The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  “We have another advantage,” said Gwaren.

  Then he pulled from his pouch a vial of red liquid.

  “This is an elixir made from fruit of the Lorimor tree,” he continued. “For a time, it will give you strength and stamina. But they are in short supply.”

  “How long?” Sheabor asked.

  “Not long,” Gwaren replied. “Come on.”

  The group set off toward the wall.

  “Shouldn't we give our armor to one of the other warriors?” Baron asked from behind.

  Sheabor stopped and turned.

  “You can use a bow, can't you?”

  Baron glanced to his brother.

  “Barely,” Baron replied

  Sheabor smiled and dropped a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “We can live with barely. Come on.”

  Sheabor gazed at the bright red vial as they ran, wondering at its effects. They passed the large tree at the center of town and came round toward the main wall, where the bulk of Ogrindal's forces had gathered. Seeing Gwaren, their captain, the warriors came in close.

  “Malfur and his forces outnumber us four to one,” Gwaren began. “He commands the power of the wind and countless centuries of knowledge.”

  Baron smirked. Hardly a way to motivate the troops.

  “But we fight for our homes...our families.”

  A shout went up from the Forest Guard.

  “Malfur will arrive by tomorrow evening. Make Ogrindal as secure as you know how.”

  The soldiers dispersed, preparing Ogrindal for battle. They worked all night without stopping. The glow of morning found them still hard at work, the trumpet blast growing ever near. But as midday arrived, Ogrindal was ready for war.

  Bundles of arrows lined the top of the wall. Buckets of water were scattered near every building, ready to quench flames of fire. And every soldier knew his place in the defense of the city.

  The group broke for a hurried lunch in the center of town. As they arrived, Baron noticed that nearly all the fruit which had hung on the tree the night before had been picked, undoubtedly to make as much of the elixir as possible.

  Baron had never even considered what it would be like to be in a battle. Now, the soldiers looked at him with deference, him wearing the armor of the First Age as though some great warrior. It was almost too much for him to handle. He felt like such a fraud.

  The meal ended with barely a word spoken. The soldiers embraced their loved ones, some for the last time, and slowly made for the forward wall. Each took their place. Then they waited.

  The afternoon sun began to fall behind the mountain. A chill entered the air as the shadow of the mountain stretched across the treetops. The blast of the horn was nearly deafening now, and they could feel the rumble of its deep vibrations against the solid wooden wall.

  Sheabor and Gwaren stood in the middle of the forward wall. Sheabor's thoughts drifted toward Cora, his wife, the princess of Cavanah, whom Malfur had imprisoned on the Banished Lands. Had he made the right choice to come here and warn these peoples? Had the resistance on the Banished Lands rescued her?

  Night fell upon the forest, a glow now emanating from the deep woods. But just as the evening stars poked through the darkening sky, a thick haze drew in about the forest. The fog was so thick, the soldiers could scarcely see their own hands in front of them.

  Sheabor clenched his jaw. If that's the way Malfur wanted to play it, his own soldiers would be just as blind. The fog was like a wet and icy blanket pulled around them, with stinging flakes of icy snow materializing out of the fog.

  The war horn hadn't sounded for the better part of an hour. Sheabor could hear things moving in the places below. Sheabor glanced to Gwaren for his thoughts. Were the barbarians erecting ladders against the wall?

  Sheabor set off to the south along the wall, pointing for Gwaren to patrol the other direction. They ran behind the archers crouched along the wall, searching for signs of ladders or any incursion. There was nothing. What was Malfur doing?

  “Just what we need,” said Baron, nearby. “More fog.”

  Sheabor smiled, coming up to him and placing his hand on Baron's shoulder.

  “Have you seen or heard anything?”

  “Just a couple of thuds, like they were dropping rocks at the base of the wall.”

  “Thuds?”

  Baron shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don't know what to tell you. There's definitely someone down there.”

  Sheabor nodded slowly.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he said and departed to find Gwaren.

  “Did you see anything?” Sheabor asked.

  Gwaren shook his head.

  “I don't like it,” said Sheabor. “Malfur is crafty. Whatever he's doing, we can't just wait and let him do it.”

  “Let's bring some men by rope over the wall,” Gwaren said.

  Sheabor nodded and the two set off, Gwaren tapping men on the shoulder and motioning for them to join in behind them, both archers and swordsmen. Attaching ropes to the wall, a dozen warriors repelled down in silence into the field between Ogrindal and the line of trees.

  Once they were assembled in the clearing, Gwaren sent the dozen archers to the north. He was flanking them. The Forest Guard could enter the trees undetected and rain down death from behind. The other dozen ran with Sheabor and Gwaren toward the commotion near the base of the wall. Sheabor could hear what sounded like logs of wood being stacked. What was going on?

  A faint glow was up ahead. Forms were moving in single file with chunks of wood atop their shoulders. In unison, the dozen warriors sprang forward, each striking a warrior dead before the rest could react.

  The soldiers, a mix of barbarians and Dungeon Core, dropped the logs of wood they carried, unsheathing their weapons to engage the new aggressors. But Sheabor and Gwaren had caught them off guard, felling a few dozen, the others running back toward the treeline.

  Sheabor turned round to find a large pile of logs stacked against the wall of Ogrindal. Malfur meant to burn the wall down. Sheabor grabbed for them, his hand slipping off the first one he pulled. The log was covered in oil.

  “Quickly!” said Sheabor. “Pull these down!”

  The others joined in, pulling the logs away from the wall and throwing them back into the field. But the pounding of many feet emanated from behind.

  “Archers!” Sheabor yelled. “Fire into the clearing!”

  The sound of dozens of bowstrings snapped from above. The arrows pierced the thick fog, striking all around in the grassy clearing. Death cries from dozens of warriors sprang through the fog. Malfur was launching a full attack.

  “Archers! Fire at will!”

  “Come on,” said Gwaren, sprinting north along the wall.

  But a sudden wind filled the air. The floating crystals of icy stung their skin as the fog was forcibly lifted away. Gwaren and the others didn't stop to look. They made toward the treeline with all speed.

  The barbarians were at the front of the wall, stacking large chunks of wood as high as they could reach. The archers of Ogrindal were raining down arrows upon them, with some of the warriors down below firing back.

  A handful of barbarians with torches ran forward toward the pile. The archers shot at them, striking all but two of them dead. The two reached the pile and plunged their torches into the heart of it. Instantly, fire sprang up.

  Some on the wall poured buckets of water down from above, quenching part of the fire, but also spreading it along the pile of logs. And then the wind came, pulling through the trees and striking the front of Ogrindal's forward wall, spiraling up from the pyre like a cyclone and pulling the flames and embers upward.

  Another pair of warriors set a bucket atop the wall, meaning to pour it on the fire. But the updraft of heat scorched them and they fell backward, the bucket falling from the wall and striking the side of the woodpile, splashing about to little effect. There was nothing they could do.

  Sheabor, Gwaren and a dozen w
arriors were now hidden in the treeline just north of the forces of Malfur. The flames at the wall licked the top, embers flying hundreds of paces upward in the twisting cyclone of flame.

  The barbarians and Dungeon Core had likewise retreated back to the treeline, waiting for the fire to do its work. But some were rolling the war horn slowly forward toward the flames. The fire lit up the entire clearing, blazing off the eyes of the warriors lined in the trees, waiting to invade.

  Sheabor caught sight of Malfur in the midst of them. But another man stood beside him, nearly identical in appearance. At first, Sheabor's heart sank, thinking it was Pallin. But he could just make out enough differences to tell it was another. Even so, was this another Keeper of the Wind?

  The war horn inched forward through the clearing. The archers along the wall were cramming away from the flames, though some shot down at the men pushing the war horn forward. But soon, they were within twenty paces of the wall.

  The warriors stopped pushing and ran from the horn back to their own line. And then, the cyclone of wind stretching upward against the wall suddenly funneled backward and down, swirling into the war horn and coming out the other end in a fiery, deafening blast.

  The blast struck the burning wall, shattering it clean through in an explosion of embers, extinguishing nearly all the fire, sending a wave of darkness again over the forest.

  Gwaren tapped Sheabor on the shoulder before uncapping a bottle of elixir and drinking it. Sheabor quickly did the same, feeling a rush of vitality. Then they waited.

  A hush of silence seemed to blanket the forest, the smoke rising from the charred wall, the heat visibly emanating from its surface. Much of Ogrindal was now catching fire but Malfur's forces held their ground.

  But then, another rush of wind filled the air, this one icy cold. It blew across the clearing toward the wall, pulling upward through the newly formed gap and chilling the smoldering wall, extinguishing it.

  A battle cry rang out from the forest as the warriors of Malfur's army ran forward in unison. The archers still on the wall began firing into the midst of them. Sheabor and Gwaren sprang forward with their men, engaging some of the unsuspecting warriors from behind. And scattered about in the trees, the Forest Guard were picking off warriors as they ran. The battle for Ogrindal had begun.

  Hearing the battle erupt from the north, dozens of barbarians turned and engaged Sheabor and Gwaren. But Sheabor, armed with his battle-axe and shield, swung into the midst of them. The elixir flowed through his veins, his attacks too powerful to block. Those who didn't back away were struck dead by the mystical weapon.

  The army of Malfur was pouring like a flood toward the city. Sheabor, Gwaren and their dozen men ran in the midst of them, engaging as many as they could. A line of soldiers had formed just within the gap to meet the invaders, and with a loud clash of metal, the two groups met.

  The soldiers of Ogrindal held them, with dozens of archers firing down from above. The flood of warriors came to a halt in the clearing, Sheabor and his warriors dove into the midst of them. The forces of Malfur turned and engaged them, quickly surrounding them until Sheabor lost sight of Gwaren and the others.

  But the closer they crowded, the more havoc Sheabor wreaked. His swing was too powerful to block, and too difficult to dodge in the tight quarters. The elixir made him an unstoppable force, but he was quickly tiring.

  One barbarian ducked his blow, bursting forward and grabbing his shield with both hands as though to wrench it from Sheabor's grip. But Sheabor pulled with a roar, picking the warrior off the ground and sending him over his shoulder into the nearby warriors.

  The other warriors near him hesitated with eyes wide. Sheabor could see that the forward line into Ogrindal had broken, the army of Malfur now pouring into the city. But the archers on the wall rained arrows into the midst of the gap, bodies piling up and stalling their advance.

  Sheabor rushed forward with a swing of his axe, ending the lives of three. His shoulders burned with exertion, the elixir already beginning to fade. Two other advanced from opposite sides. Sheabor managed to duck one blow and block the other with his shield.

  But the blow to his shield knocked him to the ground. He rolled back to his feet, swinging as he arose and striking two more warriors dead. But then, suddenly from behind, a voice sprang out into the night.

  “Sheabor, last son of the tattered clan of Cavanah.”

  Sheabor straightened and clenched his axe tightly in hand. The warriors surrounding him halted at the sudden and bellowing voice of their leader.

  “For over a decade, you have been a thorn in my side. Tonight it ends.”

  Redemption

  “Return to the line!” Straiah yelled, as the four men darted round a corner.

  But Straiah himself rushed into one of the nearby homes. Hearing over a dozen barbarian horsemen gallop down the streets after them he emerged and sprinted back to the low barricade, where the now riderless horse of the slain barbarian warrior stood.

  Straiah mounted it and quickly set off. The other horsemen were not far ahead. The last of them disappeared north at the end of the road a hundred paces ahead. But they would reach King Froamb before he did. Straiah had failed.

  Galloping with fury, the sounds of battle and glow of fires grew around him. The battle for the wall was still being waged. Straiah came to the end of the road and turned north. A few hundred paces ahead, the barbarian horsemen were just arriving at the northern wall.

  Straiah burst forward, unsheathing both his sword and hammer. Coming to the end at a full gallop, he struck two horsemen squarely in the backs and trampled a third barbarian before the horse leaped the low wall and was out in the open plains.

  He quickly sheathed his hammer and turned round. The wall had been overrun. The barbarians were all over the city, fighting against the retreating force of King Froamb. Two barbarian warriors rushed at him, each bearing a broadsword. Straiah engaged them, blocking a blow, then striking one dead. The other barbarian came round to flank him, but Straiah parried his blow and darted forward a short way on his horse.

  Then he turned round and with a quick gallop, bore down on the barbarian. Swinging powerfully, he hit the barbarian squarely in the sword, but the force of the strike was too much for his block and Straiah's blow slashed the warrior's shoulder, sending his sword flying out into the field.

  Straiah turned his sights back to the town. Galloping the short distance, he leaped the wall toward an unsuspecting barbarian and sent him flying into the wall of a burning cottage with a thud. Two others quickly engaged him.

  The tight quarters took away his advantage and it was all he could do just to defend himself against the blows on either side. Straiah looked for King Froamb. The forces of Forthura were retreating into the city, the barbarians plunging in after them. But no sign of the king.

  A third barbarian came at Straiah, grabbing for the reigns of his horse while Straiah fought with the others. The horse reared up, kicking at the new assailant and throwing Straiah off balance in his defense. He began to fall.

  But while he still had control, he sprang from the saddle and tackled the nearest barbarian, tumbling down. The other two were quickly upon him. Straiah rolled from a sword tip that sliced the ground just beside him. But he noticed then that the hammer had come free of its sheath.

  Blocking another blow from above, he glanced around wildly for the hammer. Then he saw a barbarian standing still, holding it before his eyes and marveling at the mystical weapon. Another strike came in. Straiah blocked it but the blow was powerful and knocked his sword from his hands.

  The other barbarian brought his foot down hard on Straiah's chest, raising his sword. Straiah was too exhausted to continue. He prepared for the end. But the foot holding him down grew suddenly limp. Straiah looked up in astonishment to see an arrow protruding from the warrior's chest.

  The other barbarian turned round only to be struck by another arrow. Straiah felt the world spinning. The exhaustion and rush o
f adrenaline made him feel faint. But he closed his eyes and pushed himself slowly up.

  Opening them, he thought as though he must have been dreaming. For standing before him was the beautiful form of Estrien. And she was not alone. Dozens of Melanorians were pouring into the city behind the barbarians. They struck dozens dead before the barbarians even turned round to face them.

  Straiah rushed to Estrien and embraced her tightly, picking her up and spinning her round in blissful joy. Then he kissed her. But the world began to spin and he felt faint, nearly falling. Estrien steadied him, surprised at how ragged the battle had worn him. But Straiah regained his composure and glanced around the town.

  “Come on,” he said. “We have to find King Froamb.”

  “You're not going anywhere,” she said, hand pressed firmly against his chest.

  Straiah smiled, taking her hand from his chest and holding it gently in his own. Then he sighed and looked deeply into her green eyes.

  “I can't believe you're here,” he said, stroking the golden locks of her hair. Estrien beamed with a radiant smile. Barbarian warriors began to flee the lanes of Suriya out into the open plains northward but the pair paid them no mind.

  “You're the one that's not supposed to be here, remember? You said you'd be fleeing toward the Westward Wilds, bringing the hammer safely away from danger.”

  Straiah's face went white as his eyes darted frantically about. But a sigh of great relief came from his mouth as he found the hammer lying nearby in the dirt. Estrien only smiled and shook her head.

  “I'll try not to mention anything to Sheabor,” she said.

  Straiah laughed loudly. He had turned out quite a poor custodian. Estrien had saved more than just their lives. She had restored their hopes of winning this war.

  “Imagine my shock,” Estrien continued, “when the first thing I see is a madman on horseback, glowing hammer strapped to his back, dashing about a burning city and trying to get himself killed.”

  “Madman!” he said, in feigned surprise.