The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  In reply, each elder grasped their irril horn in both hands like a sword and touched the point of the horn to the ground. Each bent forward to touch their forehead to the base of their horn. When each had done so, Orlefir did the same.

  “The council does not challenge the claim of Enkinor the Saerani that he is the true Gauntletbearer,” intoned Orlefir. The chief stood and turned to Enkinor. “Gauntletbearer, your destiny and ours are entwined. You are known by the resari who came to us looking for you, and you have been aided by the tribesman you know as Longhorn. I name you friend of the irrilaii.”

  “I am honored.”

  “I dismiss you from this meeting with a request,” continued Orlefir. “I ask that you attend the celebration of Solisae.”

  Murmurs of discontent rumbled like distant thunder till one of the elders spoke.

  “Orlefir, we have never permitted an outsider to share in Solisae. In fact, we've never revealed the existence of Solisae to an outsider. Why have you asked the Saerani?”

  If the chief was angry at being questioned, he didn't show it. “The Gauntletbearer deserves our highest respect. Our future depends on him. To not include him would be dishonorable.” He looked yet again to Enkinor. “Will you come?”

  Enkinor felt the warmth in the old man's gaze and smiled. “I will be honored,” he said, and the sentari led him away and returned him to his tent.

  Enkinor was drenched with sweat.

  Before dawn, he had dressed and eaten while the irrilaii readied a horse for him. He spent a few minutes alone, watching the sun come up over the colorless plains, thinking about what might lie ahead. Someone hit a gong, the signal that they were leaving. Enkinor joined a group of several dozen men and women, mounted on swift plains horses, led by Orlefir. A quick ride brought them to the brink of a large canyon that yawned open before them like a split in an over-ripe fruit. At the bottom of the canyon, a swift river twisted and raced, muddy swells bouncing and rolling off the smooth canyon walls.

  It took the irrilaii most of the morning to reach the bottom of the canyon. The dusty trails they followed clung to the sides of the canyon as if they, too, were afraid of the long plunge to the riverbed below. The deeper into the canyons their mounts carried them, the fewer the breezes and the greater the heat.

  Rounding a sharp turn in the trail, the group passed through a crack in the escarpment into a natural amphitheater shrouded in gloom. The welcome shade made Enkinor shiver. He sensed, rather than saw, movement in the dark expanse beyond. Only a small part of the sky could be seen overhead.

  With whispered words and gentle gestures, the irrilaii dismounted and tethered the horses. Enkinor was directed to place his blanket and sit with Orlefir, as did the irrilai elders. The rest of the irrilaii stood behind them.

  What is this place? What are we waiting for?

  A few minutes later, Enkinor was still trying to peer through the darkness and discern the still and silent shapes further below. It was then that the sun reached its zenith. Light penetrated the amphitheater, illuminating a small assembly of people.

  In front, a slender woman stood with tanned arms and face raised to the sun. She was blindfolded, and her black hair reached almost to her feet. On each side of her sat a man with a flute-like instrument so long its end nearly reached the sandy ground. Behind and above her, another, older woman sat before a large collection of drums. To each side of that woman were more irrilaii, a man and a woman cradling stringed instruments in their laps.

  The drummer began a slow thonka-tonk-tonk with callused hands on drumskins that had seen many celebrations. After a couple of minutes, the flutists and string-players began to play. At first, it seemed none of the music was blending. In time, though, Enkinor began to pick up the subtleties of interwoven themes. The Saerani had learned to recognize several of the themes by the time the music began to resolve itself, note by note, phrase by phrase. A little bit at a time, the rich irrilai music grew simpler and easier to follow, till the moment when, with a resolution that brought eerie relief, the irrilai sonomusari played in unison.

  Now, the leader of the sonomusari removed her blindfold and lifted her voice, and the people of the tribe, listening in rapture, began to add their voices one by one to the music.

  Enkinor began to sing along with them quietly.

  Both thrilled and confused, a smile of great happiness on his face, the Gauntletbearer failed to notice the shocked expressions around him. Finally, the people around him, including Orlefir, began joining in, and as they did, they turned their attention back to the sonomusari.

  Enkinor sang, pouring energy into the song, not holding back, and yet wondering how he could know the words to a song in a secret irrilai ceremony. The words had come to him without effort as soon as he recognized the tune. But when, and how, had he learned this song? He could only recall vague feelings and images, wisps of early childhood memories...

  My mother.

  Enkinor sang with the irrilaii, their voices amplified within the amphitheater, tears running from his eyes. He was not alone. As the musari played and the music stirred emotions, many around him shed tears of happiness. Once more, the irrilaii had survived. Another year had passed, a year of births and battles, a year of freedom and fear, a year of plenty and paucity, but still, the tribe lived on.

  After several minutes, the music began to slow and to quieten, signaling the end. The flutes and strings dropped, the voices dwindled, and for a minute, the drums continued. When they, too, came to a halt, the only remaining music came from the rushing river further below.

  Someone raised a hollow irril horn to the sky and blew a long, steady note.

  That was the signal. The musicians launched into a lively tune. Everywhere, people began to gather together and dance. A couple of irrilai women pulled Enkinor to his feet and dragged him away into the laughing crowds. Before Enkinor would return with the tribe to their camps, he would exhaust himself dancing, and eating, and flirting with the women.

  And Orlefir watched it all and wondered.

  It was the evening of the following day when Enkinor was led to the chief's tent by Orlefir's personal sentari. He ducked through the tent flap as a guard held it aside.

  The Saerani tribesman felt a growing anxiety, as if he was nearing the cusp of something significant. He was the Gauntletbearer, he was cursed by the Dreamtunnel, and somehow, he had come to the place where much of the story had begun. From the encounter with Raethir Del at Icefast Hold to meeting the spellguard in the Enir Pont who'd given the sorcerer the vradu name for the Dreamtunnel, Enkinor's curse had not carried him in a completely random fashion.

  And the irrilaii seemed more familiar to him, somehow, than his discussion with Longhorn in Kophid would have caused him to feel.

  For being the chief's tent, its furnishings were surprisingly austere. Orlefir's wealth could have been displayed in silk and fine fabrics, jeweled utensils, furs and ornamentation. Instead, several small wicker baskets with saddle straps held most of his belongings. The old chief reclined on a stack of simple pillows, a steaming mug before him, an assortment of weapons carefully arranged and near at hand. A small table was covered with a small map, its curling edges weighted by small stones. The tent was well lit by a half-dozen oil lamps arranged haphazardly through the tent.

  Orlefir motioned Enkinor to sit with him.

  “Gauntletbearer,” said the chief, eyes narrowed and locked with Enkinor's, “where did you learn the words to the Song of the Sun?”

  Enkinor's unease only increased. With a bit of a start, he felt the Dreamtunnel approaching. How much time do I have?

  “First,” responded the Saerani, “let me tell you some things that have happened that you may not know about.

  “When we returned from the celebration last night, I saw the fields of flowers on the Plains, the little white ones that seem to reflect the starlight. I got off my horse and plucked one. Then I looked up at one of your tribesmen. This is daranthea, I told him.” Enkinor p
aused, giving the chief a few moments to think. “At dawn this morning, I traced a symbol on the blade of my sword with a piece of charcoal and held it up in the air, so the first rays of the sun would hit the symbol.”

  Orlefir looked startled.

  “This symbol,” said Enkinor. Taking the old man's hand, he traced a pattern with his fingertip in the wrinkled palm of the chief's hand.

  “Where did you learn that?” whispered Orlefir, his hand beginning to shake slightly in Enkinor's grasp.

  Enkinor hurried on, eager to bring the anticipation to an end, fearing the momentary arrival of the Dreamtunnel. “My mother taught me the name of the evening silk-flower. She taught me the symbol I drew on my sword, and I asked her to teach me the words to the Song of the Sun when I overheard her humming them to herself on a sunny day as she stood on the shore of our lake. I remember a little smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

  “Not long after, she died. I was very young. I not only felt sad, but disappointed as well. There was much more she knew that I had had no time to learn.”

  Enkinor paused again, hesitant to continue.

  “Orlefir, I think my mother was irrilai.”

  The chief of the irrilaii looked at the Saerani with glistening eyes and whispered, “What was her name?”

  “I don't really know, but I think my father called her Risha.”

  “Risha? Ah, Eloeth!” cried Orlefir. He buried his head in his hands, shaking with emotion, looking like he would burst from grief. Several moments later, he whispered, “Risha was my daughter.”

  The Saerani tribesman was stunned. His mother was not only irrilai but the daughter of the irrilai chief.

  Orlefir finally calmed himself and took a long drink from his mug. “Now, it is my turn.”

  It was very difficult for the chief to tell the story. The pain of his memories often gripped him so strongly he could not go on.

  When Rishalaerim dor Orlefir was a young woman, she and some of the young men of the tribe were exploring a region of the Plains into which the nomadic irrilaii had moved, following the herds. The group was ambushed by hudrai slavers intent on capturing young stock for the markets in Paerecis. The irrilai men surrounded Risha and fought fiercely to protect her. All the while, brandishing her sword high above her, Risha swore at her tribesmen to get out of her way so she could cleave her share of skulls.

  But the irrilai group was defeated. Risha was taken, the men all butchered save for one. This one left a dozen dead hudraii in his wake and killed his horse in his haste to return to the tribe and get help. By the time the irrilaii returned, however, the slavers had vanished, their tracks lost.

  For weeks afterward, irrilai scouts searched for clues. One by one, the number of scouts sent out diminished until no more were sent. Orlefir and his wife went into mourning.

  “So, the resari were right. The Gauntletbearer is a man of the plains. Enkinor the Saerani is also Enkinor the irrilai.” The old chief smiled sadly. “My daughter has returned to me in the form of her son. Your Saerani grandfather bequeathed you the Gauntlets. Perhaps your irrilai grandfather can bequeath you your heritage.”

  There was warmth in Orlefir's final words, a warmth that spoke of affection and acceptance. Even as Enkinor soaked up that warmth, he could feel the Dreamtunnel drawing ever closer.

  Enkinor spoke, but he could not look the chief in the eyes. “Orlefir, this is hard to say. I will be leaving, probably any minute now, but not of my own free will.”

  The old man was startled. “What do you mean? Let me call my sentari!”

  “No, no,” said Enkinor. “They would be of no help. Please, Grandfather, let me explain.”

  He clasped the weathered hands of the irrilai chief in his own.

  “You said the resari told you,” continued Enkinor, “that the Gauntletbearer would help destroy one of the abramusari that was bent on obtaining the Gauntlets to control the world. What I didn't share with the council was I have already faced this abramusara whom I'm destined to destroy. His name is Raethir Del. He tried, unsuccessfully, to take the Gauntlets from me by force. I don't believe he can kill me because by so doing he would still be taking the Gauntlets by force, and some kind of sorcerous protection on the Gauntlets prevents him from doing that.”

  It was clear Enkinor had more to say.

  “Please, go on,” said Orlefir.

  “I am destined to destroy him, and he cannot kill me, but because he can't take the Gauntlets by force, he placed a spell on me. My guess is he's looking for another way to get the Gauntlets.”

  “He placed a spell on you?”

  “Yes, it's called the Dreamtunnel. The Dreamtunnel picks me up, wherever I am, and leaves me somewhere else, usually a great distance away. I wake up and find myself either truly awake or in a dream, but the difference between nightmare and reality has vanished.”

  The irrilai chief asked, “This Dreamtunnel brought you to the Plains of Forlannar?”

  “Yes. From the jungles of the Enir Pont and many more places before that. In the past few weeks, I have seen the Cana Glalith in the far northern lands of the Waryndi and the volcanic island of Tari Nar in the tropics. I've been snatched from death by the Dreamtunnel more times than I care to remember. At this very moment, it's coming for me again.”

  Enkinor stood, and Orlefir rose quickly.

  “So soon?” asked Orlefir, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

  “Yes,” said Enkinor. “Even now, I feel its pull. I've learned when to expect it, when to feel its nearness.”

  “Ah, my son,” said Orlefir, embracing the Saerani. “You must return somehow! This land, the irrilaii, they are your heritage.”

  The old chief and the young wanderer wept then, for the joy of discovery and the sorrow of parting could no longer be contained. Orlefir continued to weep quietly when, only a minute or two later, Enkinor's form dissolved into sparkling dust and disappeared.

  Only when the horns of warning sounded, a short time later, did the old chief cut short his grieving.

  Chapter 51

  Visylon clambered over the cliff edge and stood. The man who had pulled him up was dressed in leather and wore his long hair tied up behind his neck. Several days' worth of stubble smudged his cheeks. A long, spiraling horn was strapped across his back. He was laughing, hands on his knees, as he tried to catch his breath.

  “What is so funny?” asked the Swordbearer.

  The stranger finally regained his composure and straightened, pointing at Visylon. “You are absolutely covered with soot. What did you do, roll around in an old campfire?”

  The Saerani warrior accepted a rag and tried to clean up. “I appreciate you helping me climb up here.”

  “You looked like you could use some help. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes.” Visylon said no more until the other man handed him some food and water. “My thanks.”

  The two of them exchanged names.

  Longhorn said, “You should know why I'm here. I was sent by the musaresari to find you and take you to the Gauntletbearer.”

  Visylon almost choked on a swallow of water. “You know where he is?”

  “Yes, and we need to get moving if we want to reach him before he's taken by the Dreamtunnel again.”

  “The Dreamtunnel?”

  “I'm sorry,” spoke Longhorn. “There's much you need to know, but we don't have time for you to rest and me to talk. Come.” He motioned the Swordbearer to follow him.

  Among the trees, away from the edge of the canyon, were two horses. One was Cabellara.

  How did she get here? He had left her with the boatwright before he descended the river.

  Visylon looked at Longhorn. “You look familiar. Who are you?”

  The man gave Visylon a crafty smile. “Disguised as a horse trader, I sold you this horse,” he said, motioning to Cabellara.

  “You! Why? Who are you really?”

  “I'm an irrilai tribesman. I'm helping the resari br
ing the Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer together to fulfill their mission.”

  Visylon was surprised but tried not to let it show. “You know much, I think. Do you know what that tree is, and what I was doing inside it?”

  “The tree is the Rivertree,” replied Longhorn. “The resari tell me it has straddled the Esolasha since Eloeth created the world. You entered the tree and found the Codex Indrelfis, but what you might've learned from it, I don't know.” Longhorn gazed at the far horizon for a moment before continuing. “As for you, you are the Swordbearer.”

  Visylon asked, “But why are you here?”

  “The Gauntletbearer has been tossed all across the land by a spell, a curse placed on him. But the resari have finally located him. He's with my tribe on the Plains of Forlannar. Hyphos told us where to find you. Now, I must take you to the Gauntletbearer.”

  Visylon walked over to Cabellara and patted the horse on the neck. She nuzzled him in response. “Show me the way.”

  Longhorn and Visylon rode away from the Rivertree. Behind them lay the Throat of Eso and the Falls of Mist, the Esolasha River, and far beyond that, Apracia and the Yalventa Forest. Longhorn gradually increased their pace to one which would not excessively tire their horses but would put many miles behind them by dark.

  The land beyond the river was flat and barren. No roads or trails led across the desolate and foreboding countryside, but none were necessary. They rode with the setting sun at their backs and chased their own shadows, their course only turning to round an occasional clump of low bushes. Dust rose under the hooves of their horses and billowed in the air behind them.

  Visylon was too tired to think of much of anything or to question what the irrilai said. All he could think of was trying to ride as comfortably as possible. The possibility of failure in their quest only added to his discomfort, but thoughts of Srellis warmed him. Would she believe his stories when he returned?

  Even Longhorn, much more accustomed to riding than the Swordbearer, was finding it hard to sit up straight. After leaving Ardemis and Ki'rana, he had found a way to climb the escarpment with his mount and locate the boatwright upriver, so he could retrieve Visylon's horse. He had reached the eastern rim of the Esolasha and the Rivertree only minutes before Visylon had emerged. Now, he was calculating and recalculating how quickly they could reach the irrilaii without killing either the horses or themselves.