The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  A stain began spreading near a door farther down the hall. He walked up to it. It was muddy water flowing from beneath the door to another room. Enkinor opened the door and splashed into the room. Water was rising from between the stones in the floor, climbing the walls.

  A sound like someone walking through fall leaves made him spin around and cross the hallway. The next room was full of leaves coming down from the ceiling. No one was there.

  “Saerani,” came a whisper.

  “What? Damn you, show yourself!”

  Shrieks split the air, screams torn from dozens of half-human throats.

  With a curse, Enkinor ran for the staircase, scared but defiant and eager to find the source of the horrifying sounds, anxious to put his sanity at rest.

  He paused. Something had left spots on the steps. Holding the torch near the floor, he confirmed his worst suspicions. The spots on the stones were fresh bloodstains.

  Sword raised and torch extended, Enkinor ran up the steps two at a time. The screeching stopped. The staircase spiraled through three or four complete turns, and Enkinor jumped, sweeping the torch around him, into a large tower room.

  A room occupied only by skeletons, each of them suspended from a hook in the ceiling, through the bottom of the jaw.

  With a crash of thunder, the storm outside returned, dousing the light of the moon. Yet, by the light of the torch, the Saerani could see the bloodstains had disappeared. Whoever, whatever, had left the stains was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance at the small windows told him no one could leave that way.

  He looked down into the courtyard where he had been standing earlier. It was then he realized the candlelight he had seen earlier had been in this very room.

  The moaning began again but downstairs, beneath him. Enkinor stood for a moment, thinking. He started to descend the staircase but stopped when he realized the sound was coming closer, climbing the stairs. Enkinor backed up into the center of the room, sweeping sword and torch through the air. The moaning rose and fell over the bass octaves. Enkinor willed the stiffness from his legs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he swept the air with fire and blade.

  The moaning had almost reached the top of the stairs. Enkinor steeled himself, sensing he'd be most vulnerable during the moment of shock. He gasped as the shambling form entered the room.

  The creature was a pale, shapeless hulk, two feet taller than Enkinor. It had no appendages, nor head. It was a shuddering, jelly-like mass. The moaning seemed to vibrate out of the creature and grow in intensity as it moved toward the Saerani.

  Enkinor lunged, thrusting the torch into the beast. The creature burst into flame, but a moment later, the flame was gone. The creature was unharmed.

  Wanting no part of a fight with something that couldn't be destroyed by fire, Enkinor edged around, trying to get a clear path to the stairwell.

  But the stairwell had vanished. There was no way out.

  Enkinor turned to face the creature and stopped in disbelief. Now, a man stood before him instead of a moaning horror.

  Enkinor's mouth dropped open in recognition. “Rigalen!”

  Rigalen stood smiling, a sword in his right hand, its tip to the floor.

  “No, you died in the Draelani ambush. It can't be!” Enkinor's mind reeled, unable to comprehend. “You aren't Rigalen,” said Enkinor a moment later.

  “No, I'm not,” said the warrior now standing where Rigalen had been.

  “Neither are you Visylon. Out! Stay out of my memories.” He made as if to cut the man down.

  His sword halted inches from an old woman's neck.

  “Enkinor, son, would you murder your own mother?”

  Tears fell from the tribesman's eyes. “You aren't my mother, spawn of sorcery.”

  The sword plunged, running her through to the hilt, her red life-blood spilling over his hand. With a scream and a look of shock, she sank to the floor.

  His pulse racing, his senses chilled, Enkinor wrenched his sword free and knelt, weeping, overcome with grief.

  Chapter 27

  Raethir Del neared the summit of Nelador's mountain. He was still out of sight of Tura Nimulae, Tower of the Clouds. Dry bushes were all that could gain a foothold on the barren summit, and even they thinned out as Raethir Del reached the broad, rocky peak and stood before the tower. A simple door painted sky blue was the only entrance.

  I should slip in and give him a fright.

  “Ho, there, Wisp, old buzzard!” he called, banging on the door. “Get out of bed!” And a minute later, he added, “May the sky be forever clear, Cloudreader, if you don't let me in!”

  Soon, the tower's tenant opened the door and stepped back as Raethir Del entered, both of them grumbling and cursing the other.

  “You seem to be surprised, my friend,” said the Gatekeeper in a calmer tone. “Could you not foretell my visit?”

  Nelador rubbed the sleep from his eyes and straightened his beard, a dark brown beard shot through with gray.

  “The clouds have been mercilessly unreadable of late, Raethir, no doubt stirred up by your wild adventures.”

  “Have you been out and about?”

  “There's not been enough wind lately.”

  The large mass of flesh around Nelador's middle was due to a revulsion for exercise and a fondness for traveling as a puff of smoke.

  “Come on up to the turret,” said the Cloudreader.

  As a plume of smoke, Nelador floated up the stairwell while Raethir Del struggled up the steps.

  “I'm on my way,” Raethir Del called up. “I'd fly up with you, but I had a run-in with some angry ravens on the way here. Seems they had a problem with a krylaan, and they blamed me. Remind me to tell you the story sometime.” He took another step and added, “Next time you're airborne, choke a few for me.”

  Once atop the tower, the two sorcerers leaned on the weatherworn stonework and looked out on the countryside below while Raethir Del caught his breath. Little could be seen but mountains stretching in every direction, covered with the dull colors of fall leaves past their prime.

  “Okay, Raethir. This is not a social call. What are you after?”

  The Gatekeeper continued to gaze into the hazy distances, undisturbed, having expected no cordial reception. Seldom did abramusari exchange pleasantries with one another.

  “You've heard, of course, of Icefast Hold,” said Raethir Del.

  Nelador gave a poorly concealed start. “Of course.”

  The Gatekeeper continued, “I wish to find it. I thought perhaps you could help me.”

  “Why? What trouble are you planning, Raethir?”

  Nelador's visitor paused for a moment as if to consider the right words. “Soldiers must be armed to be of any use. Let's say I'd like to outfit a few.” The smirk on the Gatekeeper's face pretended understatement without revealing the lie. “I hear you have some information concerning the location of the Hold.”

  The Cloudreader scanned the sky. “I might. But if I did, you could hardly expect me to volunteer this information without some form of compensation. What were you planning to barter?”

  “Torkar of Aldirg.”

  “Meaning?”

  “His head on a platter. A soup from his brains. His heart baked in a pie or whatever you wish.”

  Raethir Del watched the other man. He knew Nelador would be excited with the prospect of settling an old score. The Cloudreader was too lazy to find the double-crossing trader himself.

  “I don't believe you,” said Nelador.

  They bartered and argued for two hours. In the end, Nelador agreed to give Raethir Del a map showing the location of Icefast Hold, but Raethir would have to produce a Paerecisi slave-girl immediately and Torkar of Aldirg within two days.

  Nelador floated down to the bottom of the tower and opened a door in the floor that concealed dusty steps leading underground. At the bottom of the steps, a door with no handle was barred from the other side. Nelador changed into a smoke ring and drifted under the
door. On the other side, in a room so small he could reach out and touch each wall, he opened a stout wooden chest with a rusty key and an even rustier spell. He returned shortly to the turret, a rolled and tied parchment in his hand.

  Raethir Del turned, sensing the approach of the other sorcerer. Holding out his hand for the map, he tried to appear neither hasty nor anxious.

  “No,” said Nelador with a smile. “The slave-girl first.”

  The Gatekeeper returned the smile. “Wisp, let me see the map first.”

  They bickered briefly before Nelador gave in. Raethir Del untied the parchment and glanced at it quickly. The parchment bore a map depicting the northern part of the continent and, far into the land of year-round snow, the location of Icefast Hold. He gave it back to Nelador. “No deal.”

  The haggling began again. The Gatekeeper claimed the map was a fake, that it was inaccurate, it wasn't worth the paper it was drawn on. The Cloudreader insisted he knew the map's provenance and that the map was indeed accurate.

  After several minutes, Raethir Del raised both hands in placation. “Nelador, my friend, keep your map. But I will do this. I have a score to settle with Torkar myself. Because I value our friendship, I will leave you the map, and I will bring you Torkar.”

  “What about the Paerecisi slave-girl?”

  “No. Just Torkar.”

  They shared a small flask of mead to finalize the bargain, and Raethir Del finally said his farewells. As the Gatekeeper disappeared into the countryside, he smiled to himself.

  He now knew the location of Icefast Hold if the map was truly as accurate as Nelador claimed. Raethir Del might honor the bargain and bring Torkar to Nelador, in one form or another, but he had the Gauntletbearer to consider first.

  Back on the Myan River, the sorcerer entered the island cabin, trailing a string of curses that charged the air. Torkar was gone. The horses were gone. Even the raft was gone. Edge lay in a patch of bloody earth.

  Worst of all, the resari were gone.

  Benshaer lay curled like a leaf, no longer masked, wrists and ankles bound. Raethir Del knelt beside him, thinking the man might be dead, but the former resara was alive. When he failed to respond to Raethir Del's voice, the sorcerer guessed Benshaer was in shock.

  “Fool,” he muttered.

  He untied Benshaer and propped him up against the wall. Taking some herbs from his pouch, he mixed them in a cup of cold water and forced his accomplice to swallow. Over the next several minutes, Benshaer began to recover.

  When finally he responded to Raethir Del's voice, the sorcerer said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Benshaer finished his story. Raethir Del swore to himself that he would deliver Torkar into the hands of Nelador after all.

  “What should I do about you?” said the sorcerer.

  The traitor covered his empty eye sockets with the palms of his hands. “Forgive me, and give me another chance.”

  Raethir Del placed his hand on Benshaer's shoulder. “Escaped, did they? And they didn't take you with them?”

  Benshaer turned his face toward the sorcerer with a scowl. “Let me pay for my failure.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  The blinded man reached up and groped for the sorcerer's arm. “Give me a new mask.”

  “A new mask? That's how you pay for your failure?”

  “You don't understand. I can't find them if I can't see. I'll leave right now. They won't get far. By tomorrow they'll all be dead.”

  Raethir Del thought for a moment. “Retribution, hmmm. Alright, a new mask.”

  Benshaer looked surprised that the sorcerer had given in so quickly. No sooner had he started to express his gratitude than Raethir Del interrupted.

  “Shut up, please, just shut up. We have work to do.”

  Now what?

  Raethir Del leaned on a windowsill in the cabin. Benshaer was sleeping comfortably, thanks to a clove dipped in potion.

  Why am I doing this? I should just leave him here.

  He closed his eyes and thought.

  Raccoons? No, we can't let this happen again.

  Eyes? Edge doesn't need his eyes anymore. But they've probably started to decay already. No, we need another mask, a better mask. A mask he can't lose. Hmmm.

  A bonding between man and mask. It would help if he had a totem, but if he does, I don't know what it is.

  Blood. A little of his own.

  I should make him look like a krylaan, like Maznarg. That would teach him. Raethir Del laughed, imagining the first time Benshaer looked in a mirror.

  It wouldn't hurt to make this mask a bit unusual. Something that will set him apart. Something to tell people, this man belongs to me.

  “Well, well, what have we here?”

  Raethir Del looked up at Torkar's last two men, each dangling by one foot, high in the air.

  “Morg, you idiot. Stumbled right into it, didn't you?”

  Morg didn't respond. Neither did his small friend. They simply turned slightly in the breeze, their faces reddish-purple from hanging upside-down. Raethir Del considered freeing them and turning them into woodchucks. Seeing a pair of turkey vultures circling overhead, he decided instead to save his strength and moved on.

  On the shore of the island, Raethir Del kicked some stones around till he found two that were the right size and roundness. Not far away was a tiny cove marked by cattails. He was still thinking about a new mask for Benshaer.

  A covering. Fur? No, not bold enough. A helmet?

  A carapace. That's it.

  He pulled off his boots and waded into the cold muck, trying not to stir up silt.

  He waited, and when the thing he needed presented itself, he grabbed it and threw it up on the bank.

  This is going to be fun.

  “Benshaer, are you ready?”

  The blind man did not respond.

  “I take that as a yes.”

  Raethir Del took the former resara by the chin and turned him face up. The eyes would be easiest, so he began there. He took the two stones he had picked up on the shore. One by one, he spat on one side, held Benshaer's eyelids apart, and inserted the stone in his eye-socket, wet side first. The sorcerer closed the man's eyelids. Raethir Del pressed a thumb into each of Benshaer's eyes and held them there as he closed his own eyes and moaned a few vradu words. He remained like that for a couple of minutes before moving on to his next step.

  With the point of his dagger Raethir Del made a long cut across the top of Benshaer's forehead, down one temple and below the cheekbone, across the bridge of the nose, and back up around the other cheekbone and temple till he reached the top of his forehead again. Next, he slipped the point under the skin on Benshaer's forehead and started peeling it down to the cheekbone cuts. When the skin was removed, Raethir Del took a small bowl in which he had collected a few spoonsful of pinesap. He collected some droplets of Benshaer's blood in the bowl and stirred it into the sap with a bone from a small bird. To this, he squeezed a couple of drops of milkweed sap. As a final step, he added just enough sand to give the preparation some texture. As he mixed it all together, the bowl began to warm.

  With the bird bone, he began smearing the mixture on the raw flesh of Benshaer's face. Benshaer cried out but remained unconscious.

  “Stings a bit, doesn't it? It's just a fixative.”

  Raethir Del worked with haste, for the fixative was drying rapidly. When the exposed flesh was coated with the mixture, he picked up Benshaer's new mask and admired his handiwork. It was distinctive, and he was proud of it. Carefully aligning it, he positioned it on the man's face.

  Kneeling behind Benshaer, he placed his hands over Benshaer's eyes, pressing against the mask to seal it to the traitor's skin. Once again, the sorcerer closed his eyes, concentrating. He mumbled a few words, and nothing happened. He looked at Benshaer, puzzled. Raethir Del closed his eyes again and repeated the spell, being more careful to enunciate each word. Moments later, he was rewarded with a tingling in his fingertips
as mask and man became one.

  After a minute or two, the tingle had trickled away, and Raethir Del knew the bonding was complete. He stumbled back and sat leaning against a tree. His head drooped as he collapsed from fatigue. Before he could pass out, though, his stomach heaved and he turned to vomit several times into the grass. When the heaving ended, he rolled away from the tree and fell asleep.

  When Benshaer woke, the first thing he did was to reach up to his face. Something hard covered his forehead and his cheeks, but it wasn't cold like armor. When he tapped it, it felt like shell. He felt behind his head for a band of some kind. Finding none, he tried to take the mask off and realized he couldn't.

  “Come, let me show you what you look like.” Raethir Del helped Benshaer to his feet and guided him to a small pool of water resting silently beside the shore.

  Benshaer stared at his reflection, unable for a moment to understand what it was he was looking at. The mask he wore was a dark gray-green and sectioned like the shell of a turtle. On each side of his face a cheek-guard curved down to a point on his jawline.

  With a cry of terror, Benshaer's hands flew to his face. He tried to get his fingers under the mask to take it off, but it had only a slight edge to it, and he couldn't peel it away from his skin.

  “Damn you, sorcerer! What have you done?”

  “Done? I've given you your sight back.”

  “But, this, this thing on my face, it won't come off!”

  “I didn't want you to lose this one.”

  “Gods, you've made me look like a reptile!”

  “I had to use what I had on hand. At least I did you a favor and broke off the sharp little spikes that were on it. This mask can't be removed without slicing it off your face.” Raethir Del chuckled. “Don't give me that stony glare.”