the Draelani attack us on the Lake. The sorcerer who keeps trying to take these somehow.” Enkinor held the Gauntlets up for his inspection. “I'm supposed to be the instrument of his death, but he's not dead. And the curse he put on me, it's not broken. I can still feel it.” He turned back to Raethir Del and stared, glassy-eyed.
Visylon, puzzled, said nothing. He couldn't match any of this with the prophecy written in the Codex Indrelfis. He grabbed Enkinor by the arm. “Look. More soldiers, on horses.”
The two Saerani stood motionless for another moment, paralyzed by approaching shouts, brandished weapons, and the glint of polished armor.
Visylon ran for his horse and mounted up. He gave Enkinor a hand and pulled him up behind him. “Yah!” he cried, and with a snap of the reins, the horse bolted down the street.
Behind them a mob of soldiers spurred their horses, cursing as they got in each other's way.
Only a few blocks away, the two Saerani exited the city by the same gate Visylon had used to enter Paerecis. Beyond the city wall, they plunged into the black hills. Visylon could hardly see the road. The forest swallowed up what little light from the sky managed to pierce the gathering storm clouds. His horse, already fatigued from bringing him to Paerecis and now carrying two men, did not balk when Visylon reined him in to a careful walk.
The road climbed a low hill and rolled over the other side. Visylon kept looking back, expecting at any moment to hear their pursuers coming up behind them. Though it was quite dark, he should've been able to see the way-markers he had noticed on the way in to the city. But there were only dark pines and the road. They rode on through the darkness, and before long, Visylon realized they were on the wrong road. One more hill and the road ran out.
The two men dismounted and ran to an opening in the trees. A trail marked by large flagstones led them down a hill to the edge of the woods. Beyond the trees was an immense void, a chasm in which, far below, they could hear the roar of an angry river. Across the chasm stretched a rope bridge with planks for footing. The other end of the bridge was moored on a hillside, seemingly an impossible distance away.
This was not the bridge Visylon had used to cross the Esolasha. A safe crossing looked impossible. Many of the slats were rotted or missing, and the ropes looked frayed and worn.
Above their heads, a terrific thunderstorm was building. Flashes of lightning revealed how wide the canyon was, while peals of thunder echoed and bounced from one wall to another till they faded out in the distance.
Rain began falling in large, pelting drops. Enkinor stared without expression at the turbulent river below. Something strange was happening to the water. The river seemed as disturbed as the sky overhead. Each flash of lightning gave them a moment's glimpse of water leaping and swirling in a maelstrom of white foam.
The tribesmen were startled by the shouts and yells of their pursuit. Visylon looked at Enkinor but saw no understanding in his eyes. Grabbing Enkinor by the arm, he pulled him ont
o the bridge.
As the two men began inching their way across the river, the Paerecisi soldiers spilled from the forest, brandishing swords and hurling obscenities. Turning to look, Visylon was relieved none of the soldiers had bows.
“Go on, Enkinor!” he yelled over his shoulder and turned to face the Paerecisi.
Enkinor was too burdened by fear and despair to think straight. Raethir Del is not dead. How then will I enforce the Ban of Irsisri if I can't kill him? He looked through the broken slats at the river going berserk, his thoughts on death.
Visylon watched the first Paerecisi soldier step onto the span, and he, too, thought of death. At last, the Swordbearer and the Gauntletbearer are together, but are we to die without destroying our enemy?
“Saerani!” he yelled, attacking the first man.
The soldier dodged the Sword of Helsinlae but lost his balance and tumbled, screaming, into the canyon.
The next soldier and Visylon watched the man fall until the Esolasha swallowed him up. Visylon advanced, swung and missed, almost severing one of the guide ropes. The Paerecisi thrust quickly under the Saerani's guard, and Visylon took an inch of steel in his gut, but the soldier was overextended. Visylon grabbed the man by his sword-arm and threw him off the bridge.
Enkinor had only covered a small distance of the swaying span. He couldn't keep his eyes on the opposite side of the gorge. Watching his footing, he couldn't avoid seeing the foaming river far below.
With a clap of thunder like the punch of a fist in the chest, another figure appeared on the swinging bridge. She was over seven feet tall, naked, longsword in hand. She stood before Enkinor, enveloped by an aura of madness and chaos.
The demoness raised her sword to the sky, long pale hair whipped by the wind, and laughed. “Incarnate again! I am storm-born, and I am free! Blow, storm, and howl. Only give me time to feed!”
