The Ban of Irsisri_An Epic Fantasy Read online

  Rigalen paced along the edge of the bluff while Enkinor once again scanned the horizon. The hills began emerging from the dark as dawn approached with hesitation. A mist was gathering across the water.

  Gerakhi rose from below, gaining altitude with every downstroke. Moments later, Enkinor braced his arm as the falcon landed and perched, shifting from one foot to the other, flexing its empty talons. The falcon glared, saying nothing. Enkinor and Rigalen exchanged looks.

  “This makes no sense,” said Rigalen. “They knew to stop at the creek, but they send no token or message?” He paused, thinking. “I will check this out myself.”

  The sentara began to walk away.

  Enkinor turned, noticing where the other guard was headed. “You're going to glide down in this darkness?”

  Gerakhi pranced on Enkinor's fist, but the Saerani tribesman kept a tight grip on the falcon's jesses.

  “We have no choice.”

  Enkinor ran and grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “We could fire a flareburst, Rigalen. You're putting your life in danger.”

  Rigalen turned away and began unfolding a large packet of fabric and a set of lightweight wooden poles, spreading them out on the ground. “Why would they announce their presence with torches if they were coming to attack us? You know no one would appreciate a false alarm at this time in the morning. Besides, everyone's been on edge since Leafeld.”

  When he looked up, there was pain on Enkinor's face.

  “Have a care, my friend,” said Enkinor. “I need no more reminders of what happened to my father.”

  “I'm sorry, Enkinor.” Rigalen looked back to the valley. “But I'm still gliding down.”

  “Fool.” Enkinor began to protest again, but stopped, for he could see it would do no good. “Take Gerakhi with you.”

  Rigalen lashed three poles at a point and secured the fabric over them. He attached more poles underneath to brace the triangular skywing and slung a leather harness from the braces. Lifting the craft over his head, he climbed into the harness and pointed himself toward the precipice. Enkinor strapped a bow and quiver to the braces.

  The breeze over the hilltop lifted the nose of the skywing with a gentle touch, beckoning the guard to slip into the darkness. With a few running steps, Rigalen succumbed to the call and glided off the edge of the bluff. Moments later, Gerakhi joined him, spiraling down to the creek.

  “Has he started yet?”

  “I don't know. Wait — I can just barely see him.”

  A half-dozen men huddled next to the trilling stream, watching the sky.

  “Yes, he's coming down,” said one, watching the man’s skillful maneuvers. “Let him land. Pass the word.”

  Several minutes passed as the skywing circled and banked in a slow descent. Upstream from the strangers lying in wait, the Saerani guard floated down to a dry portion of the streambed and ran with his momentum till he could stop. He hurried to remove his bow and quiver and disassemble the wing.

  The men lying in wait extinguished their torches and moved upstream along the creek and the trail. As the Saerani came within range, a sound like a sudden gust of wind struck him. He flung out his arms and fell with a moan as four arrows pierced his chest.

  The archers ran up to the body to loot it but jumped aside when a large, flapping form exploded out of the darkness and struck someone's face, talons raking as both man and bird screamed. With a frantic shove, the man threw the falcon to the ground and the others pinned it with arrows. The blinded man whimpered with anguish, hands clutching the ruins of his face. The man next to him turned without a word and thrust a dagger up and under the blind man's breastbone, wiped the blade clean, and turned to follow his companions.

  Chapter 2

  The light among the trees winked out, two or three torches at a time. A few minutes later, Enkinor heard Gerakhi's cry, then nothing more. There was no signal from Rigalen. Enkinor told himself to be patient, but he grew more anxious with every passing minute. The morning sky grew lighter, while the mist on the lake thickened and crept closer. But still, there was sign of neither guard nor falcon.

  Enkinor closed his eyes for a moment. Rigalen is captive or dead, and Gerakhi with him. And their killers are headed for our camp.

  He looked behind him to the next hill along the lake. Two more sentari were posted there, but they would not have seen the approaching torchbearers from their position.

  Warning the tribe was Enkinor's first responsibility. He ran to their cache of supplies and returned to the bluff with a flareburst. The invaders were only minutes away from reaching the camp.

  But what could such a small party hope to accomplish?

  Something drew his gaze out to the lake. The advancing mist was now a rolling wall of fog. Following close at hand were a large number of slim dark shapes, racing across the water. Khayans. The forms shrouded by the fog could only be Draelani khayans, long and narrow boats of shallow draft. The threat posed by Rigalen's killers paled in comparison to the raiders crossing the lake.

  The Draelani. My father's murderers.

  Enkinor aimed the signal in the direction of the nearing boats, touched a glowing coal to the fuse, and stumbled back. The flareburst arced into the sky over the Draelani khayans and exploded. The brilliant flash dwarfed the rising sun as the blast echoed between the hills down the lake.

  Meanwhile, the Saerani boats bobbed in quiet ignorance, moored in the shallows along the shore. No one had yet risen to start the morning cook-fires. The dogs jumped to their feet, barking and straining at their leads.

  In moments, the tribe woke in confusion. Women reached for their husbands and found them already out of bed and grabbing their weapons. Sleepy children wondered if they were still dreaming as they watched their fathers and brothers stream from the log huts. The tribesmen threw bows and quivers, shields and swords into their khayans and grabbed their paddles.

  Enkinor's flareburst told them danger approached from the lake. They would meet that danger on the water rather than wait for the danger to reach the shore.

  At last, thought Enkinor, a chance to fight. A chance to avenge treachery.

  The raiders sped across the lake, shrouded by fog, but the Saerani khayans had yet to take to the water. From the water's edge, the Saerani defenders could see nothing of the Draelani through the fog. They knew by the flareburst what direction the raid was coming from, but not how close their enemies were, nor how many they faced. Blind, they could not organize their defense. For a handful of long, agonizing minutes, the Saerani could do little but wait.

  When the fog began to dissipate, thirty Draelani boats emerged. For one instant of surprise, warrior faced raider in dead silence. In the next instant, the first Saerani tribesmen thrust their boats into the water, bellowing war-cries as they paddled toward their adversaries.

  High above the lake, Enkinor paced back and forth, frantic with need. Need for a blade in his hand, need for one of his father's murderers within reach.

  With the fog now gone, Enkinor noticed a dark figure standing ankle-deep in the water on the other side of the lake. The figure faced the Saerani camp, watching the battle. His form seemed to shimmer, to dissolve and reform.

  A dozen Saerani khayans were out in the water to meet the raiders, but moments later, every Saerani boat came to a standstill only a bowshot from the shore, even though the men were still paddling.

  Enkinor had watched the unnatural, concealing fog appear and then vanish. Below him, the Saerani khayans were held fast in the water. There was power in the air, power he could feel radiating from the figure standing across the lake.

  A sorcerer? The Saerani guard cursed the Draelani for both their boldness and their cowardice. How could they persuade a sorcerer to help them? And to what purpose?

  None of Enkinor’s tribesmen had a chance of getting to the opposite shore to stop the sorcerer and break the spell that trapped their boats. Only he could do something about it. In minutes he was strapped into the harness of ano
ther skywing, a long dagger at his side. He lifted the wing far over his head. With a few quick steps, he hurled himself off the edge of the bluff.

  The vanguard of the Draelani attack closed in on the helpless Saerani boats. Unable to move or coordinate their defense, the Saerani were easy targets for Draelani arrows. Many tumbled into the lake, pierced by feathered shafts, but others jumped into the cold water to overturn the Draelani khayans. Saerani and Draelani alike died as one fell with an arrow through the chest, another drowned, another was pulled overboard and knifed, another clubbed to death with a paddle.

  Enkinor drifted on the breeze like a piece of morning sky, hoping the sorcerer wouldn't see him until the very last moment. If he couldn't guide the skywing to land on the shore, he hoped he could ram the man with the nose of the craft on the way down. The sorcerer was focused on maintaining control of the lake, giving the Draelani mobility while holding the Saerani boats frozen in place.

  Bodies floated face-down in the water, capsized and smashed boats drifting nearby. In the shallows, several Draelani had already beached their khayans. Angry at the use of magic, the Saerani met the raiders with bloody fury. Step by step, the Saerani forced the raiders back into the water, staining the lake dark red. Yet for every push forward, the Draelani pushed them back again.

  More Draelani khayans drew up to the shore, trailing with them new sorcery. Every few minutes, a Saerani swordsman dropped his sword, clutching his throat as he fell to his knees. Several desperate moments would pass as he tried to free himself from invisible, choking hands before a Draelani blade ran him through.

  The dying watched through misting eyes as women and children fled screaming into the forest.

  A Draelani warrior stopped to light a torch and fling it into a cabin. Within moments, the cabin was ablaze. A knot of warriors ran up with bloody swords.

  “Damn you!” said their leader. “We were told not to burn the huts. He’s looking for something!” And he kicked the offender into the burning hut.

  Enkinor braced his arms, pushing the skywing frame to maintain his balance as he banked above the treetops. The wing carried him closer by the minute to the sorcerer below. His eyes teared in the wind as he focused on the motionless man facing the Saerani camp and the raging battle occurring there.

  Red hair, in a thick braid. Dressed in black. No one I’ve seen before.

  Without warning, the sorcerer looked up and stretched a long hand toward the gliding guard. Enkinor began to fall. The surface of the lake raced to meet him. He swung his legs to one side and the other, trying to regain control of the skywing. The craft twisted above him, fabric snapping as it caught the wind and lost it. Enkinor dangled beneath, legs thrown around.

  For a moment, he brought the skywing under control. He strained his arms to the utmost and pushed the frame away from him, bringing up the nose of the skywing just before he hit the water with a stunning splash. Battered by the impact, Enkinor flailed beneath the wing, trying to get out from under it before he drowned. He caught a gulp of air and pulled his dagger from its sheath. With a few quick motions, he cut himself loose from the harness and struggled clear of the wreckage.

  Several yards away, the sorcerer stood in the shallows. He turned from the battle and watched Enkinor's struggles with interest.

  “So, a Saerani guard who thinks he's a bird. Do you dare think you can interfere with Raethir Del?” His smile changed to a scowl of annoyance. The sorcerer waved his hands, and the frigid water began pulling Enkinor under.

  Enkinor struggled to swim, his chest stabbed by knifing pain. The sorcerer smiled and began to laugh.

  Saerani warriors hacked and slashed as the Draelani kept the balance in their favor with supernatural aid. Only a few weeping women remained, kneeling by their slain husbands and kinsmen, watching in fear. The rest of the tribe had fled into the wooded hills. The Draelani were still setting fire to the huts, ignoring their orders while pressing the Saerani warriors closer to death and the invisible choking hands that robbed them of their very breath.

  A tall Saerani warrior gathered his remaining comrades and sent them in different directions. Visylon raised his sword high and gave a great war-cry, his black hair stringy with sweat and gore. He plunged once again into the battle, sweeping out a circle of death with his sword as he fought to keep from stumbling over the growing number of corpses at his feet or slipping in the gathering pools of blood. He ran a man through and cursed the sorcery that was helping to defeat his tribesmen.

  Visylon turned to face his next foe and found himself backing up from three Draelani raiders with whirling swords. They advanced a small step at a time, not taking any chances, forcing him toward a burning cabin. He felt the heat of the flames, heard the crack and pop of burning timber, smelled smoke and the sickening odor of charred flesh. He jerked his head around in surprise as hands grabbed for his throat, but no one was there.

  Angered, Visylon used his free hand to pull at the phantom hands while using his other hand to guide his sword. The Draelani smiled in anticipation, feinting thrusts, trying to maneuver him into the fire or onto the point of one of their blades. As one of them lunged, Visylon released the hands at his throat and sidestepped. He grabbed the Draelani by the sleeve of his tunic and threw him sprawling and screaming into the flames. The other two had now lost their smiles, but they pressed on, knowing hesitation could mean certain, swift death.

  The invisible hands on Visylon’s throat were tightening their grip. The blood in his temples began to pound. He had to kill two more Draelani, just these two, before he could allow himself to lie down and pass out. One Draelani raised his sword high with both hands and brought it down with all his might as Visylon swung his sword up to sweep the blow to one side. At that moment, the other Draelani stepped in and swung at Visylon's unprotected waist as if to slice the warrior in half. Visylon stumbled back. Before either raider could react, Visylon drew and hurled a dagger, catching the second Draelani in the chest. Visylon grabbed the Draelani's sword even as it was dropped from the lifeless hand that had held it.

  Like an enormous beast disturbed, the water churned and frothed. Again and again, the Saerani's head disappeared beneath the surface. Enkinor spat blood and fought back, watching the sorcerer, moving a few determined inches at a time closer to the shore. When at last he could stand on the bottom, he braced his legs and pushed, thrusting himself yet closer to the sorcerer and farther up the shore.

  Raethir Del stared in surprise as Enkinor came closer. With a swirl of his hands, the lake released its grip on the Saerani. Enkinor made a great leap closer and fell again as a large ring of ice froze around his waist and began to grow. With every second, the ice extended farther out into the water.

  He had little time left. Enkinor pushed once more against the bottom of the lake, weighed down by the ice. Racked with pain, the Saerani heaved his ice-girdled body into the mere inches of water in which Raethir Del stood. Enkinor struggled to a half-crouch, grunting with the effort. As the ice cleared the water, it vanished.

  The Saerani guard forced himself to stand, trying to catch his breath. “You have lost,” he shouted.

  Enkinor reached for his dagger and groaned as he realized it was no longer there, that he must have lost it in the lake. With a cry of rage and desperation, he hurled himself at Raethir Del, throwing him onto the stony bank. Enkinor jumped on top of him and crashed his fist into Raethir's temple. Even as the sorcerer's head rolled to one side, Enkinor went for his throat and squeezed. Raethir's piercing blue eyes bulged as Enkinor strangled him. He grabbed the Saerani's thumbs and broke Enkinor's choking hold. The sorcerer pulled his knee to his chest and kicked a booted foot into Enkinor's gut. The Saerani guard stumbled backward into the water, struggled to his feet, and retched from the bottom of his stomach.

  Raethir Del stood and began reciting the vradu name for another spell. Enkinor dove for the sorcerer's legs, knocking him off his feet. The two wrestled until Enkinor had Raethir Del in the water, holding his
head under the surface by his long red braid, drowning him. Raethir Del squirmed from one side to the other, trying to throw Enkinor off balance. For a moment, the sorcerer cleared the surface and gasped for air. Enkinor threw his weight on top of him and shoved him underwater again. As Enkinor knelt on his chest, the sorcerer twisted in the Saerani's grip.

  When at last his enemy stilled, Enkinor did not immediately release him. Moments later, Raethir Del's form dissolved in his grasp and reformed. Enkinor's hands held a large carp. With a sudden flip, the fish broke loose from his grip and swam away.

  Visylon now stood with a sword in each hand, swaying with dizziness. The last Draelani stood before him with dented blade, amazed and fearful, waiting for the Saerani's final desperate gasp. Visylon raised both swords to the sky, ignoring his enemy. He tried to sing a death-song, but he could not get the words out. He was losing consciousness, the scene before him fading. He looked to the sky, and suddenly, air shot into his lungs. The choking hands were gone.

  “Saerani!” he cried, and he cleaved his startled enemy with both swords from shoulders to breastbone.

  Visylon sank to his knees and blinked the sweat from his eyes. Cheers bellowed from Saerani lungs. At their cry, the Draelani fled to their khayans. In moments, their advantage had vanished. The Saerani pursued them along the shore, into the water, even into their boats, granting only death.

  Enkinor lay on his back in only inches of water. He thought he heard excited voices coming closer. With a groan, he rolled a little to one side to look before falling back into the water.

  “Yes, it's him. I saw him fighting someone right here.”

  A Saerani khayan paddled up and two tribesmen jumped out, splashing as they ran to reach the injured guard.

  The first man to reach him yelled, “He's alive!” He pulled Enkinor's limp form to a sitting position and then recoiled in horror, almost dropping his friend back into the water.