The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy Page 10

“The fire—”

  “—was my doing,” interrupted the sorcerer. “I maneuvered you to come here so I could have another chance at getting the Gauntlets. Taking them by force did not work, so I thought to try a little trickery.”

  “But Strigin said—”

  “—that you would be safe here, I'm sure. I learned that the resari sometimes meet here, so I came here first and set some minor spells in the passageway, shields that only the Gauntletbearer could penetrate.” Raethir Del took his stick and pushed it through his red braid. “But this is no longer the cave of the resari. This is the Lair of Ualdrar.”

  The Wolf.

  “And the Draelani attack?”

  “I spurred and supported, trying to locate the Gauntletbearer. I was drawn, I could feel the nearness of the Gauntlets. But you must not have had them with you. I would have felt their presence when you attacked me. Then, when I found you in Kophid, I was surprised to learn the Gauntlets could not be taken by force. Here, in my Lair, you were clever enough to avoid my deception. But sooner or later, Saerani, I will have the Gauntlets.”

  The longer the sorcerer stood in the water, the more power seemed to shimmer around him.

  “You may covet the Gauntlets, musara,” said Enkinor, “but they will never be yours.”

  “Oh, have no fear, they will. But first, I must make sure an ancient judgment is not meted out.”

  Raethir Del knelt to cup some water in his hands. He took a sip, then cast the water into the air where the droplets seemed to float, suspended.

  “Several years ago,” he continued, “I finally found the name of a powerful spell, giving me the means by which I could wield it. An infamous spell, a spell for which kingdoms have been razed, for which many have been killed. A lifetime of searching and at last I found it. A careless, naive abrasentara, a spellguard, gave me the name of this spell when I seduced her and bedded her. Taking the name of this spell was even more pleasurable than taking her virginity.” He smiled to himself. “It is the only spell against which the Gauntlets are useless.”

  The abramusara paused to look away, to enjoy a moment of anticipation.

  “But why waste words on you? I think it's time I placed you where you can do the least harm.”

  Raethir Del scooped up more water in his cupped hands. He flung the water high into the air, where it became tiny stars flying and floating down over him like sparks from a flareburst. He stood with arms raised to the stars, smiling as they winked in acknowledgment.

  The sorcerer’s image shimmered like a mirage on the desert sand. From underneath the folds of Raethir Del's cloak, butterfly wings emerged and unfolded in iridescent grandeur, their spread as great as the sorcerer's outstretched arms. Then, in obscene contrast, the wizard's booted feet became dark, furry paws, his eyes began to slant upward, his nose became a snout, and pointed vulpine ears sprouted through the dark brown fur covering his head.

  “Behold, Saerani!” said the creature, its voice still human. “I am no longer the Changer. I am the Gatekeeper. For I hold the Key, the key to a gate that may be opened once, and only once, so one such as you may forever experience terror and despair on the other side. Through this gate you will be sent. This is the curse of the Dreamtunnel.”

  The wolf-butterfly-man cast another galaxy of stars into the air. As pinpoints of light dispersed throughout the cavern, it seemed as if the sorcerer and the Saerani stood outside, staring up at a night sky studded with tiny Gambi diamonds.

  “Ora, Pasaga Dhar! Open, Dreamtunnel!” said Raethir Del to the stars. “Open, and guide the Gauntletbearer down your spiraling way.”

  The stars began to swirl above their heads, a sparkling cloud that began to hum deep with power. Enkinor watched with apprehension as the tiny orbs began to swirl faster and coalesce, spinning about an invisible axis. It seemed like a brilliant whirlwind of stars had gathered over Enkinor's head.

  “Lead him, Pasaga Dhar!” continued the Gatekeeper. “Lead him to the edge of despair and beyond. Cast him up on the shore of fear. Drag him, body and limb, through the pits of terror.”

  The Saerani struggled, wanting to run, but his feet would not obey him. He could not move an inch.

  The sorcerer's bestial features contorted with pleasure, watching the power forming above him. “Throw him into the depths of doubt and swallow him up. Feed him, piecemeal, to the ravenous jaws of frustration and panic.”

  The swirling mass of stars elongated to form a winding, sinuous rope that descended toward Enkinor. The Saerani looked up and renewed his struggle to escape. As the sparkling rope reached his head, Enkinor shuddered under its cold touch. The rope began to pulse and widen into a tube. When it was as wide as Enkinor's shoulders, it slipped over him and down to his feet.

  The Saerani yelled with terror as the star-tube, like some giant ghost of a snake, swallowed him and sucked him down its length. Winding through the twisting tube, Enkinor disappeared into the darkness.

  “Fina, Pasaga Dhar! Close, Dreamtunnel.”

  The tube narrowed back to a rope, retracted into a compact mass, and vanished with a bright flash of light.

  The Gatekeeper laughed long and deep. He slogged through the cold water to the shore, where he collapsed, pleased but exhausted.

  Chapter 13

  In the space of a single moment, in a place of deep dread, consciousness returned. It was like waking up in a strange room in the middle of the night, but there was no bed under him, no ceiling above, no floor, no window.

  He would have given his soul for a glimmer of moonlight or the dying glow of a candle-wick.

  Enkinor turned his head and realized he knew neither up nor down, near nor far. There was nothing beneath his feet. He floated in a sea of darkness.

  His arms and legs felt like they had been dislocated and rammed back into their sockets. The ache in his chest reminded him of the tight embrace of the star-rope of the sorcerer's spell. Smothered now by a stygian void, he could no longer imagine the final flash of light when he had entered the Dreamtunnel and disappeared from the Lair of Ualdrar.

  A light wind stirred his hair.

  Enkinor waved his hand in front of his face, but still, he saw nothing. A deep coldness was settling into him, pricking his fingertips with warning. He could imagine his breath was fogging, but he couldn't see it. He tried to clap his hands together and force away the numbing cold, but the motion sent him spinning.

  Though it had no substance, the darkness pressed in on him. It was the epitome of nothingness, so empty it seemed to suck him into its vacuum, as if it were alive and seeking nourishment from anything that had true, physical substance. He closed his eyes and saw no difference. Soon, he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or shut. He could see nothing, and he could hear nothing, not even his own breathing. He held his breath until he was gasping for air, but he never heard his heartbeat hammering in his ears, nor even his ragged gasps.

  Have I been buried alive?

  Enkinor thought about lying in a coffin, the lid only inches from his face, several feet of dirt pressing on the lid, ready to break through. No one to hear him, no way to get out, nothing to do but lie still and try not to breathe, try not to use what little air remained.

  The cold seemed to suck more than warmth from him. It was like his skull had frozen and fractured, like his sanity was trickling out through the cracks and freezing in the darkness. He struck out in anger at his frozen madness and watched in horror as it exploded into thousands of tiny crystalline thoughts and fears.

  But there was nothing there. He cried out for help but couldn't find his voice.

  As the wind shifted, he began rolling and turning as if he were suspended in water. He wondered if he was drowning in the depths of the lake in the cave while Raethir Del laughed and watched the last little bubbles of Enkinor's breath rise to the surface.

  Maybe I'm already dead.

  The darkness began receding, black giving way to dark gray. He tried to tell himself it was real, not his tortured imagina
tion. But if this was light, it was not a warm, welcome guest. Instead, his new world was the color of dead flesh. And yet, despite this light, he could see nothing, not even himself. Over the next several minutes, the grayness gave way to the dull orange of rusted, worthless treasure, the brownish red of dried blood, and the purple-green of a mottled bruise. The colors folded into one another, mixing, swirling.

  Enkinor began tumbling in space.

  In the distance, somewhere, a person was screaming. Enkinor was both relieved to finally hear something and afraid of what the scream meant. He listened to it grow louder and closer. It was several minutes before he realized with horror the scream was streaming from his own mouth. When at last he willed himself to stop shrieking, a new sound was evident. Enkinor knew it didn’t come from him this time. A rumbling growl approached, growing louder by the minute.

  Enkinor looked at his tingling hands and arms. They were gaining substance now, but they were not covered in flesh. Glints of light reflected from his wrists as large fish scales began to appear.

  His fear began to build in earnest.

  There were objects hanging in the air around him like pods on a tree. Slowly, they became more visible, like a mist was disappearing. The pods looked like mottled black cocoons. More and more appeared until there were dozens above him, beside him, beneath him. He had no visual cues to tell him how big they were. He didn't know if he was seeing them up close or from a distance. As he watched, the cocoons began to squirm and writhe. One split open, and a green ichor dripped out. With a cry of newborn rage, a black creature slid out, unfurling its mottled wings. With liquid pops, the other cocoons burst, and the air filled with scaled bats. The creatures saw Enkinor and turned in his direction, calling to one another with ghastly screeches. The Saerani's heart beat in fear as the creatures flew closer and he realized each of them was larger than a man. They circled him, growling, weaving in and out as they snapped with spittle-flecked jaws, trying to catch him with fang or claw. Enkinor yelled curses, thrashing with his scaled arms and legs like a marionette at the hands of a maniac. The bat creatures darted in and backed off, lashing him with their serrated tails.

  They’re taunting me, playing with me before they finish me off.

  Enkinor cried out as one left a bloody welt across his back. He struck one of the beasts in the eye, and it screeched, slapping him with a leathery wing. Another came from behind, grasping him by the shoulders and folding its wings over his head. The bat-creature curled its tail around, trying to thrust it into the Saerani's mouth. Choking on the acrid stench of the beast's breath, Enkinor grabbed the muscular tail and rammed it into the monster's face. The creature cried out in pain, and the Saerani slipped from its grasp.

  Another of the dragon-bats rammed him in the side. He tumbled to the ground, an unyielding surface he couldn’t see, one he could only feel. He got up and ran, the black beasts in pursuit. He cried for help and tried to beat them off. Pain streaked down his back as one of the bats raked him with its claws. Enkinor stumbled as another sank its teeth into his thigh and tried to pull him down. In moments, they were on him, a dozen monsters intent on feeding. He thrashed at them, trying to get loose. Twisting and turning, he felt them back off. He fell back, stumbling again, and watched the dragon-bats dissolve into hundreds of beetles. The horde of black insects swept over the ground toward him. He stepped on several and felt a satisfying crunch. The others swarmed over him, burrowing into his flesh.

  The Saerani screamed, waves of terror sweeping over him like frothy breakers beating at the seashore in a hurricane. He stared at his hands as they began to bleed onto his maggot-eaten legs. The stench of rotting flesh flooded his nostrils, making him gag and vomit. He tried to stand, fire searing his throat and tongue as bile spewed forth from his mouth. The world reeled in blinding, dizzying patterns. The black beetles chittered as they climbed onto him and gnawed at the mass of putrefaction that was once his body. One of the beetles climbed up his cheek and lunged for his eye.

  Enkinor woke and sat up quickly. Nausea gripped him. He was soaked with sweat. He eased himself back down and lay still while the nausea passed and his heart slowed to normal.

  In time, he risked opening his eyes. He listened to feathery clouds glide across a blue sky. He watched the wind telling secrets. He fought back tears.

  It was some time before he could turn his head, even longer before he could prop himself up on one elbow, and much longer before he could stand and look around with disbelieving eyes.

  At his feet, a creek tumbled over a short series of moss-covered boulders. Crowding the banks of the stream were blue-green pines, trees so tall they seemed to graze the undersides of hawks soaring overhead.

  The colors were right. There was no sense of wrongness, no fear. The scene was calm. There was nothing pursuing him. He felt no pain.

  He looked at his arms and saw skin, not scales.

  His world was back to normal.

  He fell to his knees, laughing loud and strong. Was it possible? Had he escaped the Dreamtunnel?

  He took the Gauntlets off, tucking them in his belt, but it made no difference. The scene before him did not change.

  He had woken from a horribly realistic nightmare to find himself somewhere in the wilds, alone but with mind and body intact. What had happened? Had the sorcerer been mistaken? Were the Gauntlets of some value against the Dreamtunnel after all?

  Enkinor leapt from rock to rock across the stream, slipping once, splashing himself with stinging spray, and then hopping onto the moist bank on the other side. He ran his hands through scattered gardens of tiny flowers, up the papery bark of birches, through little eddies of frigid water. He rose to his feet and sprinted through the trees, drawing the crisp air into his lungs with each pant. Enkinor shouted and listened to his voice as it was swallowed by the symphony of the gurgling water. He laughed again, scaled an ancient oak, swam through a silent pool formed by the creek.

  The nightmare had felt so real. Never before had he been so overcome with fear. How good it felt to be free of that fear! Now he could return to the sorcerer and destroy him.

  Enkinor found his sword and pack lying in the grass and set off, following the stream, hoping to find a village for supplies and a road to lead him back to Kophid. Within an hour, despite his elation and despite his resolve, Enkinor succumbed to exhaustion and lay down in the soft grass. From the terror of his nightmare, Enkinor's thoughts moved back to Raethir Del, and Strigin, and Longhorn, and even they seemed like part of a half-forgotten dream. Enkinor thought back to his comrades and the Draelani attack, and they seemed like part of a dream long forgotten. His last thought before he fell asleep was how fabulous it felt to be free of the Dreamtunnel thanks to the Gauntlets.

  Chapter 14

  Longhorn bobbed in the saddle as his horse climbed the switchbacks along the hillsides outside Kophid. It had taken two hours after Enkinor's escape before the irrilai could find a way to leave the city. Out of sight of the guards, he had paced back and forth, watching the South Gate, well aware Enkinor and Strigin were pursued. As it turned out, a substantial bribe was required to get the gate opened again long enough for him to slip through. Outside the gate, he had pushed his way through mules, wagons, and angry farmers milling outside and waiting to enter the city. Once he was free, he slapped the horse's reins and raced across the countryside, anxious to allay his fears. He guessed the Saerani and the resara would try to lose their pursuers in the hills.

  Was Enkinor the one sought by the resari? Longhorn had seen the Gauntlets on Enkinor's hands, had seen for himself they had some unknown power. No one could remove them, not even Thesir's visitor. This was far beyond coincidence. Enkinor had to be the one.

  Months before, the resari had come to the Plains of Forlannar, seeking the Gauntletbearer. They had shared a meal with the irrilai chief and explained their quest. Strigin told Orlefir of the Gauntletbearer and their belief he was a man of the plains. They had yet to find him, and they had hoped the irrila
ii could tell them something.

  The resari also spoke of Seeing a confrontation between a sorcerer and the Gauntletbearer, and the danger the world faced because of this.

  To everyone’s surprise, Strigin had announced that the one they sought was not there. Instead, he asked Orlefir who the irrilaii had bound. Longhorn was led out to meet the resari, hands tied behind his back. He had killed a man in self-defense, but the other man’s death was ruled unnecessary. Longhorn was being held under guard until his fate was decided.

  But Strigin said he wanted Longhorn to guide them through the country and protect them. He convinced Orlefir that Longhorn was critical in finding the Gauntletbearer. The irrilai chief reluctantly placed Longhorn in their hands, and Strigin agreed to pay Longhorn’s blood-debt. Longhorn was ordered to strictly refrain from killing except in dire circumstances.

  Over the next few months, Longhorn learned much about the resari and their quest. While he missed his people, he was proud to serve the resari. They treated him as if he was one of them. When at last the threads of the Weave led them to Kophid, Longhorn and Strigin settled in the city to watch and wait. The others — Ardemis, Ardemis's daughter, and Benshaer — would move about Braemya, looking for any sign that might lead them to the Gauntletbearer.

  They waited with great anticipation. If they were right, they would find the Gauntletbearer here. They would offer their assistance to him, for the Gauntletbearer would begin the steps that would rescue the world from grave danger.

  Longhorn reached the crest of yet another hill and gazed upon the gray pallor of warm ashes.

  Across the hilltops, charred tree trunks stood like monstrous fingers reaching up from dusty graves. Here and there, a wisp of smoke curled away from still-warm coals, tainting the air. The only sound was the music of a small brook below. Longhorn nudged the mare with his knees, and they descended the hill.

  In the next half hour, the irrilai came across the scant remains of several animals that had perished in the fire. Two had been men, judging by the strips of scorched cloth fluttering near the remains of their corpses. A few of the other animals appeared to be umars, for some remnants of black fur had escaped the blaze as had their massive jaws. From these jaws, Longhorn extracted their four-inch long fangs, the ingredients of an old remedy for snakebite in mind. A dallying task, perhaps, but he needed to linger for a few minutes while he considered what might have happened.