The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  “That's a full load you've got there,” said a nearby spectator.

  It was Harper, one of the marketplace vultures. Not craftsmen themselves, these middlemen dealt exclusively in the selling of struggling merchant's wares who were forced to part with unsold goods at the end of each season.

  “Some of us are more industrious than others,” Durian replied.

  One final effort freed his cart and Durian leaned forward on his handles for some moments.

  “Perhaps I could lighten it for you,” said Harper, his grin slowly widening.

  Durian looked at him blankly, then shoved off. Luckily, things hadn't gotten so bad that he'd consider an offer from Harper. Arriving at his booth, he populated it with cookware, cabinetry, and wooden axe handles. The handles were once a mainstay for him, the woodsmen crippling their own in the course of their labors and requiring replacements. But the happenings in Thob Forest had brought a swift decline.

  A log lay on its side in Durian's booth, untouched since the axe, bark still intact. He had in mind a large mantle for a fireplace, and would soon occupy dull hours with its construction. One of Durian's greatest thrills was peeling the bark from a freshly hewn timber. Hidden beneath was a mystery – sometimes rot and worm, or spongy core, unfit for anything but the fire. Other times he found a beautiful grain. The logs recorded a history. A year of drought or blight made a thin, discolored ring, while years of rain and plenty produced thick and creamy bands.

  After his booth was prepared, Durian found himself perusing the contents of his book, smiling at a story he hadn't read since childhood. It was about the Woodlanders – people of the old world who could manipulate wood with their hands, as if by magic. They could rearrange a tree’s grain, molding it like clay to render it strong as forged iron. Others existed, known as the Builders, who had likewise abilities to manipulate stone.

  There was little known about the old world, which ended over twelve centuries ago. His book described it as a time when the world was clothed in abundance – not a harsh and inclement land scattered sparsely with habitable regions. Unknown forces regulated the seasons and adorned the land in plenty. Whether it existed at all or was just a myth – man's imagined paradise to cope with the stark realities of the difficult present world – no one could say.

  He flipped the pages further, stopping at the book's description of a fabled type of wood called Candlewood. Candlewood was the pinnacle of the Woodlander's creations – feather light, tough as the strongest shield, and contained a magical property that caused it to glow from deep within. Durian had often dreamed what it would be like to peel away the bark from a log and see a glowing gleam like gold beneath.

  Footsteps from behind drew Durian's attention and he set the book aside. It was his father's old friend Joram – one of the woodsmen Durian bought timbers from. Durian's father, Doran, had formed relationships with the laborers who felled trees for firewood. For a fee, they had let Doran scour their log piles for anything worthy of a craftsman's knife amid the common timbers.

  The woodsmen had honored the arrangement with Doran after Durian took up his father's business. Joram had aided him greatly, showing him the kinds of logs his father had always hunted for.

  See the end from the beginning, was what Joram always said. Decide what the log will become before you ever buy it. That's how your father made a good living.

  “Hello Joram,” Durian greeted.

  “Hullo Durian.” He paused. “I um. Well I...”

  But then something caught his eye.

  “Is that the maple you found last week?” referring to the mantle Durian was about to carve. Durian nodded. But Joram's solemn demeanor returned.

  “Durian I um. I came here to tell you. We can't sell you any more timbers, at least not for awhile. I'm very sorry.”

  Durian was taken aback. He opened his mouth for reply but didn't know what to say.

  “It's the forest, Durian! No one knows what's happening. The smoke and the perfume in the air... And there hasn't been a day without fog in three months! Something's in there. You've heard the rumors. We're all living on scraps waiting for it to pass. Ever since the lumber camp burned down, we've had to work twice as hard just to get by.”

  The woodsman’s lumber camp at the edge of Thob Forest caught fire one night under dubious circumstances.

  “It's alright, Joram. I'm very thankful for everything you've done. Don't worry about me. I'll be okay.”

  Durian gave him his best smile and Joram nodded slowly with a sigh.

  “You're a good man, Durian. Your father would be proud.”

  Joram took a step forward and placed a hand on Durian's shoulder. He lingered only a moment and then departed. Durian returned to his work, scarcely lifting his eyes from his log the whole of the day. He drew his knife mechanically against the large piece of wood, pondering this sudden turn of events. He couldn't afford the premium timbers sold to the craftsmen at auction. And he had already sold everything of value in his cottage, waiting, like the others, for something to change.

  He might only have one choice – find Harper or one of the other vultures, and work out some kind of a deal. And he should get to it straightaway. The longer he waited, the worse his position would become. But he couldn't appear desperate.

  “Are you alright?” someone asked close by.

  Durian looked up to find Baron standing there. Durian stared at him blankly until remembering the question.

  “Oh. Yes. Just busy.”

  Baron didn't press him but perused the various articles laid out on the table.

  “This is a nice piece,” he said, maneuvering a wooden spoon in his hand.

  Durian snatched it and returned it to its place. Baron smirked. He was clearly bored. Baron and Blair were more well off than he, for metal was scarce throughout the realm, and those who first settled Suriya had long ago fashioned their swords to plowshares to work at honest trade. Tools required constant repair, and the two brothers made a good living.

  “The Sea Games aren't what they used to be,” Baron commented, gazing at the slowing pace of the marketplace.

  Durian nodded, somewhat glad for the distraction Baron provided.

  “You know things have laxed when an ordinary blacksmith can win the Race for Skull Island.”

  Baron turned his head back to Durian and gave a wide grin.

  “That's not exactly what I meant.”

  Baron scanned the crowd again. He picked a nearby piece of tall grass and began slowly shredding it.

  “I've not seen even one outsider this year,” Baron continued. “No herdsman from Echlin, pasturing cattle in the plains. No merchants from the Laborer's Guild up north. And I doubt folk up in Eulsiphion even know the Sea Games exist!”

  Baron hurled what was left of the shaft of grass, punctuating his frustration. Durian chuckled. Baron's victory at Skull Island was meant to be admired by the whole kingdom. Instead of earning himself a name in the capital city, far to the north, he had gained only the applause of his neighbors.

  “I saw an outsider,” Durian cut in.

  Baron spun around.

  “Really?”

  “An old man,” Durian continued. “He had the look of a wanderer. He witnessed your heroic conquest of Skull Island this morning.”

  Baron huffed, for an old wanderer was hardly the kind of admirer he hoped to court.

  “Oh well,” Baron replied. “At least there's the race tonight. You're coming, aren't you?”

  The way he said it made it seem as though he was already ready to leave.

  “What, now?”

  “Sure. It's mid-afternoon.”

  “I can't just leave my booth.”

  Baron spun round with his arms held wide to the nearly soulless marketplace.

  “Why not?”

  The day truly was growing late. But the thought of abandoning his work brought a wave of anxiety. Durian didn't know what to do about what Joram had said. He only knew what he could do – keep working. />
  “I have to finish this mantelpiece.”

  “Mantelpiece! You can do that anytime.”

  Durian's jaw clenched. Baron's distraction had worn out its welcome.

  “There's only one more good week at market. I want to get this done and sold before the winter.”

  “You'll miss the whole race!”

  “I don't care about some ridiculous race.”

  Baron seemed surprised, but more by the tone than the statement itself.

  “I'll meet up with you and Blair after,” Durian offered.

  “Yeah,” Baron responded. “Definitely.”

  Baron departed. Durian had half a mind to call him back and apologize, but he didn't. It didn't really matter that Durian sold the mantelpiece before winter. Without a flowing supply of new wood from Joram and the woodsmen, it would be for naught anyway.

  Durian didn't know what to do. He couldn't just abandon the business his father had left him. But he couldn't save it either. The only thing he knew to do was keep working. Durian glanced to the book now resting beside him. He felt a stab of longing to return to the days when all he cared about were heroic deeds. But such days, he knew, aren't meant to last.

  The Race of Boreol Bay

  Durian was left alone, Market Town all but emptied. He picked up his knife and brought it toward the wood, but hesitated. This was the last day of the Sea Games and it would be nice not to think about his problems for awhile.

  Packing up, he returned home with his goods, dropped off his book and departed again. He was among the last to reach Boreol Bay, but the race had yet to begin. There were over a dozen boats poised to challenge the shoals. Durian pushed his way through the crowd in search of the twins. Beyond, the announcer's voice rose above the general clamor.

  “Shiffendol!” he called out. “Outrigger from Banner's Bruck! The famed schooner that once hauled a catch of one hundred and thirteen fish!”

  The crowd cheered. Durian couldn't help but chuckle that a fishing boat be spoken of with such renown and ceremony. Villagers seemed to blend together, moving slowly, bulky arms and legs warmly dressed for the event. Everyone looked the same. Scattered fires among the crowd jealously demanded their fuel but rewarded little heat.

  But he caught sight of Baron standing among a group from the East End, arguing with one of them about the terms of a newly forming wager. Frustrated with Baron, the man took advantage of the new arrival of Durian.

  “You a betting man?” he asked Durian before Durian could utter a word.

  Durian shook his head, no.

  “Sure he is,” said Baron, stepping forward to reassert himself, and slipping a few coins covertly into Durian's hand. “Now do we have a deal or not?”

  The man scowled but nodded. Baron turned to Durian with a wide grin.

  “I was worried you wouldn't come. I need you to guard my bet.”

  Baron still had a role to fulfill in this final race. The Race of Boreol Bay was just a simple race, but there were secondary goals also. The rescue of the castaway of Skull Island, in this case, Baron, for instance.

  “What'll it be then?” the man asked Durian, his bet with Baron concluded.

  “My money's on the Lord Gaffney,” mentioned Baron. “Gaffney's a stout old fellow and he's due for another win.”

  Durian smiled, recalling the taunts of Gaffney this morning. Often arriving dead last in the Race of Boreol Bay, and occasionally first, he rarely finished in between. His nautical practices were questionable at best. And though loved by the crowd, he was the bane of all other racers.

  The Lord Gaffney, his boat, was equally baneful. Its namesake communicated nothing of its true form. Hardened to stone by years of wind and weather, its hull was a tapestry of scrapes and scars – fearless of gaining more; a point to which the other sailors took note.

  But before Durian had decided, Baron turned to leave and Durian caught him by the arm.

  “I'm sorry for earlier,” Durian said. “It's just this business with the forest is driving me mad!”

  “Don't worry about it. I had forgotten how much the things in Thob Forest were straining your trade. Does anybody know yet what's going on?”

  Durian shook his head.

  “All I know is what I've heard from Joram. The fog comes early every morning, covering the forest. And the smell of smoke and perfume is often in the air.”

  Baron gave Durian a skeptical glance.

  “Perfume? Sounds to me like the woodsmen are lonesome for home.”

  “Whatever it is, it's got them spooked,” Durian said. “No one knows who or what's causing it. Some are saying that one of the beasts of the deep forest has come down from the north. Others are talking about Night Wanderers. The woodsmen are too unsettled to delve deep into the forest anymore. Since the lumber camp caught fire and burned down, the flow of wood has slowed to a crawl.”

  “Night Wanderers!” Baron exclaimed. “I never took the woodsmen to frighten at ghost stories.”

  Durian nodded in agreement.

  “Why haven't the Magistrates sent the Town Guard to investigate?” Baron questioned.

  “The captain says the forest is outside their bounds.”

  Baron rolled his eyes and shook his head. Folk were just scared and their fears were manifesting into all the terrifying stories they'd heard as children. Though Thob Forest stretched north of Suriya nearly the whole length of the kingdom, it had never been really explored and was assumed to be uninhabited.

  “What about the woodsmen in Echlin?” Baron wondered aloud. “What are they doing about the fog and perfume?”

  “From what I've heard, the fog stops halfway between here and there,” Durian answered. “Whatever's happening, it seems confined to our lucky corner of the kingdom.”

  Just then, the announcer called for Baron.

  “I've got to go. We'll talk more after.”

  Soon to be marooned on the black rock of Skull Island, Baron would await rescue by any boat daring enough to approach the shallows. Durian turned his attentions back to the man who held Baron's bet.

  “What are the terms?” Durian asked.

  “Same as always,” he said, foot tapping.

  “And the castaway?” Durian questioned.

  “You get ten-to-one on your choice of boat that picks up your friend. Two-to-one that anyone grabs him. And two-to-one they leave em stranded.”

  Nearly ever year the castaway of Skull Island was rescued, one of the trailing boats giving up the main race and veer off to pick him up. Although the rescue didn't count if that same boat finished dead last.

  As he still considered, cheers and hollering erupted from all around. Baron was being carried on a wooden raft, dressed as a mermaid, with long flowing blonde hair and a fishtail. But even with all the noise, the laughter of Gaffney rose above, who would indeed get his chance to net himself a mermaid. Baron blew Gaffney a kiss and set sail for Skull Island. In garb like that, Baron was sure to get rescued.

  “I'll take two-to-one that someone picks up the mermaid.”

  The man clenched his jaw.

  “You west-enders. No sport in the lot of you.”

  Durian wasn't interested in sport. He needed a sure thing. Just then, Blair arrived alongside him.

  “This should be good,” Durian commented.

  “The man has no decency,” Blair declared. “I just hope our father isn't here.”

  Durian laughed.

  “I'm sure your father has grown quite accustomed to Baron by now.”

  “I'm sure he has. So has all of Suriya. Two hundred years we've been building a good family name. Then along comes Baron. I'm moving to Echlin.”

  Durian slapped him on the back with another laugh.

  “I just might join you!”

  The bell rang out and the sails of each ship unfurled to the wind. Making slow headway at first, the sailors scrambled to tie down their rigging and avoid fatal collisions.

  The courseway was laid out like a giant 'M', with three maj
or turning points, then finishing back on shore. The boats traveled largely in single-file down the narrow lanes, but ever seeking those brief opportunities to slide past their fellows. Coming to the shoal which marked the first turning point, the boats swung out wide to make a broad turns and keep their speed.

  But Gaffney made straight for it. The spectators stood in delight at the first act of Gaffney to menace the sport of “highborn boating.” He sailed sharply round the shoal, his vessel stalling briefly in the middle of the lane and rocking back and forth, nearly capsizing.

  Now an obstacle, the other boats could either risk collision or fall in line behind him. As the other boats approached him, even at such a distance, the surly laughter of Gaffney sounded out as he swung his boat toward them in intimidation.

  On his feet, Baron was hollering and waving at the vessels now coming his way, hoping to incite some of them to his rescue. He had taken off his ridiculous fishtail, but he still wore the long blonde hair. The racers wouldn't slow as they passed him by. If they got close enough, he could try jumping for it. But if he missed the first boat, the second or third could very well dash him against the rocks.

  The first ship was nearly to him. It was Shiffendol, famed hauler of fish. It's captain, however, was clearly more interested in gaining the lead over Gaffney than rescuing Baron. Not nearly close enough for Baron to jump, one of the deckhands threw a rope in a vain attempt, which landed in the water far shy of Baron. Onshore, boos erupted at the weak attempt.

  Another boat passed close by, and another rope likewise sailed toward him. But it tangled midway through the air, falling in a jumbled mass in the water. A third rope was already inbound, this one true to its mark. For it struck Baron unawares in the chest, knocking him down to the delight of the crowd. Seconds ticked by as the slack shortened and shortened. And suddenly, Baron burst from the island and into the water. The crowd cheered and Durian and Blair let out a holler.