The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy Page 16

  Visylon sheathed his sword and snatched up the hudrai's staff. “Here,” he said, extending the end to Stump. “Take it, man. Hurry.”

  Stump grabbed and missed, sinking a little more into the quicksand, now up to his neck. He grabbed again and caught the staff, but his muddy hand slipped, and he lost his grip. He tipped his head back, for the quicksand was almost up to his chin. With one last effort, he caught the staff and held on as Visylon began to pull.

  The hudrai looked past Visylon and his eyes went wide. With a look of panic, he let go of the staff and disappeared with a cry that turned into a muddy burble. Visylon looked on in disbelief. He dropped the staff and turned.

  Standing in the gap among the bare larches was a man-like creature with black stripes down its head and arms and its bare chest. It wore trousers and boots, but that was all. Something subtle made the large creature look more animal than human, something suggesting barely restrained ferocity.

  Visylon brought his bloody sword up in guard-position.

  “Put your blade away,” growled the creature.

  “And trust you?”

  The striped creature spread its large hands wide. “I am unarmed,” he said. But the pointed nails on the fingers of each large hand gave Visylon pause.

  “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “Raethir Del wants to talk.”

  “Who's Raethir Del?”

  “Too many questions. Come. Now.”

  “Stand aside,” said Visylon. “I have no business with you or anyone named Raethir Del. Just as I had none with these dead hudraii.”

  Though his eyes were fixed on the creature standing before him, Visylon noticed Cabellara was nowhere in sight. He imagined that on horse he could escape from this thing. The sun was going down now, and he didn't want to be trapped here for the night, creature or no creature. The bog monster that had killed Shaft might still be hungry.

  “You have two choices,” said the creature. “Come with me, bound or free. That is all.”

  Visylon could not resist a question. “What are you?”

  “I am a krylaan. You are a human, and you talk too much.” With that, the creature approached the Saerani warrior.

  The Swordbearer moved into a fighting stance, looking along his left shoulder at the krylaan, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his uplifted sword. If the creature truly was unarmed, it would be relying on strength and speed to disarm Visylon without getting hurt.

  The krylaan grunted in annoyance. It took a deep breath, opened its mouth wide, and sang.

  A low rumble broke forth from the creature's throat like a blast, a sound just within the range of hearing. The Saerani felt it more than he heard it. It was like a blow to the head. Visylon's vision blurred, and he wanted to put his hands to his ears, but that would mean dropping the Sword of Helsinlae, and that was not an option.

  The krylaan paused, bringing Visylon fleeting relief, but it took another deep breath and began again. This time, the sound was louder and more painful. Visylon fell to his knees, head bowed, unable to think straight, unable to move. He put his free hand up to cover his ear, but it was no use. The throb of the creature's vocalization went right through him, pounding him. He longed to throw down the sword and give up.

  Once more, the creature paused to take a breath. But this time, as the stunning rumble issued forth from its lips, it was answered.

  The monster that had eaten Shaft came around the end of the island and called out with a roar. The krylaan stopped its song. Another of the swamp monsters came around the other end of the island. Visylon was closer to both monsters than the striped creature was. Sword gripped in both hands, he turned back and forth, facing three foes now instead of two.

  The first monster rushed past him, moving so fast the krylaan was crushed beneath it before the creature could cry out. The bog monster bent its massive head and bit a ragged piece of bloody flesh loose, tossed it lightly in the air, and swallowed it.

  The krylaan screamed as it was eaten alive.

  The monster took the krylaan's head in its maw and crushed it like a melon. Its long pink tongue snaked out to lap the spattered brains. Then it took the krylaan by the arm and began dragging it into the bog.

  The other monster ignored Visylon and followed the first beast with a cry of challenge. As the two disappeared into the bog with their prize, they bit and ate and fought over the krylaan's body.

  Visylon slumped to the ground, exhausted. A growl from the bog brought his head up sharply. He whistled for Cabellara and was relieved to hear her trot up to him only moments later. She nuzzled him as he struggled to stand.

  He cleaned and bound his wound before taking a rag to his sword and mounting up. It was time to get out of there.

  Chapter 21

  Longhorn stood in the crumbling ruins of Tura Mezar, Tower of the Corn. The broken rubble that had once been the tower lay strewn atop a low hill by the broad Valley of Mya. Only the base of the tower and a single flight of stairs to the first landing remained. The rest of the tower lay scattered about in pieces, victim of time or some other battle long forgotten.

  Here, a day's ride from Kophid, the valley was dotted with small farms. Around the tower stood dry and brittle cornstalks, their produce long since harvested.

  The irrilai tribesman scanned the countryside. Two days had passed since the Swordbearer had left Kophid. The resari had told Longhorn to meet them here, at the tower, but they were gone. To Longhorn, that meant more trouble.

  The farms were quiet, the livestock brought in for shelter now that night was falling. The calm of the evening was punctuated only by an occasional chirp. For miles up and down the valley, there was no sign of movement. Large patches of forest blotted the landscape, providing more than sufficient cover for a group of men with resari captives.

  The absence of the resari was not all that spoke trouble. The resari had mounts, but Longhorn found the hoofprints of several horses not far from the tower. The resari had been taken captive. Why? By whom?

  He threaded his way down the hill toward the narrow road that followed the Myan River. It was hard in the growing darkness to find signs that the resari had passed this way. But Longhorn followed the only trail leading from Tura Mezar. If he was right, the captors of the resari were in enough of a hurry that they would stick to a trail rather than strike out across country. Longhorn kneed his horse into a faster pace.

  When they got to the road, which way would they go? Northwest to Kophid, or southeast to Aldirg and the Seacoast?

  When Longhorn came to the road, he found it grass-covered. It was too dark to see where the low grass was trampled. He sat quietly in the saddle for some time, searching for the slightest clue of which direction they headed.

  The irrilai whispered a curse. It was not hard to imagine this to be the work of Raethir Del. He had ordered Strigin executed. Why not these resari as well? But, absent a sign of a struggle, Longhorn believed the resari were still alive. Were their captors taking them back to Kophid to see Raethir Del?

  A gust of wind set the trees in motion. Longhorn glanced across the road and saw the sign he was seeking. A small branch was hanging, partly broken, where only a mounted rider could have snapped it. He spurred his horse and plunged into the woods across the road, heading for the river.

  At the water's edge Longhorn found many hoofprints in the mud. But the river couldn't be forded here. Where had they gone? The irrilai dismounted and squatted to examine long, parallel marks in the mud. He could imagine a large, heavy object pulled partly out of the water and then pushed back in. A raft?

  Why by raft? To ferry across the river or to avoid the road? Unless they were ferrying across, floating down the river would be slower than going by the road. There were advantages, however. They would not be stopped by, perhaps not even seen by, Braemyan patrols traveling the road. Their mounts could rest, they could rest, and they would still make progress in getting to their destination.
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  Where could they be going? Longhorn asked himself. Downriver was away from Kophid. The Seacoast trading city of Aldirg, a large port teeming with merchants, was two or three days' ride. The Myan River could carry a raft all the way to Aldirg, but long before they arrived, they would be seen, and followed, and certainly stopped for questioning.

  Unless they only traveled at night. How far would one night of drifting carry a raft? Where would they stop when the sun rose? Longhorn closed his eyes. He tried to imagine the course of the river and the road that followed it. When he and the resari had come that way many weeks past, he recalled seeing an island in the middle of the river. He breathed a sigh of relief. That might be where they would stop at daybreak. It was a small island, thickly wooded, offering perfect concealment from the shore. The resari's captors would never have to leave the river.

  The irrilai wheeled his horse and returned to the road. If they stopped at the island, he had almost a day before they might leave again. But at the rate at which he would have to ride, traveling in daylight might alert Braemyan guards. No, he had to arrive at the island at daybreak.

  Longhorn spurred his horse into a mile-eating run that would not overly fatigue the animal. The Seacoast Road swung away from the river, slowing him down, but he couldn't risk crossing the countryside at a gallop in the dark. The banners along the road were silhouetted against a milky wash of moonlight. He could barely make out the wheat sheaf standard of Braemya. The banners nevertheless marked his route for him, set at intervals so that once a traveler reached one, he could just see the next one in the distance. Only the fact that the road carried a significant amount of traffic and commerce justified the banners and the guards patrolling the route. But tonight, there was no one to be seen. They were all billeted in nearby inns or camping well away from the road, safely away from the eyes of the hudraii.

  The irrilai grew weary of constantly watching for hudraii or Braemyan guards. His mind turned to the resari again, and to one of them in particular.

  “Dor Ardemis is too formal,” she had told him not long after they left the Plains of Forlannar behind them, a green sea of grass with islands of trees strewn across it for many miles in every direction. “Between friends, let it be Ki'rana.”

  “Ah,” Longhorn had said. “Life-joy. Your mother's birth-gift?”

  “Yes.” Ki'rana had smiled, rocking gently in her saddle with the horse's stride.

  Longhorn's mount had pranced beside the resara's, the others some distance ahead but still in plain view. “I'm sorry,” he had said, looking down with a small grin. “My irrilai name you would find unpronounceable, a birth-gift from an ecstatic father who drank too much at the festivities for my birth.”

  “It will have to remain Longhorn?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “Well, Longhorn is distinctive.”

  So many things had happened that day. Hands bound behind his back, he had been surprised to be taken before Orlefir and a group of strangers. Strangers who had said they wanted him to come with them, that they needed his help. Orlefir’s acquiescence. Longhorn had been tasked with avoiding killing. A sleepless night, a swift early morning leave-taking, and a gallop through night-wet grasses. A friendship easily forged, but somewhat unsettling ...

  For a time, he had considered telling her his feelings. But those feelings had been still amorphous, and one overriding concern had kept hammering at him.

  Longhorn's accepted responsibility was to assist the musaresari in finding the Gauntletbearer. Ki'rana's responsibility was to help the other resari. If Longhorn expressed his feelings to her, the consequences might distract them both from their mission. And they could not afford to fail.

  Shoulder your burden, irrilai, he told himself. It was not meant to be. Forget her, at least till your obligation is satisfied.

  Chapter 22

  Enkinor woke, weak and exhausted, lying on a bed of dry straw, covered by a threadbare horse blanket. He looked up and saw a thatched roof that needed mending and a hayloft that needed bracing. The odor of manure told him he shared the barn with some cows.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Enkinor turned his head. A young woman knelt beside him. She was dressed in a simple wool skirt and a muslin blouse. Her long hair tickled his face as she placed a soft hand on his forehead.

  “I think your fever's gone. And you certainly look better,” she added with a smile. The only wrinkles on her heart-shaped face were tiny ones around her bright blue eyes.

  Enkinor tried to move but couldn't. He felt like he was covered with bruises. He ached over his entire body, especially in his legs.

  “Here, let me help you.” She helped him sit up so he could lean against a post for support. He didn't believe he had any broken bones, but the pain was great.

  “Where am I? What happened to me?”

  The girl looked puzzled. “This is For'tros, a little village two or three miles from the Sea. Surely you know what happened to you.” She felt his head gently. “Don't you remember? I don't think you hurt your head.”

  “Girl —”

  “Call me Invedra.”

  “My name is Enkinor. I have no idea how I came here. The last thing I can remember — remember clearly — is being in the Parthulian hills near Kophid, in Braemya. Where did you find me? Why do I hurt all over?”

  Invedra frowned. “Kophid? You couldn't have been dragged all the way from Kophid. For'tros is two days' ride from Aldirg, near the Seacoast. And Aldirg is three days' ride from Kophid.”

  “Dragged? What do you mean?”

  The hooded man was going to kill me, and before that, I thought I was free! The hounds ... the scaled bat creatures ...

  “In the middle of the night, two nights ago,” said Invedra, “a wild horse came galloping into town, dragging something tied up in a sheet. My father and Janus Ryk ran out in the road to see what was causing the commotion. They moved in to calm the horse and cut its burden loose. It was you. You were unconscious. The horse ran off, and the men brought you in here. We've tended you ever since.”

  Enkinor rubbed his eyes, shook his head. Tied up in a sheet? Then, it wasn't a dream — the hounds, the ruins, the bodies hanging from the windows. I'm still in the Dreamtunnel. Remembering the Gauntlets, he looked around anxiously and sank back down on the straw with a sigh of relief. The Gauntlets were lying folded on top of his pack, not far from where he lay. His sword lay beside the pack.

  “Invedra, you must believe something. I know it looks like I'm in trouble, like maybe I was ridden out of town, punished for something. But I've done nothing wrong. I must've been attacked by some robbers and knocked over the head,” he lied. How could he expect her to believe the truth? “That would explain why I can't seem to remember anything.”

  The girl shook her head. “You couldn't have been ridden out of town. There's no town anywhere near here. But—”

  “But what?”

  “You're not an abramusara, are you?” she whispered.

  “A sorcerer?” He shook his head. “I'm a Saerani guard.”

  Invedra frowned. “But the way you appeared here, far from any other village ... and the tales Father tells of the horse that dragged you into town! Fire in his eyes, sparks at his hooves ...”

  Reaching out to take the girl's hand, Enkinor said, “Believe me, Invedra. I am who I say. I don't know why I'm here, but I will trouble no one.”

  He closed his eyes and winced as he tried to adjust position.

  A booming voice startled them both. “Invedra! Get back in the house.”

  The burly man standing before them could only be the girl's father.

  “I'm Enkinor,” said the Saerani tribesman, extending his hand.

  The other man just stood there, so Enkinor dropped his hand.

  “I am called Sturmig,” said the girl's father with no hospitality.

  The townsman of For'tros stood with clenched fists at his sides. His hands were large and callused. It was clear from the dirt on his
hands and his boots he'd been working in the fields. Sturmig's light shirt and tough long pants indicated a standard of living which, if not poor, was certainly not wealthy.

  Enkinor said, “I want to thank—”

  “The only way to thank me,” said the farmer, “is to be on your way as soon as you can get up and walk out of town. I've only done what I'd do for anyone I found pulled through the dirt and the stones by a wild horse. But people in For'tros want no trouble. Just in case you've brought any with you, or along behind you, you'd best be on your way. Soon.” Sturmig turned on his heel and left.

  Darkness had been creeping in for some time, sounds outside slipping away, when Invedra's father returned with a meager bowl of rabbit stew. He set the bowl down without a word, and Enkinor bit back a comment. Finishing his meal alone, the tribesman huddled down in his blankets and fell into a sporadic, painful sleep.

  The sun had long since risen when he woke. Groaning as he tried to ignore the bruises and aching muscles, Enkinor forced himself to get up and sit on a nearby stool. He took the Gauntlets and buried them deep in his pack.

  If the Gauntlets were useless against the Dreamtunnel, then he had no use for them.

  In time, the Saerani forced himself to venture outside, squinting in the morning sunlight. Some field hands chopping firewood by the smoke-house turned to stare. Enkinor waved, but the men turned back to their work, ignoring him. The look on their faces suggested more than a simple lack of interest or friendliness.

  Pausing to sit and rest when fatigue and vertigo overcame him, Enkinor trudged the moderate distance to the farmhouse. He planned to climb the steps and talk with Invedra's family but thought better of it. Instead, he skirted the house and stepped into the dusty lane, the only street in For'tros. One of Sturmig's dogs pestered him, barking and nosing him on until Enkinor reached the edge of the village.