The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  The group crawled out of the tent, broke it down, and folded it up. Harroc tied it to a pack frame and slung it over his shoulders. As the others made final adjustments of their own packs and passed around strips of venison jerky, Enkinor looked around.

  The Waryndi had pitched their tent in a small clearing among tall pines so green they were almost black. Snow blanketed everything and clumped on tree branches. A few saplings were almost buried by drifts. The surface of the snow was mottled by long shadows cast by the trees from the rising sun.

  “Come,” said Cryst. “We must defend the Hold.”

  The creek was narrow but deep, and clear, and swift, its banks studded with ice-rimmed rocks like the scattered jewels of gods. Spanning the creek lay a log, each end buried in a deep snowbank. The snow that draped it was marked by delicate tracks left by a wandering fox. Cryst led them across the log and over the rushing stream.

  Enkinor moved up beside Cryst. “Dor Waryn,” he began, but she held up her hand and stopped him.

  “Cryst, please. Dor Waryn is too formal.”

  Enkinor bowed slightly. “Cryst,” he continued, “how did you know I was going to join you?”

  “Like most of the northern tribes, the Waryndi have an izar. Do you know what an izar is?”

  The Saerani shook his head, puzzled.

  “An izar does many things. At times, he gives us wisdom, at times healing. At times, he aids our worship of the IceQueen by interpreting the messages she leaves in the frost. The izar also practices a small amount of sorcery. He told us someone important to the success of our mission would join us somewhere along the way.”

  How do I find out more without arousing suspicion? wondered Enkinor. Perhaps a direct approach?

  “This may seem odd, but I know nothing of this mission, as you call it.”

  The Waryndi woman stopped and gave him a confused look.

  “I came because I received a call to come,” Enkinor lied. “I felt drawn here, as if something very important awaited me. Other than that, I know nothing, as I said.”

  Cryst frowned. “Then you have much to learn, of which I can only tell you a small portion.”

  They started walking again.

  “We go to defend Icefast Hold. The Hold is taboo to the Waryndi. We must defend it, however. The izar said someone or something will soon attempt to breach the seals set upon the doors to the Hold. The seals were placed there by the abrasentari, the spellguards, to prevent someone from raiding the Hold. The izar sent us to prevent the seals from being breached.”

  She turned to Enkinor but kept walking.

  “We cannot risk allowing anyone into the Hold. The Hold is an ancient armory filled with weapons, many of which are infused with supernatural, malevolent powers. These weapons could be used to destroy many people.”

  Cryst stopped and studied him.

  “How can you be important to our success if you don't know what we're doing?”

  “I don't know. Maybe we'll only know when the time comes.” The Saerani paused. “Where is the Hold? What does it look like?”

  “The Hold is built into ice caves concealed by the Cana Glalith. Cana Glalith means 'slow, frozen river' in the old language. Glalith is a glacier many miles long from its birthing in the Mountains of Vanisar to its calving in the Bay of Whales. No one alive has ever actually seen the Hold, only the stout doors that bar entrance to the storerooms. We must locate the doors and make sure they are not breached.”

  “Who are you expecting? How many of them will there be? How might they be armed?”

  “We don't know. We can only hope that our small number is sufficient to the task.”

  The Waryndi tramped through shallow snow and skirted the deeper drifts, hopped over icy streams and avoided frozen ponds. Enkinor no longer walked with Cryst, who led the way. Neither did he walk with the men. While the men showed no more of their distrust, they showed no sign of acceptance. Enkinor remained apart, following behind.

  By midday, the air was clear, the sun bright but without warmth. The snow in the shadows looked almost blue. Over a line of pines, Enkinor noticed rising wisps like the smoke from a dozen campfires.

  “We are nearing the Icefire,” Cryst said. “What you see is steam, not smoke.”

  When they emerged from the pines, they paused. Before them, an open area was pockmarked with large holes filled with water that steamed as it flowed out and converged to form a large stream. Where the steam had floated over and condensed on the ground, it had formed bizarre formations of ice around every rock, weed, or branch. The evergreens surrounding the springs were coated with fine layers of ice, sparkling with captured sunlight. The steam from the springs of the Icefire cast wispy shadows that raced away with the breeze.

  Between the forest and the Icefire, the snow was marked by large paw prints as if some large beast had preceded the Waryndi.

  Harroc knelt beside the tracks for a moment. He looked at Cryst and said, “Gar-wolf.” Harroc turned to Enkinor. “A breed of wolf, much larger and more dangerous than any wolf you've ever seen.” The Waryndi tribesman looked back at the tracks. “It is rare to see gar-wolves this far north.”

  Cryst led the men through the maze of springs and misty rivulets, picking their way carefully over the slick ice, cautioning Enkinor that the water was hot enough to scald where it emerged from the ground.

  In time, they left the Icefire behind and entered higher, rougher country. The ground was rocky and covered with little soil. A few trees, stunted and twisted by the elements, clung to the craggy outcroppings on the steep hillsides. The rugged hills the group traveled through grew ever larger and loomed over them. The wind began to buffet them as it raced between the hills.

  At long last, they approached a break in the hills, a short, trough-shaped pass with jagged, sharp cliffs on each side.

  “Furan Pass,” said Cryst over the wild wind whipping their coats. They all pulled their hoods on and tied scarves across their faces, wincing at the sting of snow swept by powerful gusts through the pass. “We're getting close now to the glacier. Beyond the Pass is treeless country. We must move fast and get to the Hold. Once we're through the Pass, there will be no firewood and no place to camp.”

  Doggedly leaning into the wind, they pushed their way through the pass, carefully placing each step to keep from stumbling and being tossed back by the frigid blasts. The air seemed to grab at them like thousands of invisible hands, pushing, pulling, pummeling, sapping their strength and dragging them down. The struggle to make headway reduced everything to one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. They focused on moving, never stopping. Each of them knew it would be a feat, once stopped, to regain momentum.

  After some time, they realized the wind was letting up. Once they had made it through the Pass, they were past its funneling of the wind. With relief, they stopped to rest and untied their scarves.

  “The Last Tree,” indicated Harroc with a nod.

  In the distance stood a single tree rising straight and tall hundreds of feet into the frigid air. When they finally reached it, the three Waryndi brothers took up equally spaced positions around the tree and laid their hands on its rough-barked trunk.

  Enkinor looked up in awe. This was a great-grandfather of a tree, at least twenty feet thick, its rust-orange bark deeply grooved. Great bands of green branches girdled the tree. He could easily imagine this Tree to be the ancestor of every tree that had ever lived. Its topmost branches could not be seen, for they were lost in the mists.

  Shortly, the men came away. They looked relieved, almost as if they had feared not making it this far on their journey.

  All of them looked around to take in their surroundings. The cold sky was overcast now and had assumed the same colors as the terrain. Whites and grays and beige made it difficult to see where jagged mountains on the horizon ended and the sky began. All around them was nothing but unbroken snow.

  “Let's go,” said Cryst. “We head for the Guardian Arch.”

>   Chapter 32

  High above Enkinor and the Waryndi party flew a large bird. The man who had become the bird had chosen angled, pointed wings, white feathers, and a yellow beak. Thus, he looked more like an ordinary seagull than an aging sorcerer.

  Raethir Del dipped a wing and glided on the frigid breeze, stifling a laugh as his feathers tickled him. His brief look at Nelador's map had provided him with enough details to find Icefast Hold. Even now, the Cana Glalith could be seen, only a few miles distant, lying like a giant white worm drinking from the Sea. Soon, he would be there, and then, his work would begin.

  He tilted his head and glanced below. The sorcerer gave a caw before he realized what he'd done. Below him, crossing the snow, were five people with packs. What are people doing this far north? He doubted they were hunting. Their present direction would lead them directly to the glacier. Why are they headed for the Cana Glalith? Are they headed for the Hold?

  There was no point in permitting a potential distraction. Raethir Del landed gently on the ground, wings flapping. He groaned as his wings disappeared and he once again accepted being earth-bound, his human form returning. Wishing he had some wine to drink, something to rinse the taste of raw fish and saltwater out of his mouth, Raethir Del set off to deal with the strangers before they could interfere with his work.

  They had been walking for an hour or more. Enkinor marveled at Cryst's sense of direction, guided by little more than scattered rock cairns and brief consultations with Plith. The light of the sun was diffused so much by the blanket of clouds that its location could scarcely be guessed. To make things more difficult, a thick mist had begun to roll in. The Waryndi surmised that it came from the Bay of Whales, but something about the mist cloyed at Enkinor's memory, though he couldn't think of why.

  The mist grew so thick that Cryst eventually stopped them and called Plith over to her.

  “We're off the route, aren't we?”

  “I think so. We should've seen the next marker twenty minutes ago.”

  “It's this damned fog,” said Cryst, looking around. She lay down on the ground, trying to get beneath the fog and look around, but it didn't help. “There's only one thing to do,” she said, standing up. “Keep going and hope the fog lifts, or we get through it. We must get to the Hold.”

  The Waryndi and Enkinor continued to walk, spread out from side to side so they would have a better chance of finding the markers and continuing on their way. The wind began to rise again, in ever stronger gusts, and once again, they tied their scarves. They also passed a tin of ointment across the line, a balm for wind-chapped skin. The wind continued to increase until they were leaning into it just as they had in Furan Pass, pushing their way through the resisting air. As the fog cleared slightly, the group stopped and stared in disbelief and confusion.

  They stood again in Furan Pass.

  Enkinor moved over to Cryst. “How ... can ... this ... be?” he shouted over the wailing wind.

  “I don't know,” came the reply. “Move on!”

  The group pushed and struggled for most of an hour till they had cleared the funnel.

  Before them stood the Last Tree.

  “We are cursed,” said Raminas.

  “No, just lost,” said Plith. “We must've circled around by mistake.”

  “Impossible,” said Raminas. “If we had circled around, we would have come to the Tree first and then the Pass.”

  “Saerani, can you help us? What is happening here?”

  Enkinor didn't answer for several moments. They all watched him. He knew what was happening, but he didn't want to say it. He could taste it in the air. He had seen too much of it. Enough to last a lifetime. And this would probably not be the last time.

  “Sorcery,” said the Saerani. “A spell of some kind. Cryst, could this be a way that Icefast Hold is protected?”

  “No. Waryndi have come before, back when the Hold was ritually made taboo.”

  “Then it would seem someone doesn't want us to reach the Hold. Probably the same person who hopes to break the seals on the Hold.”

  “But can you help us?”

  What do I do now? thought Enkinor. If I don the Gauntlets, maybe I can lead them. Would I have to explain what they are?

  I must trust them, he thought.

  “Yes,” was his answer.

  Enkinor slid the Gauntlets onto his hands and thought for a minute. Nothing has changed, so the spell is no simple illusion. Yet, I feel free, so the spell must no longer have a hold on me. Now, how do I take the Waryndi to Icefast Hold?

  He looked at his comrades and held up his Gauntleted hands for them to see. “With these on my hands, the spell has now power over me. I will have to help lead you.”

  The Waryndi looked from one to the other.

  “Cryst, you and Plith must lead us again,” continued the Saerani. “But this time, before we come to the markers we missed, tell me what to look for. If I can keep us on the right course, perhaps we can avoid whatever took us back to the other side of Furan Pass.”

  Once again, they set out, passing the rock cairns one by one as the minutes ticked by. Enkinor tried to remain alert to the smallest indication that they were nearing the spell-region, hoping if by some way he could anticipate it, he would better be able to lead them on. He tried not to think about the fact that the Waryndi now knew something about the Gauntlets. Steadily, the group continued until Raminas broke the silence with a low curse.

  “What is it, Waryndi?” asked FeraCryst.

  “We're retracing our steps, but there are no tracks in the snow.”

  Only Raminas had noticed. They were all searching for the rock cairns. The tracks that should have been visible in the snow from their first hike were gone. Not covered by snow, for no more snow was falling, and not blown away, for not so much as a zephyr played across the white expanse.

  “It's as if we'd never come this way,” said Cryst in a hushed voice.

  Again, they pressed onward, carefully following the markers. One by one, they counted them, and the fog thickened, until Cryst stopped the Waryndi and described the next cairn in detail to Enkinor.

  “Bring us to Icefast Hold, Saerani, and your name will be forever sung around our hearthfires.”

  When Enkinor saw the next cairn, very much like the others, it was a welcome sight.

  “Do you see it, Enkinor?” asked Cryst, staring at the pleased expression on the Saerani's face.

  “Yes,” said Enkinor. “What do you see?”

  “Fog, just as before. Now, can you lead us to the Guardian Arch and keep us from entering Furan Pass again?”

  “We shall see. Describe to me the Arch.”

  Deep within the Cana Glalith, Raethir Del stood before Icefast Hold, smiling, his hands on his hips.

  Beneath his feet, broken black chunks of basalt. Above his head, scalloped silver-blue ice like an inverted sea. To each side, walls of packed snow completed the entrance tunnel.

  And before him stood two large, stout doors. They were twice as tall as a man, made of thick oak beams brought by bright-sailed ships from the South. Strips of iron, forged in fires hundreds of years dead, banded the doors vertically and horizontally. There were no handles, for these doors were sealed by a vradu spell. They were designed to repel forced entry, whether physical or magical.

  But Raethir Del would soon work out the spell, and then, no force would be necessary. He had already disabled the outer three seals on the Hold. Each had permitted him closer approach to the doors, and each had been more difficult than the last. Though he still felt strong, the task had sapped him of much of the vigor with which he had started.

  Now, eager to gain entry to the world's most ancient armory, Raethir Del stepped up and placed his palms against the doors.

  A sudden flash of light reflected brilliantly off the snow and ice. The sorcerer was thrown off his feet as powerful shields flared and died. The crackling thunder of released energy bounced off the walls and was quickly muffled.

&nbs
p; A few minutes later, Raethir Del groaned and forced himself to rise. He stumbled back to the doors.

  “Damn you to the last hell,” swore the sorcerer at the doors, but in truth, he was mad at himself for being careless in his haste to enter the Hold.

  He made a quick appraisal of his human form and found no permanent damage, though he had lost more of his strength. Then, he set himself to breaking the final shield-spells on the doors. He closed his eyes and raised his hands high to each side, palms turned toward the door. As he relaxed and tuned his senses to the shield-spells, he searched for and found the weak places where he could break the lines of power. One by one, his mind grasped and snapped each shield.

  A few minutes later, he wiped his brow and relaxed with a big sigh. It was done. The spells were canceled.

  What? Raethir Del paused, momentarily distracted. He could feel that the spell of confusion on the people outside was broken. It must have happened when I struck the shields, he thought. Now they will be on their way again.

  Raethir Del changed. He dropped to all fours and snarled. As he sprouted thick, white fur over his back and flanks, he felt noticeably warmer. He lifted his snout momentarily and sniffed the air, before bounding out of the caves and up onto the Cana Glalith.

  Ah, like being young again.

  “I can see it!” said Cryst.

  The Waryndi men clapped Enkinor on the back and thanked him. Before them, the Guardian Arch rose like a prehistoric sentinel, its great stone legs and the boulder that capped them bare of snow, carved by the wild winds from a time when the world was young.

  Enkinor forced a smile. Something told him — indeed he could feel it — that he had not brought the Waryndi out of the range of the spell. The spell was simply there one moment and gone the next. It had been removed or broken.