The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy

by Mark E Lacy

  The Saerani warrior and the agent of the resari stopped only when dark had enveloped them, and further progress was impossible. Visylon unrolled his blanket in the lee of some dry shrubs and was asleep within seconds. Longhorn unpacked the horses but took the precaution of leaving them saddled. He knew Visylon needed a full night's sleep. As for himself, he could not miss a whole night's sleep standing guard. The irrilai lay down as well and fell asleep with his hand around the hilt of his bare sword.

  Longhorn got them up before dawn, feeling no better for the rest. Visylon was tired but feeling a fraction less fatigued. The men ate without speaking, broke camp, and resumed their journey.

  Over the next couple of days, both men regained more of their strength and stamina, despite the long and fast riding. With the return of their strength, they began sharing the stories of the events leading up to their meeting. Visylon learned about the curse of the Dreamtunnel. Longhorn heard tales of Raethir Del's attempts to stop the Swordbearer. They talked about the attempts of the resari to find out what was going to happen, to locate the Gauntletbearer and the Swordbearer, to take action to help them. Both men pondered the mysteries of the Gauntlets, the Ban of Irsisri, the Codex Indrelfis, and the Dreamtunnel.

  Finding water safe enough to drink was a frequent problem as they crossed the parched and dusty land. When grass became more and more common and eventually blanketed the countryside, Longhorn knew they had reached the Plains of Forlannar.

  Now, within reach of their goal, the enormity of the events in which they were taking part began to weigh heavily on their minds.

  As Longhorn rode, his apprehension grew, little by little over the miles. The tribesman doubted he had truly left all danger behind, even though Benshaer was dead. Even now, Raethir Del could be planning against the Swordbearer. As his unease grew, Longhorn realized terror was circling overhead, ready to descend like a vulture at the first signs of weakness. The irrilai rode for the Plains of Forlannar, the lands of his tribe, with the Swordbearer beside him, but it brought him no comfort. He needed something to fight back with, to counter his fear and anxiety. When at last he found what he needed to bolster his courage, he began to relax.

  Ki'rana.

  For several long miles, he thought of her. The softness of her face, the brightness of her eyes, the music of her voice, they all served to enthrall him. Longhorn thought back to holding her in the dark shadows of Paerecis and how the warmth of her body had stirred him even in the midst of danger. The woman must be an abramusara to make such a helpless man out of me.

  Gradually, though, Longhorn began to lose the comfort of his memories, the fragments of sight and sound and touch and feeling that formed his image of the woman he loved.

  The memories frustrated him. They lacked the sharpness and clarity he wanted. Mile by mile, oblivious to the Saerani warrior riding with him, the pain of separation began to grow in the irrilai. The ache in his heart was fed by the fear that he might never see her again.

  He was trapped. He could think of the danger through which they passed, or he could think of losing the only hope for true joy in his life. Only his pride and his privacy kept him from yelling out in despair.

  Visylon despaired as well. When they left the Rivertree, he had been too exhausted, mentally and physically, to think of anything but staying in the saddle. In time, he drew sustenance from his conversations with Longhorn and his elation at knowing where to find Enkinor. As the miles sped beneath the hooves of his own mount, and the men passed into grassy Forlannar, Visylon's spirits were dampened by his own fear. It started in his stomach, twisting and coiling like an angry python aroused from slumber.

  If we really find him, thought Visylon, what then? How do we break the curse of the Dreamtunnel? How will we find the Gatekeeper? How do we destroy him?

  Once again, darkness descended on the Plains. Longhorn gave no sign of intending to halt for the night, and Visylon was glad. As long as they continued to ride, they were coming closer to finding Enkinor. They were taking action instead of lying down to restless slumber. The horses slowed a little as the gloom deepened, and the terrain assumed indistinct features. Longhorn moved on ahead of Visylon for a few minutes and then abruptly reined in, his horse tossing its head. The Saerani warrior came to a halt as Cabellara bobbed her head, sniffing the breeze.

  “What is it?” asked Visylon.

  Longhorn seemed to be gazing far off into the darkness. “Irrili. The horses smell them. And where there is a herd of irrili, the irrilaii are close at hand.”

  Longhorn looked at the Swordbearer, smiling.

  “Come, Visylon. We may find the Gauntletbearer this very night.”

  They rode a bit more quickly than what was truly safe, the horses instinctively following lanes of shorter grass for greater speed. Islands of trees began to spot the Plains, and they navigated around them like ships avoiding reefs.

  Longhorn knew the horses were almost spent, but they had not yet found the irrilaii nor the irrili. He looked up at the sky, confused to see stars on a cloudy night and all of them red at that. His fatigue made him hesitate a few moments before awareness hit him.

  “Stop!” he said to Visylon, and he brought his mount to a bone-jarring halt. “Look,” he shouted, pointing to the sky.

  The stars were not stars at all. They were red spots that glowed dully. Several dozen fell from the sky, directly ahead of the men, like a small cloud of red snow.

  “No,” said Longhorn. “This can't be. It's been hundreds of years.”

  “What are they?”

  “Pyreshaii. Raethir Del is determined to stop us. Ride, Visylon, and don't look back!”

  With a shout and a slap to his horse's flank, Longhorn galloped away in a new direction, angling past the pyreshaii. They had to reach the irrilai camp, but first, they had to get past this new danger.

  The red spots reached the ground. Visylon watched with horror, despite Longhorn's warning. As each spot touched the grassy plain, it took the form of a man-sized demon mounted on a horse-like beast. The demons had narrow limbs, flat skulls, and long stringy hair. Their tailless mounts sported long, upturned tusks like a boar's.

  The pyreshaii raced to intercept the men and cut them off.

  “Go,” said Longhorn. “I'll try to hold them off. Find the irrilaii!”

  Longhorn wheeled his mount to place himself between the demons and Visylon. The Swordbearer had to reach the irrilaii and find the Gauntletbearer. At this moment, nothing else mattered to Longhorn. If he failed to protect the Saerani, they were doomed.

  Visylon spurred Cabellara, turning her away from the demons. He prayed that Longhorn could slow their pursuit while he raced to find the tribe.

  Longhorn was doing his best to divert the mounted demons. He urged on his mount without mercy, suddenly changing direction, wheeling the horse around. One moment, it seemed like he was charging at the demons, the next moment fleeing from them. As the demon mounts drew closer, Longhorn brandished his sword and yelled in defiance.

  The pyreshaii pursued them with eerie silence and incredible speed. A group of hudraii or an enemy squad would have raised war-cries by now, but no sound came from the demons or their mounts. The beasts they rode galloped so quickly across the grass of the Plains they seemed to have wings.

  Looking over his shoulder, Visylon watched in dismay as the demons turned their mounts to follow him, not Longhorn. It was clear the Swordbearer was their objective. Raethir Del was determined not to let him live. As danger drew closer, Visylon noticed each of the demons carried a slender lance that tapered to a long, sharp point.

  Longhorn raced to intercept the fastest of the demons, but his horse began to tire and slowed abruptly. In the next moment, the tribesman was beside the demon. Before the irrilai could strike out with his blade, it happened. The pyreshai lance pierced the irrilai’s side and withdrew. Longhorn cried out, and the lance pierced him again. The demon tipped its flat head back, stringy hair blowing in the breeze, and it laughed, a gurg
ling obscene noise. The demon's mount bobbed its tusked head up and down, anxious to gore something.

  Longhorn slumped forward. His frightened mount found enough energy to put in a brief burst of speed. The horse ran a zigzag pattern across the dark plain, frantically trying to find a way free of danger.

  Visylon reined Cabellara in hard and then gave her a quick jab with his heels. Without giving his safety and the need to find Enkinor a second thought, the Swordbearer pursued Longhorn. The irrilai was in danger of falling off his horse. Perhaps sensing this, Longhorn's mount began to slow. The demons now began forming a large circle around the two men.

  Visylon rode up alongside Longhorn. He reached out, trying to balance him and take the reins of his horse. The two men and their horses careened into a gully, gaining but a few moments' protection from their pursuers. The Swordbearer brought them to a halt, dismounted, and lowered the irrilai to the ground.

  “No,” Longhorn said, his voice raspy. “Visylon, leave me. You must escape. We cannot fail.”

  The Saerani ignored him. He looked around, evaluating his options.

  And then it began. The pyreshaii surrounded the men, lances poised. Several demons left their ranks and attacked the horses. Cabellara whinnied in fear as the demons advanced. Visylon yelled in rage and began attacking the demons and their mounts on foot, cleaving several lances with his sword before cutting into demon flesh. Now, it was his turn to protect Longhorn from the pyreshaii.

  Longhorn's horse cried out in agony as it was lanced. It would be only moments before Visylon was overwhelmed, and the victory would go to Raethir Del.

  A resolute group of pyreshaii jabbed and thrust at the Swordbearer. Determined not to let Raethir Del succeed, Visylon carried the battle to the demons, advancing and parrying their lances, watching for his chance to slip in within striking distance. Defeat might be imminent, but he would kill as many demons as he could before he began his death-song.

  Cabellara reared, striking out at another band of pyreshaii that were moving in quickly. She was fighting for her life and for the men, but her eyes rolled in fear. Her hooves pawed the air.

  A demon dismounted, slipped in under her, and planted the butt of its lance in the ground. Cabellara fell on the point with a sharp scream of pain.

  As the other demons crowded around to finish her off, Visylon turned and saw her fall.

  “No!” he cried. Visylon jumped into the midst of the demons like a madman, sending blood splattering and demon flesh flying with every stroke of his blade.

  The sounds of hoofbeats and battle cries pierced the darkness, encircling the pyreshaii. Flaming torches sprang to life. Irrilai tribesmen materialized out of the night, each with a torch in one hand and bared steel in the other, thighs clamped to the back of a horse. They charged the demons. The pyreshaii looked up in surprise and dismay, turning from their victims to their attackers and milling about in confusion. The demons tried to burst through the irrilai line, jabbing with their lances, but the irrilaii held firm and rained fury upon the demons and their mounts. With speed and ferocity, the irrilaii set to dismembering every hellish creature that stood before them. Within minutes, the demons and their mounts were dead. The few that managed to break through the irrilai line scattered across the Plains but were brought down minutes later by their irrilai pursuit.

  Longhorn's wounds were only minutes old when the irrilaii placed him gently on one of their horses, a fellow tribesman mounted behind him to hold him up. Visylon climbed up on another irrilai horse, and with speed borne of dire need, the riders galloped away.

  On this night of danger, the irrilaii had placed a perimeter of outriders some distance beyond their sentries. As the rescue party approached this ring, bearing a dying tribesman, an outrider lifted his horn and winded a signal to the camp. The other outriders repeated the signal and kept watch for other irrilaii returning or pyreshaii in pursuit.

  Earlier, when the horns of warning had first sounded, Orlefir had just witnessed the Dreamtunnel suck Enkinor into its depths. At the sound of the horns, his instincts as chief came to the fore, and his grief was set aside to be considered at a better hour. With haste and care, he had ascertained the danger to the tribe, the appearance of the demons, spotted by the sharp eyes of a sentry. He dispatched a ring of outriders as well as a large band that would serve as the main defense of the irrilaii. The remaining people of the tribe lost no time in arming themselves. Every horse was saddled and readied.

  Now, Orlefir listened to the horns signal the return of the defenders. A few minutes later, the leaders of the band reined up before him with Visylon beside them. The women waiting nearby ran to Longhorn and, with the help of the men, lowered him to the ground.

  “My chief,” spoke one of the defenders. “The demons have been destroyed. They pursued Longhorn and this man,” he said, indicating the Saerani. “Longhorn is gravely wounded. This man stood over him and fought the pyreshaii.”

  Orlefir looked at Visylon and gave him a nod of gratitude before kneeling at Longhorn's side.

  “Longhorn, can you hear me?” he asked.

  Longhorn was barely conscious. Blood seeped darkly from his side. He opened his eyes a crack and whispered, “My chief.”

  “Longhorn, the Gauntletbearer was just here. He has gone, snatched away by a curse placed on him by the sorcerer.”

  At that, the eyes of the wounded irrilai widened, and he gripped his chief's arm. Visylon heard and knelt by the chief.

  “Orlefir, hear me. I can't say much,” said Longhorn. “This man is Visylon. He must find the Gauntletbearer in order for the sorcerer to be destroyed. Is he really gone?”

  “Yes,” replied the chief, nodding sadly.

  Longhorn turned his head to Visylon. “You must go. Now. Tonight. There's so little time.”

  “Go?” asked Visylon. “Go where? If the Dreamtunnel has him, how can I know where to find him next?”

  For a few moments, Longhorn said nothing. His color was bad, and Visylon feared he had lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “The resari,” said Longhorn, opening his eyes again. “You must find them. They will know.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Del'rissak.”

  Chapter 52

  Like crisp leaves driven by a wintry gale, the hours and miles rushed past till Visylon could no longer reckon the passage of either. The sky was blanketed with gray clouds marching before a cold wind that whipped his horse's mane and brought tears to the Saerani's eyes. Saddle-sore and fatigued, a man who had defeated scores of enemies could no longer fight off his own worries. How much longer, how much further could his horse sustain the speed with which they had left the irrilai camp that morning on the Plains of Forlannar? Would he find the resari? Would they be able to help him?

  The irrilaii had helped him bathe and had given him a fresh set of clothes. As Orlefir went over a map with him, they had readied a horse and provisions.

  Using the map, he found a bridge across the Esolasha canyon, leaving the Plains of Forlannar behind. The road guided him through forested hills. After a while, the road began to widen, showing signs of heavier use. Occasional tracks branched off to distant farmhouses. As darkness settled, Visylon prayed for a clear sky, a bright moon, or both. Soon, he would have to rein the horse to a halt and continue on foot.

  With a sigh of relief, he saw the lights of Paerecis not far ahead. Tomorrow, he would reach Del'rissak and find the resari, but tonight, he needed some food and at least a few hours' rest. Hunched over his mount, he gave the horse a friendly word and a pat on her flank.

  A dark-skinned woman wearing strings of wooden beads and little else lay with her eyes shut, lips barely moving, feet together and arms outspread. She had long since ceased struggling against the invisible hands that held her fast. She lay on the flat roof of a Paerecisi inn, the pelt of a gar-wolf keeping her from feeling the cold roof tiles beneath her back. The evening breezes raised her nipples, and she shivered. Raethir Del's captive made a slight
move, and her dusky skin glistened like golden feathers.

  The sorcerer watched and smiled. He had taken a large and well-appointed room with access to the roof. He was tired, more depleted than he'd been in years. He had returned from Qirik as an eagle, the Staff in his grasp, and now felt drained and in desperate need of replenishing his power.

  Where is Benshaer? Where are the resari?

  He'd not heard from the masked traitor in several days and was beginning to grow anxious. Neither had the ravens brought any messages from the krylaan. Paerecis was the last place where Benshaer had contacted him, so here in Paerecis was where he thought he'd begin his search. But a few discreet inquiries about a man with a strange mask yielded no information.

  Raethir Del set the Staff of Khymera aside and shrugged out of his robes, standing naked, weary, and cold in the night air. He knelt, straddling the girl's thighs, and lay on top of her, face to face, taking her head in his hands. As he rested his weight on her, her eyes snapped open. Her mouth worked, but no words came out.

  The sorcerer pressed his lips to hers and inhaled through his mouth. Golden feathers shimmered across her body once again. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to breathe, realizing the danger she was in. As Raethir Del grew aroused, he began drawing on her energies. He stroked her face, moved the beads aside, nuzzled her beneath her jaw. Propping himself up on his elbows, he took his thumbs and held her eyelids open. For several long minutes, the woman met his gaze.

  A clap of thunder threw him off her. The pain in his ears felt like a war hammer had struck him. His ears rang, and he turned and looked, expecting to see a scorch mark where lightning had hit. Instead, a tall red cloud began to materialize. Raethir Del was hit by the odor of rotting flesh. The woman, still pressed to the roof, turned her head and vomited. Moments later, a half-saurian, half-human figure appeared.