East of Enwyrth

What stalks the plain east of Enwyrth? The renowned Ranger Sir Chais of the Green Pennant tracks his most unusual quary yet . . .

 

David M Pitchford

3360 Carman Avenue

Springfield, IL 62703

 

Word Count: approx. 1500

 

East of Enwyrth

The moon slowly rose above the horizon, revealing a dark shape slinking through the trees toward the dreaming village. Chais drew his twin slightswords noiselessly, their patterned and etched blades reflecting almost no light. He crouched, slinking through the ink pools of shadow and padding silent as an Ebrani Ranger.

“Good evening, Sir Chais,” the sound was so low it seemed the wind itself spoke.

“Skinner?” Chais queried as silently.

Pardon the invasive nature, but our prey has keen ears, Skinner’s voice spoke politely within the young cavalier’s mind.

Well appreciated. How long have you known—

Since you began to track it, Skinner’s voice cut in. Be quick now, Enwyrth boasts able guardians, but they haven’t the knowledge to face this.

Chais followed the creature as closely as he dared. He had been on his way back to Enwyrth when he felt danger. The fact that it took an hour from there to find a trail said too much about the creature’s skill. Chais wondered for a moment if any Ebrani Ranger would have picked it up as quickly.

Keep your mind on business, please, Skinner admonished him.

Where are you? Chais took a deep breath, drawing the light ground mist into his lungs and pushing his impatience aside.

Within striking distance, Skinner told him.

Chais flicked his eyes from the thing he pursued, but could not locate the ancient sorcerer. Almost before he could focus his eyes again, he locked his sight on the mysterious creature.

What is it?

Another test of our teamwork and skills. Skinner’s voice broke out in his mind like a violet dawn, giving the mental equivalent of a berserk smile.

Why is it that every time I think I’m done with schooling—

The darker shape stepped from the shadowed mists. Chais knew if he took his eyes from the thing, he would be hard pressed to find it again. He gripped his swords lightly, guweg-hide gauntlets making a noise similar to wind through autumn grasses in the foothills of the Western Skyteeth.

The figure turned suddenly in a weirdly flowing motion. Moonlight glinted from feral golden eyes, and Chais knew he was hunter no more.

“Champion gambit,” he said lowly, and strolled toward the dark shape. It flowed over the ground as though born of the wispy ground mist. Chais walked from the tree line, moving now into the thigh-high grass of the plain east of Enwyrth’s wall.

“Pardon me,” Chais challenged the shadowed thing.

“State your purpose!” Chais commanded in his stentorian guard’s voice. “Friend or foe?”

My purpose is not with you.

Chais shivered from the cold clutch of the creature’s invasion in his mind. He knew the words were his own, that the creature had merely planted the intention of communication in his mind and that his own brain made it into something he could understand. He shivered again, feeling the power behind that immense intellect.

“Perhaps, then . . .” Chais crouched at casual ready. “Perhaps I can lead you to where your purpose might be fulfilled. It would oblige me greatly to have you out of my lands.”

Bravado will not suffice for you, streaks of dark color played across Chais’s inner eye. Were it aligned to my purpose, I had consumed you on first sight. Think not that I shall be commanded!

Chais dove and tumbled left as silver and blue light exploded around the shadow. He came up with both blades to the ready. The shadow convulsed, screaming at a pitch Chais thought only bats should hear. It seemed to shift shape, its parts all buzzing around within a net of silver and blue light. It gathered its pieces as though it were a swarm of bees attempting to mimic human shape.

“Hold!” Skinner’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Chais ducked and side-stepped fluidly as though to avoid attack, but none came.

“Tell me what’s going on, please!” Chais said tensely, polite only because it was his habit around the old sorcerer. Skinner tended toward erratic temper, and politeness was the best shield from that. He wondered vaguely why Skinner didn’t simply summon lightning to slay the beast.

“Once he takes manoid form,” Skinner’s voice, “duel him.”

“Champion gambit?” Chais asked the shimmer.

Shouts drifted down through the mist and night as evidence the guards had learned of a threat. A shadow burst from a nearby tower. Chais saw in the periphery of his vision the ascent of one of the bronze dragons of the Wing. Hope and pride burst into his chest.

A lurch like freefall ripped it from him.

Somehow, he was inside the mesh of light.

“Oh shi . . . Poot!” Chais swore vociferously.

“Words shall wound me not,” said the figure before him.

He gaped as the creature revealed itself. A man with a tiger’s head. Chais stared at its talon-clad paws—they were formed strangely, as though an uncomfortable compromise between tiger paw and human hand. A swift, fluid motion filled those hands with a long, curved sword.

“That’s uneven against dragon swords,” Chais remarked casually.

I know you are convinced of this, but I question whose pan is carries the greater weight.

He moved cautiously around the dome’s edge, testing it with the toe of his boot. Solid as iron. Gritting his teeth, Chais turned his full attention on the tiger-man. It ranged to its right, knee-high boots as silent as Chais’s own guweg-hide tracker’s boots.

“Your accomplice lacks honor,” purred the creature.

“I’ll cut your tongue out for that,” Chais grinned, polished teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“You dishonor yourself to fight his battle,” purred the other. “Come. Let us agree to leave each other unmolested and turn again each to his own purpose.”

“Who are you?” Chais jabbed tentatively to test the creature’s guard. It chuckled in a deep-throated way that chased a chill up his spine.

“You may call me Badru Rakshasa,” bowed the tiger-man.

“Rakshasa?” Chais stared in bewilderment.

“Precisely,” grinned the rakshasa.

“But . . .”

Chais used both blades to fend off a flurry of blows. Ducking and spinning, he moved away from the dome to keep from being pinned.

Badru pressed him savagely, testing his guard and balance. Sparks flew. Blades collided. A white spark shot into the grass.

Three steps later both were forced to dance away from the flames as fire spread through the grass.

Chais coughed, heart hammering as the flames gathered and roared. Then he smiled in relief as he realized that the fire stopped at the wall of light.

They stepped back from each other, both panting from smoke and exertion.

“I thought you a Persian myth,” Chais said at last.

“Persia became . . . boring. As did the land of my ancestors. As did the world before, whence first we came.”

“Why are you in the Vale?” Chais raised his guard as Badru advanced a step.

“One called Lucien has stolen from me that which I have no intention of surrendering.”

“Lucien?” Chais dropped his guard and stepped back, wary. “He’s a lousy thief.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Badru.

“No,” Chais grinned. “I mean he’s really lousy at it.”

“Are you so gullible?”

“What do you mean?” Chais stared his adversary in the eye, shielding his mind as Skinner had taught him.

“What better deception for a thief than a reputation of ineptitude?” Badru stuck the tip of his sword into the ground and leaned casually against the sword’s hilt.

“Okay. I see where you’re going with that . . . but don’t evade the point. What is it you think he has?”

“My heart,” Badru replied, sounding resigned to the fact.

“Oh, come on!” Chais stared at him, dubious.

“It is true,” Skinner said, appearing suddenly between them. His waist-length braid glinted from streaks of silver hair and jewels woven into it. His beard, trimmed to mid-chest, also was richly adorned in numerous thin braids.

“You knew?” Chais glared at him.

“Nope,” Skinner grinned. “I suspected, but . . .”

“You are he whom they call Gambiter?” Badru asked Skinner, weapon ready and amber eyes flinted with purpose.

“Nope,” Skinner grinned fiendishly and shrugged. “Skinner. Pleased to meet you, Badru.”

He sidestepped and vanished as the rakshasa tried to run him through.

Chais side-stepped into a pirouette. He knocked the long blade sideways with his right-hand sword. Reversing the sword in his left hand, he used the momentum of his spin to ram the blade to the hilt in the rakshasa’s satin-clad chest.

He whirled again and came to the ready facing Badru, expecting almost anything but victory.

“Foolish boy,” growled the rakshasa. “I shall come back for you as well.”

Space seemed to fold itself into a blot of total blackness around him. The beast vanished.

“How’s that?” Chais looked down at the rakshasa’s ornate blade on the scorched earth, the only remaining sign Badru had been more than a moon-dream.

To kill a rakshasa, you have to pierce its heart with metal. Skinner’s voice echoed with streamers of periwinkle and pink as Chais felt the laughter fade.

The dome of light vanished.

“Hello, good friend,” Chais reached up to stroke his dragon’s cheek. “Thanks for coming. Sorry the party ended so soon.”

Sir Chais of the Green Pennant mounted the dragon, prize sword in tow, and raced the rising sun over the towers of Enwyrth.