by Mark E Lacy
Enkinor was frozen to the bridge by awe and fear. There was no way past her. Visylon, close behind, had turned from fighting the Paerecisi and was also quite still. The soldiers fell over one another in their haste to return to their own end of the bridge.
The demoness looked down at the Saerani men, wildness in her eyes. She was of fabulous form but corpse-white and somehow lacked substance. The Saerani men could almost see through her.
“Come to me,” she beckoned. “I am hungry.”
Enkinor continued to stare, unable to move. His thoughts were confused, memories and images swirling in his mind like the waters of the river below him. He couldn't remember who he was or what he was doing. Fear began to gnaw at him, fear like he hadn't known since he first entered the Dreamtunnel.
The demoness was approaching. For a moment, it seemed like vast evil lurked behind her ghastly beauty. In the next moment, it seemed like overwhelming good was trying to break through a mask of unbearable horror.
Visylon came up behind the Gauntletbearer. As he placed his hand on Enkinor's shoulder, the demoness howled with glee and thrust her sword. The Swordbearer pulled Enkinor back, but they both lost their balance and tumbled to the planks of the bridge. For an instant, they were staring at empty space and a river gone mad. Visylon watched, then, as a deep red stain grew near Enkinor's shoulder. The demoness raised her sword high over her head with both hands, laughing to the stormwinds. Visylon jerked his sword up just in time to meet her downstroke.
The blades met, but Visylon felt nothing. The sword of the demoness broke in two. She screamed as if her blade had been a part of her phantasmal body. Visylon struggled to his knees and ran her through with his own blade.
The Sword of Helsinlae flared, and the scream of the demoness changed to a cry of utter anguish, a cry that tore through the crash of the storm, the echoes bouncing through the canyon, the wild roar of the Esolasha River. Her cry seared and blasted the minds of the Saerani men on the bridge and the Paerecisi soldiers on the canyon rim behind them.
The death cries of the demoness went on and on as her form narrowed to a mere wisp, her features warping horribly as destruction took over. At last, she dissolved and vanished. The power of the Thraean kings, locked in the Sword of Helsinlae, had banished the demoness from existence.
Visylon grasped the ropes of the swaying bridge and pulled himself up to a crouch. The storm was passing, leaving sparkling night in its wake. The river was settling down, and only a murmur rolled through the canyon. At his feet lay Enkinor, motionless, red stain spreading. The Gauntletbearer was dying.
On the canyon rim, the Paerecisi milled about, talking and gesturing, unable to make a decision, confused and trying to recover their courage.
The Swordbearer acted quickly. He sheathed his blade and crouched to tear up the bridge. Keeping his eyes on the Paerecisi, he loosened several planks and hurled them into the canyon. Before the planks had splashed into the Esolasha, Visylon had pulled Enkinor up, supporting him by one shoulder. With one last backward glance, he headed for the other end of the bridge.
Half-dragging, half-carrying the inert form of the Gauntletbearer, it was several long minutes before Visylon reached the opposite side. He lowered Enkinor to the ground, propping him against a large, moss-marked boulder. Standing, tired and aching, he looked back to the bridge.
The Paerecisi were crossing the bridge in pursuit. Several were already more than halfway across, the others behind trying to balance on the lower ropes where Visylon had removed the planks.
Visylon stepped over to the large anchoring stakes of the bridge. He drew his sword and began hacking at the ropes where they were tied to the stakes. Though he struck them repeatedly, the fibers of the ropes had absorbed much moisture over the years and were so pliable that his blade seemed to bounce off them with every stroke. The vibrations Visylon set off ran through the bridge and built in amplitude. Caught by surprise, a few of the soldiers bounced and fell screaming to their deaths. The others grabbed the ropes and held on.
For a minute, the Saerani tried to saw the strands with his blade, hoping to sever them more quickly. Frustrated, he returned to chopping at the ropes with his sword. With a snap, one of the upper ropes parted. A moment later, one of the lower ropes broke, followed by the remaining two.
The Paerecisi plummeted to the river, their cries of panic cut short as they slammed into the water and drowned. One soldier managed to hang onto the bridge as it fell but was slapped against the canyon wall and died instantly. His lifeless form dangled from the wreck of the bridge, then joined those of his comrades in the river.
The rain returned with a vengeance. Visylon crouched beside Enkinor and laid the wounded man's head against his shoulder. The Swordbearer wrapped his arms around him and blinked back tears.
“No, no,” said Visylon in a raspy whisper. “We've come too far for this now. What are we going to do? No, my friend, don't die on me now.”
Raindrops rolled down his face to mingle with sweat and tears.
When the tightness in his throat eased, Visylon continued. “I've been looking for you. I thought I'd never find you.”
Enkinor groaned a little. “Visylon,” he whispered and then coughed.
“Yes, I'm here. Don't die on me! Hold on. Don't pass out.”
The warrior carefully leaned his friend against the boulder again. Visylon tore at Enkinor's tunic to inspect the wound. It was deep and bleeding freely, but it seemed to have missed the top of the lung. Still, unless Visylon could stop the bleeding, Enkinor would die.
And if Enkinor died, Raethir Del would win.
Still, he waited, summoning up what he needed. He remembered what Hyphos had said about his healing abilities. He remembered the link with the demon in the Yalventa and the work he did with the holomusari in Apracia.
There is no more time, he thought. I must do it now, before it's too late. Placing his hands on the Gauntletbearer's temples, and closing his eyes, Visylon murmured words of concentration and began forging a link between their minds.
When Visylon found that Enkinor was conscious enough to permit the link, he was relieved. There was a sense of fulfillment that came from beginning his work. With care, he placed layer upon layer of will across the link to strengthen it, all the while sensing Enkinor's gratitude and, at the same time, his fear and a strong message of urgency. Once the warrior was satisfied that the link was strong and would hold, he moved across it.
There. Visylon sensed the wound and centered on it. Again, he felt great relief. The wound was not poisoned or sorcerous. He began moving from one severed blood vessel to the next, knitting ends together in places, pinching ends shut on others. For the better part of an hour, he labored over the wound, willing it to heal. Finished at last, he forced Enkinor to sleep and moved back across the link.
Visylon held the link for a few minutes, not eager to break all contact, apprehensive and still a little worried. He jumped as sparks seemed to fly across the link. He could move neither physically nor mentally. Enkinor's awareness woke with a start and an expression of dismay.
No! Enkinor's mind sounded within Visylon's.
Visylon's form and Enkinor's began to sparkle like swirling stardust and dissolve. Together, Swordbearer and Gauntletbearer entered the Dreamtunnel.
Chapter 54
Raethir Del groaned and tried to roll over. There was an incredible pain in his stomach. He probed gently with his fingertips and gasped when he found the wound Enkinor had given him.
The Gauntletbearer didn't kill me?
Is the Ban of Irsisri a sham?
By the feeble light in the street, the sorcerer saw his fingers had come away wet.
The sorcerer was exhausted and wounded. It took him several tries before he succeeded in dropping into a light trance without losing consciousness. He couldn't heal himself, but he could assess how much damage the Saerani had inflicted. Though the sword had pierced him, it had missed the major arteries and slid between coils of intesti
ne.
No. He checked again. There was a small cut in a loop of his bowels.
Death approached from a distance, but he still had a little time.
Find them and finish this, he thought.
Raethir Del bit his tongue to keep from crying out as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
What? Something unseen drew near, and it wasn't death.
His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped.
How can it be?
A sudden gust of wind and he vanished from the street.
Chapter 55
Fear and vertigo vanished like smoke swept away by a soft breeze. Visylon broke the link with Enkinor's mind and opened his eyes. He felt like he'd woken from a bad dream. Taking his hands from Enkinor's temples, the Saerani warrior stood and looked around.
Ripples of warm air rose like spirits around them. For miles in every direction not a tree, not a bush, not a dried-up weed to be seen. Nothing but swells and hillocks of sand.
Desert? But we were on the Plains, across the river from Paerecis.
As he glanced toward the blistering sun with hand-shielded eyes, Visylon heard a small groan.
“Enkinor!” Visylon knelt beside the Gauntletbearer in the hot powdery sand.
“Visylon ... the Dreamtunnel. Where are we ... what happened?” muttered Enkinor, squinting.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes ... the demoness, she ...”
“She wounded you,” said Visylon. “I don’t know how to explain it. I seem to have some measure of healing power, and I stopped the bleeding.”
Enkinor sat up and moved his torn tunic to one side. There was no sign of the wound. “You did more than just stop the bleeding, I think.”
“What happened to us?” said Visylon. “I had just finished helping you when...” Words failed him, and he stopped.
Enkinor covered his face with his hands. “The Dreamtunnel,” he said with a groan. “It took both of us because we were still mind-linked. But this can't be. The Tunnel can only take one!”
Frustration welled up with renewed despair. Enkinor had found his heritage among the irrilaii, only to be swept away by Pasaga Dhar. He had killed the sorcerer Raethir Del by his own hand, but the sorcerer had not died, and the Dreamtunnel had not released him. Wearing the Gauntlets, he had faced the demoness but was wounded nevertheless. And now, the Dreamtunnel spell should have broken because two people could not be borne by it, yet here they sat in the desert, untold miles from the Plains of Forlannar.
Visylon was hesitant to ask Enkinor to explain. “Come,” he finally said, rising and giving his fellow tribesman a hand to help him up. “What do you think? Is it late afternoon or early morning?”
“Late afternoon. The ground wouldn't be so warm if the sun were just rising.”
The Swordbearer slung his blade behind his shoulders. “Well, then, let's walk with it at our backs till we find some shade to rest in.”
The two Saerani were very tired, and it was hard to make progress trudging up and down the crystalline dunes. Over time, Visylon kept turning to find Enkinor lagging. He would wait for the Gauntletbearer to catch up. Saying nothing, he watched Enkinor for signs of collapse. Even Visylon found himself stumbling, and he stopped frequently for them to rest.
They had neither food, nor water, nor shelter. Visylon had the Sword of Helsinlae, Enkinor the Gauntlets. Each of them doubted they would survive for very long in this desert, but neither would speak of it. Instead, they passed the time recounting their experiences to one another, as Visylon had done with Longhorn not long before. Enkinor came to realize what Visylon had done for him. The Swordbearer had left his tribe, wandering with little direction, braving numerous dangers to find Enkinor. He had saved Enkinor's life, only to be caught with him in the Dreamtunnel.
Visylon told Enkinor about the Codex Indrelfis and its cryptic passages. As he had when the irrilaii had told him of the visit paid by the resari, Enkinor was struck with the feeling of playing a critical part in some higher purpose. Yet, he understood scarcely any more of that purpose now than the day, weeks past, when he had left the Saerani camp on Lake Cinnaril.
For a few moments, it felt like ants were swarming over his skin. The feeling disappeared, and awareness hit him with a jolt.
Raethir Del stood in the surf, wet from the waist down, the sun hot upon his shoulders. Clumps of seaweed drifted among the foamy breakers.
The sun was only a shrinking red sliver lying atop the furthest sand dunes. Conversation had long since dwindled to nothing. Thirst and fatigue had grown to huge burdens. Now, the Saerani men squatted and rested with hanging heads and sagging spirits.
Visylon looked up at the next formidable dune before them. “What is that?”
Enkinor followed his pointing finger. A swirl of sand, ghostly brilliant, was moving their way.
There was something familiar about it. The hair on the back of Visylon's neck rose as he remembered Enkinor's words and realized what he saw.
Enkinor spoke their thoughts. “The Dreamtunnel comes.”
“Run!” said Visylon. Try as they might, it was impossible to run in the shifting sands, and both were exhausted, too tired to even attempt to split up and head in different directions. Visylon tripped and fell face-first in a dune, and Enkinor reached to help him. The Swordbearer looked over Enkinor's shoulder and steeled himself. The swirling particles enveloped him and snatched him away. Enkinor had one moment of panic at being left alone, when suddenly, Pasaga Dhar grabbed him as well.
Flickering candlelight reflected in the block of ice encasing each hand. Raethir Del stood with arms outspread, unable to move, listening to slurping noises approaching in the dark.
Visylon woke, choking, vomiting brackish water. He smelled damp earth and the odor of decaying vegetation. Then, Enkinor was rolling him over and leaning him against the trunk of a broad tree covered with galls like pustules.
With his hands on the warrior's shoulders, Enkinor looked Visylon in the eye. “Now it's my turn to ask. Are you all right?”
Visylon grinned. “I think so. Was that—” He broke off, coughing up the last of the water in his lungs. “Was that the Dreamtunnel again?”
Enkinor looked away. “Yes. Something is happening that I don't understand. That's the first time in a long time it's taken me twice in one day. And it took us both, again, even though we weren't mind-linked.”
Visylon followed the Gauntletbearer's gaze and looked around. It was dark, darker than it had been in the desert, but they were no longer sitting among the dunes. Instead, they crouched on a very small piece of ground in the middle of a swamp. It was swamp water Visylon had almost drowned in. Judging by how soaked their clothes were, the Dreamtunnel had dropped them right in the middle of it.
“I prayed for water, but I didn't know this would be the answer,” said Visylon. “Now what do we do?”
Enkinor just shook his head. “Nothing, I suppose. Wait for daybreak and then try to find firmer ground.”
“I'm hungry,” said Visylon. “Do you see anything edible lurking out there?”
“No. Don't get me thinking about food. Chew on your sword if you must. I'll gnaw on my gloves.”
The Gauntletbearer sat beside Visylon. There was little to see in the gloom. Huge cypresses stood in the water, their knees protruding above the surface like petrified serpents. Moss hung like tattered rags from the branches of the trees, swaying slightly as the mists crept by. The swamp was silent, which should have warned Enkinor, but he was so exhausted he let his eyes close. The Gauntletbearer was soon fast asleep.
The Swordbearer was exhausted as well. Unable to keep his thoughts straight, his mind drifted. Visylon didn't know if he was awake or sleeping with his eyes open.
Out in the darkness, approaching in slow, dance-like moves, were several dull-red spots of light. Visylon came fully alert when he realized the spots were coming closer. For a moment, he thought the pyreshaii had been sent by Raethir Del again, but these spots did
not fall from the sky. Neither did they transform into demons. The warrior nudged Enkinor gently and drew his attention to the red orbs.
The Gauntletbearer stood and backed up against the tree. The glowing spheres encircled the men, and with a flash, the spheres merged into a brilliant red band that crackled with energy and menace.
Just beyond the band of light, a child materialized out of the darkness. A small girl, with a bird's nest of hair in her eyes, her face lit by the crimson brightness of the thing that confined the Saerani men. She looked puzzled, but at last, she spoke.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a horribly deep and masculine travesty of a young girl's voice. “What are you doing here?” Her sepulchral tones sent chills through the men.
“We're just travelers,” said Enkinor. “Who are you? Why do you bind us? We won't hurt you.”
The girl laughed at that, a long and deep laugh that could not possibly have come rumbling out of such a little person. She gave them no answer.
“Don't be afraid,” continued Enkinor.
She seemed to think it over.
Visylon watched, surprised, as Enkinor slowly walked toward the girl with Gauntleted hands outstretched, palms up, oblivious to the band of light that separated him from the strange girl. As Enkinor reached the band, it flared. With a yell of pain, he was thrown back and crumpled to the ground.
Visylon reached him in a moment.
The girl was bent over with laughter.
“Well,” said Enkinor, wincing as he got up, “at least we know the Gauntlets won't help us.”
The girl broke off her laughing and looked up. The Saerani followed her gaze. Winding its descent between trees was a sparkling, serpentine rope. The Dreamtunnel was coming. There was nowhere to run.
The girl roared at the Dreamtunnel like a wild beast and gestured. The red band of power began to contract, drawing closer around the Saerani. Enkinor's thoughts reached out to the Dreamtunnel, pleading silently for greater haste. Far better to live at the mercy of my curse than die at the hands of a possessed child with sorcerous power.