The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  What in the nine hells is that?

  The sheets mounded and pulsed. Thesir stood rooted in place.

  “Aylan!” he yelled. He flipped his dagger into an overhand grip and ran back to the bed.

  The sheets flew back. A thick black mist roiled and fountained from the mattress.

  Thesir stopped. “Aylan! Get up, now!”

  Aylan woke. Seeing the mist rolling toward her, she screamed. Before she could move, the mist slid over her, fondling her as it climbed toward her face. She tried to brush it off, but it only gathered around her more tightly. It reached her face and seemed to explore her fear-marked features before wrapping itself around her head. With one last choking cry, she crumbled beneath the mist. In moments, she was only a glowing pile of ash.

  Thesir ran from his room. “Guards!”

  The mist flowed over the edge of the bed. It pooled for a moment before it spread across the floor and out the door. Thesir ran up the nearest flight of stairs and watched as the black vapors poured over the flagstones and descended the stairs to the lower floors of his palace.

  At Thesir's call, two of his guards ran to his defense. The mist billowed against their knees. They tried to push it away, to cut it away with their swords, but nothing worked. The blackness simply climbed their bodies and explored their faces before reducing them to ash.

  Thesir was cut off from his room. The mist was still pouring through the bedroom door, the overflow of the evil fountain on his bed. He could only watch and yell warnings.

  Longhorn's hands were skinned, his clothes torn in several places by the time he clambered over several more rooftops, the city guard in pursuit. Now, he stood behind a chimney, his back to the stone, hoping the guard would become confused and give up. He could almost see the Street of the Three Sars, the largest street in the city, but his vantage point was less than ideal.

  Screaming. Screams above the noise of the crowds.

  He turned and looked up the hill toward Thesir's palace. A black mist was flowing down the street. As the mist flowed around people's legs, they were swallowed up, their screams cut short. The wind smelled of sulfur and ash.

  There was no time to figure this out. The irrilai edged around the corner of the rooftop so he could see the street better. It shouldn't be too hard to spot someone wearing a Ryshak cloak and leading a horse.

  Nothing. The Swordbearer wasn't there.

  Longhorn turned as the screams came closer. As the black mist oozed down the street, men and women scrambled out of the way. When someone was caught and embraced by the mist, it climbed its way to their face. Those who struggled turned to ash and disintegrated. If they were still, however, the mist would descend and go on its way. It looked like a living thing searching for someone.

  He turned to look downhill again, and he saw him.

  The Swordbearer was moving toward the city gate, people parting in front of him like he carried the plague. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. In fact, no one in the crowd around him seemed aware of death sliding down the street toward them.

  Longhorn needed to get down to the street. If the Swordbearer wasn't warned, the mist would find him.

  Raethir Del had found another way to thwart them.

  The jump to the next building was too far, and going down to the street would mean risking the black mist. But he couldn't stay where he was because behind him, the city guard was closing the distance between them.

  The screams were getting closer now. The guard stopped to watch the approaching mist. Longhorn swung over the edge of the roof and started climbing down, finding fingerholds and toeholds in the chinks of the mortar and brick.

  Several feet above the ground, the irrilai dropped. He landed awkwardly, and pain shot up through his legs. He looked up and saw the dark mist rolling toward him like a black wave.

  Visylon heard commotion behind him, but the press of people was too great to see the cause. Whatever it was, he couldn't risk getting caught up by it, so he kept moving forward as fast as the crowd would allow.

  At last, the pillars of a city gate loomed above the crowd.

  The people in front began to shove and squirm through the gate, but it was taking far too much time. Now, even dressed as a Ryshak warrior, people were ignoring him. Somewhere in the distance behind him, he heard cries of fright and pain. The press of the crowd was making Cabellara nervous. He considered getting up in the saddle but didn't want to draw attention to himself.

  He was almost to the gate when the gate guards pointed back behind him and began yelling orders, trying to get the crowds to move away from the gate. In the confusion, the pushing, the yelling, someone began to close the gate. Now, the people in front of him were screaming as some were trampled and crushed.

  Visylon wasted no time mounting up. If he stayed on foot, he might meet the same fate. He kneed Cabellara just a bit, and she pushed her way through the crowd.

  “You, there!” said a guard. “Stop!”

  But Cabellara was plowing through the people, and now Visylon was passing through the gate, people around him running in terror. Once outside the gate, he turned Cabellara around and looked back.

  Something dark and amorphous flowed down the street. A stench billowed in front of the fog. Ash was drifting in the air like gray snowflakes. The gate closed behind him with a boom.

  Screams of panic broke out on the other side.

  Visylon unfastened the Ryshak cloak and draped it across the pommel of Cabellara's saddle. Shaken, the Saerani warrior threaded his way through the fleeing people. He was surprised and pleased that Cabellara chose to ignore his nervousness and lack of riding skill.

  People stopped to listen to the panic. Some cried, others spoke in hushed tones. Visylon went on alone.

  Which way? He had to believe Enkinor was alive. Where has he gone? Why?

  He pulled back a little on the reins, bringing Cabellara to a slow halt. A few minutes from the gates, the road brought him to a short wooden bridge over a parched streambed. A pair of guards stepped onto the bridge to bar his way, looking at each other and grumbling. On foot, Visylon could have climbed down the riverbank and crossed where no one would see. But he was mounted now. He had to be, for there was no way to know how far he might have to travel in order to find Enkinor. There was no way to know how much time he had.

  “Well, tatrai, how did you manage to leave Kophid?” said one of the guards. “I thought they were stopping all of you at the city gates. It's a shame you got no further than this.”

  The unkempt guards smirked with the confidence of authority. Visylon would have guessed they were hudraii, outlaws, were it not for the insignia on the breasts of their jerkins. Cabellara snorted, clearly uneasy. The Saerani warrior kept his eyes on the guards, noting the slight curling of fingers around a sword-hilt, the tensing of muscles, the bending of knees.

  “Let me pass,” said Visylon.

  “Do you have any papers?”

  “Papers?”

  “A guarantee of safe conduct. An order from the Sar. Something like that. Or perhaps a money pouch in need of freedom?”

  Cabellara began bobbing her head. The guard on Visylon's left reached up to grasp the horse's bridle. Visylon kneed his mount and Cabellara reared, pulling the guard beneath her kicking, stamping hooves. The guard cried out, trying to shield his face with his hands. Grasping his horse tightly with his legs, the Saerani pulled his sword from its scabbard. The blade that had cleaved the Tree of Helsinlae flashed as it arced through the air toward the other guard. Cabellara sidestepped and Visylon lost his balance. Instead of the edge, the guard felt the stinging smack of the flat of Visylon's blade. He fell over the side of the bridge, arms flailing, to land on the rocks below. Visylon grabbed Cabellara's mane and held on tight as the mare leapt over the Braemyan and bolted across the bridge. The Saerani was far down the road before he sheathed his sword.

  Chapter 19

  When Raethir Del found the busted wooden frame in the forest, he muttered an oath.
<
br />   Now we're both blind. No more advance warning.

  The prudent thing to do, he thought, would be to bring in the Swordbearer and learn what he knows. It was simply too coincidental that this person's place in the Weave should stand out now.

  Campfire ashes. Horse dung. Grass pressed flat. The resari had come and gone. The question was, which of their meeting spots would be the one where he'd find them next?

  The tan grasses were tall here. He dragged his feet along the ground, expecting to stumble over someone. He was covering a lot more of the area than he had expected. Benshaer had managed to get farther than Raethir Del would have guessed.

  Could the abramusara harness this fierce will?

  A mossy log lay sleeping among the grasses. Raethir Del knew the former resara would be on the other side. Benshaer had wandered — blind — through the grasses till he had fallen over the log.

  The sorcerer kicked the man's leg but got no response. He bent down and turned Benshaer over. The man's eyes were red and blistered. Flies and ants were tracking through the ooze in the corners. The Gatekeeper tried to peel Benshaer's eyelids apart, but they were glued shut from where his wounds had dried. With a rag and a little water, he wiped at one eye till he could get it open. Benshaer groaned as the lids spread apart, and Raethir Del saw the cloudy mess that was once an eyeball.

  Benshaer's hand shot out and grabbed Raethir Del's wrist. “Who's there?”

  “Hmmmpph. Your worst enemy, or your best friend. Take your pick.”

  “What? Who are you? I can't see. I'm blind.” The resara choked back a sob.

  “Don't you recognize the voice, Benshaer?”

  “Oh, gods, it's you. You're the cause of this! If it wasn't for you, I'd still have my eyes now, damn you!” The resara struggled to sit up.

  “Me? The cause of this? Benshaer, I'm hurt.” Raethir Del sat and straddled the log, brushing a grasshopper out of the way. “I wasn't the one who took your eyesight. It was your so-called friends.”

  “Friends? Not anymore. They punished me for what you made me do!”

  “Do what? Betray them? You make me out to be so evil. I never made you do anything. What you did was of your own free will. And did you not say to me, you could accept any punishment?”

  Benshaer cupped his hands over his eyes.

  “You've known since you became a resara,” continued Raethir Del, elbows resting on his knees, “that the punishment for flaunting the laws of the High rutaya can be severe. What your former friends did was just.”

  Benshaer rose to his feet, nearly losing his balance.

  “Justice, hell. They could have shown me mercy.”

  “Why? Because you were weak enough to fall under my influence?”

  “They could've taken my ruta and left it at that. I would find something else to do with my life. But what now? What can a blind man do but beg?”

  Raethir Del took the rag and wet it again to clean Benshaer's other eye. “I once told you, 'there's another option.'”

  Benshaer turned his face toward the sorcerer.

  “Do you really feel the resari went too far with you?” said Raethir Del.

  “Yes, damn them. Punishment I deserved, banishment, stripped of my calling, whatever. But blinding me? There aren't enough resari left to not only strip me of my calling but blind me too. I could've have helped protect them, if nothing else.”

  “Were they not justified in what they did?”

  “Heartless you are, musara,” said Benshaer, shaking his head. “Heartless and cold. And that's the nicest thing I know to say of you.” He squatted, felt around till he found the fallen tree, and sat again.

  “Come, come, Benshaer. I have a heart. What if I told you I could give you your eyesight back?”

  Benshaer thought for a moment. “At what price?”

  “How would you feel about the resari then?”

  “The same. They showed me no mercy. I'll never forget that.”

  “Don't you think you might, in time, come to understand, maybe even forgive?”

  “Never.”

  “I asked you before to join me in combining the powers of the High rutaya. With such power, we could accomplish far more than either ruta alone.”

  “Join you? I've been fighting to stay away from you, bastard.”

  “Do you want to see again?”

  “In exchange for helping you gain the power of the musaresari? You think I could teach you how to Read the Weave? Aren't you forgetting something? I have no more ruta. I can no longer see the Weave, no longer feel the excitement of knowing what might lie ahead.”

  “I'm not stupid, Benshaer. You know that. Let's start with this and see where it goes. First, I give you back your vision. Then, you help me find the resari.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, if you don't want anything more to do with me, I take your vision back, and we go our separate ways.” Benshaer couldn't see the wicked smile on Raethir Del's face. “But if you want to keep your vision, simply join me as I travel and gain more power. If at any time you decide you want out, give up your eyesight again, and it will be the last you see of me.” Raethir Del stifled a chuckle.

  Benshaer sat propped with his back against the log. Raethir Del pressed some waxy leaves into the blind man's hand.

  “Chew these up but don't swallow them.”

  “What are they?”

  “Something to help the process.”

  Benshaer hesitated. He placed the leaves on his tongue and began to chew. The leaves released a thick fluid that made his throat and nose tingle.

  “Now spit them out.”

  Benshaer turned to one side and fished the wad out of his mouth.

  “Good,” said Raethir Del. “Stay right here. I'll be back.”

  The blind man who had once been a resara listened as Raethir Del swished through the grass. After a minute, there was nothing to hear but a few nearby crows. The hum of a bee. The breeze in the grass.

  The sun felt warm. He was tired, so tired. The pain in his eyes began to drain away. Benshaer began to forget how the sunrise had activated the poison in the salve the resari had massaged into his eyes. He began to forget what he'd lost — his friends, his ruta, his eyesight, his pride. In time, he forgot who he'd been talking to, where he was, what he was doing sitting against a log with his eyes closed in the middle of a grassy field.

  Eyes closed?

  He felt relaxed.

  A carp swam by his face and paused to look at him.

  A mole broke through the soil at his feet, a mole with tiny antlers on its head that made Benshaer laugh.

  The branches on the trees shrank and disappeared as the trees became saplings and vanished into the ground.

  A snake grew legs and ran from a naked woman with four breasts.

  “Benshaer.”

  Who was that? He looked down at his feet. A raccoon sat there on his haunches looking at him, paws clasped before him.

  “Benshaer,” said the raccoon with the voice of Raethir Del. “I'm back. How are you feeling?”

  It took Benshaer several moments to respond. “I'm ... fine.”

  “Good,” the raccoon said and scampered off.

  Benshaer felt something move by his hand. A black flower was sprouting and pushing his hand aside.

  After a while, a tall man with red hair pulled back in a braid came up and squatted before him, lifting Benshaer's chin.

  “I think you should see your benefactor.”

  A limp raccoon was cradled in Raethir Del's arm. Something seemed wrong with its face. The mask of fur around its eyes had been cut away. Benshaer felt the lifeless eyes stare at him in accusation, and he recoiled.

  Raethir Del laughed. “Go to sleep now. It will be done soon.”

  “Get up.”

  Benshaer heard someone talking. Who? Was it that damn raccoon again? He shook his head to clear it and turned in the direction of the voice.

  Raethir Del stood there, arms crossed. He extended a hand to
Benshaer and helped him stand.

  For a few moments, the former resara didn't realize anything was different. Then, it dawned on him. His mouth dropped open. He turned around, arms wide, looking at the trees, the grasses, the log that had tripped him up. He turned back to Raethir Del.

  Tears ran down the sides of Benshaer's nose, under the mask. “Sight! Blessed sight!”

  “Yes. I have done what I promised.” Raethir Del took Benshaer's hands and put them up to Benshaer's face. “Feel that?” Benshaer's fingers wandered around his eyes. “You're wearing a mask. It's tied in the back. You can see as long as you're wearing it. Take it off, and you'll be blind until you put it back on.”

  Benshaer covered his face in his hands for a moment. He looked up at the sorcerer.

  “Where are the resari?” said Raethir Del.

  “The Tower of the Corn.”

  Chapter 20

  An hour behind Visylon, Kophid lay in turmoil. Ahead of him, twilight grew like an ugly stain. As anxious as he was to find Enkinor's trail, the Swordbearer realized going any farther as darkness fell was both unsafe and pointless. He guided Cabellara off the road and around the base of a hill. There, he found a place to camp at the bottom of a bluff where the overhang would provide some measure of shelter if it rained.

  It felt good to dismount and stretch his legs. He unsaddled Cabellara, groomed her, and gave her some feed before setting up camp, realizing all the while that fatigue was overtaking him. He chose a simple meal of bread and cheese, though he would've preferred a warm meal. Soon, he was wrapped in a blanket and snoring.

  Visylon woke at sunrise, packed his gear, and mounted up. He had no idea where to search for Enkinor. His only guess was to search for evidence of the fire mentioned by the horse trader.

  Why had that old man been so helpful?

  Cabellara placed one hoof, then another, avoiding rotting logs and rolling rocks. There was no trail. Visylon let her take her time, expecting she was a better judge than he, especially in the dim light of dawn.