by Mark E Lacy
A couple of dozen little houses huddled along both sides of the road like sheep in a snowstorm. Only a few townspeople were busy outside. Like Sturmig's field hands, they regarded the Saerani tribesman coldly when they noticed him at all. A mother came out of her house and herded her children into the house next door.
Enkinor stopped at a hitching post for a moment before stumbling to the well at the center of the hamlet. Though it took effort to draw some water, he noticed with satisfaction he was regaining his strength.
What measure of strength will it take to free myself from this curse? How am I going to escape the Dreamtunnel?
Enkinor sipped from a mug he found hanging on a hook. The water was clear and cool with just a faint taste of brine. He looked around and saw nothing unusual. Just another crossroads village.
Though he was feeling better, he didn't want to press his luck and risk being stranded, weakened, amid a village full of suspicious people. He hung the mug where he'd found it and made his way back to Sturmig's farm.
He longed to throw his weary frame into the musty straw, but he stopped short with a muttered curse as he stepped within the barn.
Enkinor's pack was lying open, out in the floor. Someone had been rummaging through his gear.
He ran to the pack and checked its contents. With a sigh of relief, he found the Gauntlets, the smooth leather once again soothing to the touch, and vowed he would never leave them behind again.
The Saerani looked up as one of the horses stamped and blew. Enkinor rushed over to the stall in time to see a small boy leap the other side of the enclosure. Before the boy could make it out the door, Enkinor had stumbled around the other stalls and grabbed him.
“Let me go! Let me go!” The boy kicked and thrashed as Enkinor held him from behind around the chest, suspending the youth in mid-air.
“Not till I find some rope,” said Enkinor.
“You wouldn't dare,” said the boy through dirty, tangled locks.
“Perhaps with a real man I wouldn't, but ...”
“What?”
“Well, it's obvious you're no man. No real man shows disrespect to another by searching his belongings.”
The boy had stilled, yet Enkinor gripped him tight.
“I am a man.”
“What's your name, then, little man?” Enkinor set the boy on his feet.
“Rilfel,” said the boy, turning with head hung low.
“Sturmig's son?”
The boy's chin shot up. “You're joking.”
“What were you doing in my pack? Searching like a common beggar for something to steal?”
The calculated words stung. “No,” said the boy. “I only wanted to show something to my friends.”
“Such as?”
Rilfel was quiet for a few moments. “Something magical.”
“Magical?”
“Everyone knows you're really some kind of sorcerer. Or perhaps an apprentice.”
Enkinor looked down, shaking his head. It was not hard to understand their fear of a stranger appearing at night under mysterious circumstances, enmeshed in and now suspected of sorceries.
“Rilfel,” said the Saerani, looking up, “do you know Invedra? I'll tell you what I told her. I'm no sorcerer. I'm just a tribesman from the Parthulian hills. I don't know how I came here, but it probably has something to do with an enemy of mine.”
“I don't believe you.”
“I give you my word. And a true man accepts the word of another.”
The boy was quiet again, trying to make up his mind.
“Well?”
Rilfel looked up at him. His expression softened just a bit. Enkinor extended his hand, and Rilfel shook it.
“Now, go home, friend. Stay out of other people's things. And tell your friends I'm nobody.”
Enkinor’s need to put some distance between For'tros and himself, for however short a time, grew like a rising tide. The following afternoon, at his first opportunity, the Saerani slipped off into the cloaking forests near the fearful little town, avoiding the sandy road. He also avoided the marshes with their grass-flies and banded snakes. A game trail led away from the low-lying areas, though brackish water, stained deep brown by cypress roots, sometimes crept over the trail. The humid air under the live oaks warmed his spirits a little. Enkinor wasted no time in falling into a slow stride that would help clear his thinking and arrange his thoughts.
Why me? A wave of self-pity threatened to sprout from some hidden little pocket of his mind. He allowed the wave to rise for a few moments, knowing such emotions could not be denied. It was some time before he succeeded in subduing the pain.
Faith in the resari, Raethir Del had said in the cave. What did he mean? The sorcerer knew from talking with Enkinor that the Saerani was ignorant of other events. That these events had something to do with the Gauntlets was almost certain, but what? Raethir Del had tried to take them by force and failed. This had surprised both men. But why was the sorcerer unable to take the Gauntlets? Strigin would know, but Strigin was dead.
Was Raethir Del afraid of Enkinor? Was that why he had used the curse of the Dreamtunnel?
Enkinor had sought out a resara because he had questions to be answered. Questions of heritage, of destiny. Now, he had more questions and no one to pose them to. And now, he was under the spell of the Dreamtunnel.
The chase through the ruins with the hounds and the hooded man must have been a nightmare. But the fields and the stream and the grass before that, was that a dream? The swirling bat-creatures before that, another nightmare? All before that was reality, a reality that, though only days old, seemed distant and dream-like itself. It was hard to imagine there was a tribe called the Saerani living along Lake Cinnaril.
Or that he would ever find freedom from the caprice of the Dreamtunnel.
Enkinor stopped. The ground beneath his feet was getting softer and muddier. He turned to retrace his steps and slapped his side where his sheathed sword should have been slung. If only I had my blade and my pack, he thought, I'd leave right now.
Looking back the way he had come, Enkinor tensed, then relaxed.
“Invedra, what are you doing out here?” He walked toward her. “Don't you know your people would hang me if they caught me with you?”
The girl's sheepish grin threatened to fade into a pouting frown. “I'm sorry. I saw you leave, and I just thought I'd follow you.”
He gave her a disgusted look and wished again for his sword and pack.
“I wanted to ask you something.” She paused and licked her lips. “When you leave, will you take me with you?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Enkinor took her by the shoulders. “Your father would round up the men, catch us within a few miles of here, castrate me, and put you in shackles so you couldn't run away again.” He shook his head. “Besides, you hardly know me. Don't you believe I'm in league with evil spirits? Do you want to be dragged by a horse into the next town?”
Invedra stuck out her chin. “No. I don't. I happen to be very attracted to you, but you are just a man, and surely you won't find yourself in danger like that again.”
Enkinor smiled without humor. “You don't even know me, but you want to run away with me and escape this boring little town and its boring men, just like in a story.”
She bit her lip and nodded, smiling, moving her hands with admiration across his chest.
Enkinor touched her walnut-colored hair for a moment. “The answer is no.”
Invedra's mouth dropped open. Enkinor walked past her, heading back. She ran and caught up with him.
“Why not? Look at me!” Invedra grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. “What is there you don't like?”
“Invedra, I'm in danger. I won't place you in danger as well by having you as a companion. And I won't waste time trying to explain the perils to you. I simply won't take you.”
Invedra looked away, saying nothing.
“We better get back to the village,” Enkinor continued.
“I don't want to be found alone with you.”
The two walked back in silence through the forest, skirting the squishing bogs. At times, the Saerani reached out, thinking he might mend her feelings, but Invedra seemed to shirk from his touch. Before long, Enkinor brought them to a halt.
“We better split up, coming into town from different points at different times. I'll take the long way around.”
“I'm telling you,” said the man to the crowd gathering in the street, “she's gone, and he is too. That can only mean one thing. He's run off and taken her with him.”
“Did anyone see them go, Sturmig?” said Janus Ryk.
“No,” said Invedra's father, “but he's had his eye on my girl ever since I took him in. I say find him, and we'll find Invedra.”
Rumbling curses spread through the mob as the crowd murmured their assent.
“Who will help me find my daughter?” cried Sturmig.
The crowd answered with shouts, shaking clenched fists, some brandishing pitchforks and scythes they'd brought in from the fields.
“Come on, then!”
“Wait! Wait!” A boy's voice was vying for attention. “It wasn't the stranger,” yelled Rilfel from the back of the crowd. “It was a giant white creature with shaggy fur. It grabbed her and ran off with her!”
Most of the townspeople laughed, though a few seemed startled. From his place in the shadows, Enkinor watched as Sturmig's neighbors began to whisper and look around nervously.
“I'm not lying! She was in the woods, by the creek, and it grabbed her, and it ran down the road to the shore, and she screamed, but no one heard her except me. I ran all the way back. You've got to help her!”
Arguments broke out among Sturmig and the men. Rilfel watched in frustration. The townspeople ignored him, and Rilfel ran off, not knowing what to do. As he rounded the corner of a house, Enkinor grabbed him.
“Rilfel, I have to find her and help her.”
Rilfel nodded, panting. “I'll bring a horse to the road.”
Sturmig finally resumed some measure of control over the mob. “If it was a monster, it was still the stranger. We know he must have sorcerous powers. Look at the way he came into town the other night. He simply assumed his true form and kidnapped my daughter. Get some torches. Help me get her back!”
Enkinor had grabbed his pack and sword and strapped the scabbard across his back. Something had told him to don the Gauntlets. Just outside of the town, Rilfel rode up on someone's horse. The Gauntletbearer struggled up and straddled the horse behind the boy.
The horse's hooves thudded down the dirt road to the Seacoast, kicking up sand with each long stride. Rilfel bent close to the horse's neck and coaxed it to a near gallop. The sun had not quite set, but the long-limbed oaks hanging over the road met to form a moss-shrouded canopy that threw the road into premature darkness.
Enkinor clasped the horse with his legs and balanced by holding the boy's shoulders. He cursed himself for not seeing to it that the girl returned home safe. He'd heard stories of fantastic creatures, but until the Dreamtunnel, he had never actually seen one. Something told him to believe the boy.
When the massive oaks thinned out, Rilfel reined in the horse at the water's edge. No breakers came crashing up on the beach, to Enkinor's surprise. Instead, a murky tidal creek wound its way through an endless plain of waving cordgrass. The creek passed at his feet and continued like a snake toward mangrove-covered islands in the distance. Rilfel pointed. Something was pushing its way through the waist-high grass. Splashing through the water, a limp burden over its shoulder, was the white monster.
Horrified yet fascinated, Enkinor watched the furred creature walk upright like a man, heading for the nearest island. Was Invedra already dead, or had she fainted? Whichever it was, he would kill the beast and drag its severed head back to the inhospitable people of For'tros.
But how could he get out there? The horse would sink in the muck, and Enkinor wasn't large enough to push his way through the thick grass in pursuit.
Enkinor slid off. “Rilfel, a boat. I need a boat.”
The boy dismounted. Frantically, they searched the nearby brush till they found where someone had cached a khayan-like craft in the weeds. Enkinor pushed it into the warm water, hopped in, and paddled furiously toward the island.
The Saerani gave a quick shove at the muddy bottom with his oar, propelling the boat onto the water-lapped sand. He stepped out, his feet sinking slightly in the gray-black mud as he tried to see through the growing gloom. Weaving his way through the mangroves, Enkinor entered a large and lifeless clearing. Before him, the dead trunks of sun-bleached trees lay, crooked and misshapen, like the long-forgotten skeletons of gigantic saurians. Enkinor moved among them in silence, not wanting to disturb whatever spirits lingered there still. He stood for a moment at the other side of the clearing, wondering which way to head.
A piercing shriek shattered the stillness of the island.
Enkinor drew his sword over his shoulder and bolted down a sandy path into the jungle.
He followed a game trail through the undergrowth, listening for Invedra to cry out again. A low wail rose and fell on the chilly evening breeze. But this was no human sound. The wail swirled around, and away, and back around again before slowly dying out. Enkinor shuddered and glanced back, startled by the interplay of shadows in the tangled brush. He listened to sudden crashes and snapping branches as things unseen seemed to surround and follow him into the eerie island.
Enkinor felt uncomfortably conspicuous as he trudged through the gathering darkness. The twilight confused him, playing tricks with his eyes. He thought he saw small creatures in the shadows, creatures that ran off on two short legs as he came near, but he never got a good enough look to be certain.
The taller trees, the occasional sand-pines, rustled and whispered in nervous expectancy. A twinge of fear brought Enkinor to a standstill. He brought his sword up to his lips and kissed the flat of the blade lightly.
A chilling scream, torn from a woman's terrified lips, came from the darkness downtrail. Invedra sounded as if she was almost standing beside him. The roar that followed drowned her out.
Enkinor raced on, weeds and branches lashing like whips. Over the noise of his crashing through the thick palmetto, a wail picked up again, bodiless and mournful, carried by the wind. It was joined by another of different pitch, and soon many others, till Enkinor thought the din would shatter his sanity.
A clearing opened before him. On the far side stood a gigantic white ape with a limp figure across its shoulder. The monster turned and stopped, lifted its head, bared long fangs. With a roar of defiance, the beast plunged back into the woods.
Enkinor crossed the clearing and sped after the ape. The trail now followed the mangrove-lined shore. Ahead, the monster bounded down the path. How long before it turns and stands its ground? As he raced after the ape, the creature and its captive would disappear for a moment when the trail turned, only to appear again. Enkinor tried to close the gap, but the ape and Invedra reached a place where the trail dipped and then vanished.
Enkinor stumbled as he came to a stop. He looked around in surprise and saw nothing. No footprints in the sand, no bushes moving. There was nothing to hear. No splashing — they didn't go into the water. No breaking of limbs — they didn't leave the trail. They had simply disappeared.
He walked past the point where he’d last seen them and felt a slight vibration in the air.
Sorcery?
But he was wearing the Gauntlets. And if it was sorcery, it would not affect him.
If he wanted to save Invedra, his only option was to take off the Gauntlets and let the sorcery do whatever it had done to the ape and Invedra. If, that was, the sorcery was still there, the power still in place.
He couldn't let Invedra be hurt, no matter what might happen to him.
Enkinor removed the Gauntlets and tucked them in his belt. Drawing his sword, he backed up and ran once more past the place where Invedra
had disappeared. Darkness swallowed him up, and he stumbled, falling face-first into a deep snowdrift.
Chapter 23
When dawn came, it crept over the horizon behind an overcast sky. Night slipped away, yielding grudgingly. Longhorn tied his horse to a hollow tree trunk and crawled to a place in the underbrush, high up the riverbank, from which he could look down on an island that split the Myan River like a wedge.
Pine and alder covered the island, right up to the water's edge. On the upstream end of the island, he could see one corner of the raft where they had not pulled it completely into the undergrowth.
The irrilai watched and listened, noting every detail, conceiving and discarding plans one after the other as he searched for the best way to rescue the resari. As he planned and plotted, Longhorn noted a singular disturbance upstream, under the surface of the river. Something large was trailing a V-shaped wake. The wake fanned out and died as it reached the island. With a splash and a curse and some lively steps, a huge carp changed into Raethir Del.
The sorcerer pushed his way through the brush and stepped onto shore, once again in black leathers, squeezing water from his red braid. A moment later, he disappeared into the foliage.
The cabin was small and simple, hidden in the center of the island. It was square, with a single door, and a small window pierced each wall. Raethir Del walked up and stepped inside, fighting the urge to knife Torkar's men. Two of them slept by the door in the warm morning sun. They never heard the scuff of boots on the floorboards.
The sorcerer was hungry and fatigued. He had spent several hours preparing messages for the ravens to deliver, but the only birds to answer his call wanted nothing more than to argue. Then, it had been a long and cold swim to reach the island.
Torkar sat at a greasy oak table, carving chunks of stale bread from a short loaf, spearing them with his knife and dunking them in a mug of steaming coffee. As Raethir Del entered the cabin, Torkar turned his patched eye and his good eye on the sorcerer. He unbuttoned his vest so his large belly would be more comfortable. Scratching his beard, he mumbled, “So you're here.”