“Aravas, my brother. Why?”
“I'm sorry, brother,” he replied. “If only there had been another way.”
Malfur closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He fell over onto one side and breathed his last breath. Sheabor couldn't believe his eyes. He turned to the battered forest, where Dungeon Core and barbarian warriors were just beginning to emerge. They gazed dumbfounded at the slain form of their leader, lying in the field.
Sheabor readied himself for their charge, but the charge never came. They had taken heavy losses attacking Ogrindal the first time. Now, without their leader, they seemed to have no stomach for battle. They began to disappear between the trees.
Sheabor turned his eyes back to the other man, Aravas. He was staring down at the lifeless form of Malfur, his countenance deeply troubled.
“I'm sorry for what you had to do,” Sheabor said. “Thank you for helping us.”
Aravas nodded slowly but said nothing, not turning his gaze to meet Sheabor's. Sheabor departed from him back to where he had left Gwaren. Ruffling through the fallen trees, he found a form trying to arise. Sheabor grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet. His leather armor was soaked in blood from the sharp deadwood.
“Come on,” Sheabor said. “Let's get you to the city.”
Gwaren nodded, and with his arm around Sheabor's shoulder, the two hobbled toward Ogrindal.
“How did you defeat Malfur?” Gwaren questioned.
“I didn't,” Sheabor replied. “Aravas, Keeper of the East Wind did.”
As the two reached the open breach in the wall, they were met by the warriors of the Forest Guard, and also two others, Baron and Blair.
“Sheabor! You're alive!”
Sheabor gave Gwaren over to the care of his men and turned to the twins.
“How did the two of you fare?”
“I tell you what,” Baron said. “After tonight, it'll be a long time before I complain about the weather in Suriya again.”
Sheabor laughed loudly, plopping a hand down on each of the twin's shoulders. But as they stood there, Sheabor saw Aravas approaching through the clearing toward the city. Some of the Forest Guard tensed, not knowing who he was or if he was in league with Malfur.
“He's a friend,” Sheabor said and went to meet him.
Sheabor was still lost for explanation as to how in the world Aravas had come to be here.
“Earlier I saw you bound in irons as Malfur's prisoner,” Sheabor said. “I thought you were supposed to be in Melanor. How did he capture you?”
“I came to him at Eulsiphion,” Aravas replied. “I knew something drastic would have to be done to save the peoples of this realm. So I told Malfur everything. I knew that if Malfur truly had abandoned himself to a will of evil, then he would risk everything for the chance to claim our powers before Corcoran found them. But if, somewhere inside him goodness remained, he would have chosen to aid his brothers against the coming darkness. Either choice could mean our salvation.”
Sheabor was struck by his explanation.
“You told Malfur that Pallin was on a quest to reclaim the power of the Windbearers?”
“Yes. And that the weapon built to free those powers lay hidden in Suriya. Malfur split his forces to capture both.”
A streak of anxiety flashed through Sheabor's heart.
“How could you do that?” he demanded. “You've signed them over to their deaths.”
“I have faith that the people of Melanor won't long lay idle while the rest fight and die.”
Aravas, Sheabor and the twins set off into the city. The fires had scorched many of the buildings. And even from this distance, they could see large piles of rock from the mountain laying atop the places buildings had once stood. Ogrindal had won the battle at a great cost.
But they hadn't yet seen the worst of it. The last Lorimor tree had caught fire sometime during the battle. Its branches had given way to the embers and the tree was now reduced to a smoldering stump.
Sheabor and Aravas halted when they saw it. Homes could be rebuilt, walls remade. But the tree which housed the final resting place of King Behlyn was the last of its kind. Sheabor felt truly sorry that the people of Ogrindal had been dragged forcefully into war without a choice. He resolved in his mind to repay them somehow. But for tonight, they would take a pause from war. They would assess what had been lost, would strengthen what was weakened, and would come against the darkness with new resolve and new courage.
Alliances
Part 3
The golden speckled sands array
The distant, pounding shore.
Our brief, intruding footprints
Wash away to nevermore.
The undulating grasses sway
Amid our roaming feet.
We undiscovered rovers steal
Away to our retreat.
While all the tired ways of man
Fade slow across the sea,
Out here beyond, our hearts dissolve
Their anonymity.
But all the hungry hours pass
Beyond the misty veil.
The unescaping time will come
When we must put to sail.
The unescaping fate: We too
Are subjects to decay.
Our unescaping memories
Will never fade away...
The Celebration
The first rays of sunlight fell softly through the leafy trees of the forest. Sheabor and his wife, Cora, the princess of Cavanah, walked amid the dewy foliage, hand in hand. Sheabor loved the forest because Cora loved the forest. Before her, it had merely been a place from which the enemy sprung from the shadows. But the beauty of it came alive now in the light of her presence.
He glanced to her often as they slowly ambled, she returning his gaze with a soft smile. But she seemed to look past him, her smile giving way to concern. Sheabor turned, hand on the hilt of his sword. A blunt force struck him in the cheek, knocking him to the ground. His world spinning, her muffled cry began to trail away and he reached desperately for her. But the malicious form of Malfur had her firmly in hand and another moment later, she was gone.
“Cora!”
Sheabor awoke in a sweat and sprang from bed, heaving deep breaths, his world still spinning. Closing his eyes and clenching his temples, the vividness of the emotion began to subside. He clung to it. For though just a dream, he had been back with her in the forest. Now she was gone again, imprisoned still in a dungeon on the Banished Lands while he lay in luxury in the palace chambers of Eulsiphion.
The battles for Ogrindal and Suriya had both been won two weeks ago. Estrien with her Melanorians, and King Froamb's men had traveled north with all speed before word could get back to the forces that guarded Eulsiphion. Using the passageway behind Siphion Falls, the battle to reclaim the city was over before it even began. Straiah, likewise, had taken the hammer to Ogrindal, hoping against hope he wasn't too late. And though time was of the essence, they'd returned to Eulsiphion to regroup and plan for the future.
But anxiety still ruled in Sheabor's heart, occupying his early morning hours, when few stirred about the city. Sheabor arose and dressed, stepping lightly past the rooms and into the palace hall. And though the torches has long been extinguished for the night, the moon shone brightly through the many open windows, with slanted columns of silver. Intending to go further, the pavilion upon which the Athel stone sat seemed too lovely to hurry past. So stepping through the door, he emerged onto the high platform, closing the distance to the Athel and marveling at the city bathed in moonlight.
“I had forgotten how I once cherished this view,” someone said suddenly from behind and Sheabor swung, startled to find Aravas also standing on the pavilion. “So long have I lived in Melanor, I had forgotten the places of the world I once loved.”
Sheabor nodded.
“Where do you think you'll go from here?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Aravas responded.
“You could be of
great help to us,” Sheabor said.
Aravas seemed pained at the statement and Sheabor regretted his remark. Aravas had already been a great help to them, by killing Malfur, his brother. He could see now that it weighed heavily on him.
“Well, you will be a welcome guest, wherever your feet may carry you,” Sheabor said with a bow, which Aravas returned.
Then, taking his leave, he continued through the palace hall, descending the stairs down to the city. One thing only remained undone before he could rendezvous with Durian and Pallin in the lands of Kester and return to the Banished Lands. It consumed his thoughts. Surely Cora had already been rescued by the resistance. But the dreams of her haunted him. He had been in the Eastern Realm for too long already.
Down in the main corridors of the city, Sheabor marveled at the change newly come over the city. The lightning streak of crimson red once permeating the marble white stone had disappeared. In its place resided lovely swirls of yellow and green. But as he admired, a strange feeling came over him and he spun round as though in imminent danger. Shadows of buildings greeted him and he seemed to sense more than see that something was moving – a dark specter.
But the sensation passed and seeing nothing more, he continued on his way to the hall of records. On the distant walls patrolled the guards as he passed through the empty street, arriving at last. Pushing the door, it gave a low creak and the darkened room greeted him with the musty smell of old books.
Sheabor lit a nearby torch and came to the back of the room, where a large woven map of the continent still lay spread on a circular table in the same place he had left it the night before. Tracing his finger across the various boundaries, he scrolled from Kester to the northwest over toward the sweeping but barren lands of the Horctura and then down at last toward Forthura.
With the barbarians defeated, King Froamb finally had the chance to contact Kester and reestablish the road abandoned a century ago when the Horctura became too aggressive. What would the barbarians do now that their two largest factions had been defeated? It was an unprecedented chance, for peace or for unbridled ambition. The clans of the Horctura would either unify under one banner or they would fall into chaos. With more time, they'd help to steer the Horctura down a path of peace, even calling on them as allies for the coming struggle. But Corcoran could strike at any moment.
Sheabor's finger finally came to rest at a spot just to the west of the Horctura's lands, inside the bounds of Kester and just below the lands of Aeleos, where the Bearoc giants were said to dwell. Though he'd decided on this spot the night before, he couldn't afford to make a mistake, and gazed at the map for long minutes as though it should speak and give its own opinion on the matter.
But Sheabor left at long last, dawn only a few hours off, and returned to the palace chambers to fall asleep at last. When he awoke, the city was bustling as never before, with guests arriving from all corners of the kingdom, invited by a decree from King Froamb for a grand celebration. The sun standing high already in the sky, Sheabor had slept longer than intended and he arose and entered the palace hall.
The smells and sights were foreign to anything he'd witnessed, an array of cheeses, meats and fruits no commoner could afford. Sheabor chuckled at the gushing nature of their benefactor, King Froamb, a man of extremes. But they had much to celebrate, their kingdom restored and the longstanding conflict with the Horctura largely over. But how could Sheabor feast while his wife, Cora, languished in the dungeon of Malfur's fortress? It drove him from the palace hall to wander the city until a familiar voice called out.
“Sheabor,” Straiah called out from behind and hurried over to him. “There you are. You haven't seen King Froamb have you?”
“No, why?”
Straiah shook his head in pronounced frustration.
“Somehow he's gotten the notion I've become his personal attendant. All morning long I've been running senseless errands. I'm to oversee the baking of the pastries for the celebration. How in the world am I supposed to know much a dash of cinnamon is?”
Sheabor chuckled.
“I'm sure you'll make do.”
“Can't you tell him we've urgent business to attend to?”
“I'm afraid not. I intend to enjoy myself tonight.”
Just then, another man approached with a bow.
“Straiah, the king requests your presence in the palace hall.”
Straiah clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, resigning to his fate. Then Sheabor was alone again, the day passing to evening with a steady influx of citizens from all corners of the realm. Entering the palace hall near sunset, it was nearly bursting at the seams and he was immediately greeted by a finely dressed man carrying a large scroll who stopped him and scanned his finger down the page.
“You're assigned to the king's table.”
Sheabor bowed and pushed his way slowly forward, arriving at the far side and bowing low before King Froamb.
“Where is that brutish friend of yours?” King Froamb asked, abandoning the usual formalities. “I've lost him in this confounded crowd. Doesn't he know he's seated with us?”
Sheabor smiled and scanned the crowd. Straiah was a master of stealth, apparently as much in a crowded room as in the depths of a forest.
“There he is,” Sheabor said with outstretched finger.
King Froamb craned his neck and then set off, wine sloshing from his goblet as he slid through the crowd, Sheabor close on his heels.
“Avoiding me, are you?” King Froamb demanded.
Straiah, whose back was turned, straightened his posture while Estrien, who stood beside him, was delightedly surprised at the king's animated display. Nearby conversations stilled as Straiah turned slowly round to reply but was cut short by King Froamb.
“I don't blame you, I suppose. No uncivilized man would ever presume to dine at a king's table. But don't be ashamed of your manners, friend. Any lapses in judgment will be tolerated, I assure you.”
Estrien coughed to stifle a laugh and Straiah flushed red, glancing to Sheabor, whose chuckling countenance offered little assistance. Smiling politely, Straiah set off for the king's table, grasping Estrien's hand firmly in tow, and taking their seats, while the king remained standing, gazing out over the shuffling crowd and draining his horn of wine. The king's table was quite long, and Straiah gave a nod to both Aravas and Gwaren, seated nearby, who had become recent acquaintances.
But Straiah was startled when, almost a minute later, a firm hand fell upon his shoulder, King Froamb hovering just behind him. Estrien glanced to Sheabor with a smile, and even Aravas began to chuckle until conversations stilled in lieu of the king's address.
“Thank you all for coming,” the king began, hand still firmly upon Straiah's shoulder. “To be standing here before you all in the joy of celebration seems unbelievable in the light of recent events. Just weeks ago, the sentence of doom we all felt when sailing away from Melanor to make our final stand in Suriya seemed inescapable. And I, having lost an entire kingdom, felt the pain most keenly. You can understand then my surprise to discover a man aboard our vessel in seemingly greater despair than I.”
King Froamb glanced to Straiah with roguish smile, drawing a chuckle from the crowd.
“I did what I could to console the poor fellow – gave him command of the forward line, hoping that perhaps duty to his fellow man would occupy his mind. But none of my efforts held sway to his brooding. I told him an entire kingdom lay in the balance, that his actions would forever change the course of history. The poor love-struck fellow said only that the fate of the whole kingdom was but a small grain of sand next to the seashore of his love for Estrien.”
The crowd laughed loudly at the king's portrayal, but Straiah's countenance deepened to ever more shades of crimson, until the king held up his hands with a more serious air.
“I am dedicating this feast to my friend, Straiah, and to Estrien of Melanor, who came to us in our most difficult hour, and bonded two peoples together in the furnace of ou
r common struggle. They are the symbol of unity and strength that will characterize the next great age of this kingdom.”
Raising their glasses, the feast began as a blanket of laughter and merriment descended on the crowd. The doors of the palace hall swung wide, as servers with roast chicken and pig poured into the hall. A hind quarter of wild boar on a spit was placed before the king, and two ornately decorated knives given him for the carving. The king's eyes ranged across the table, from Sheabor to Gwaren to Aravas and at last to Straiah.
Standing to his feet, he walked to Straiah who took the cutlery warily from his outstretched hands. Then, resuming his seat, he waited as a slow smile grew on his face. Straiah moved the knives toward the large quarter of meat.
“I have always said that it isn't a warrior’s blade, but his gentlemanly skill at court that truly wins a maiden’s heart,” Froamb announced. “Let us see what kind of etiquette you were born into on that distant, accursed continent.”
Glancing to another part of the table where a similar slab of meat was being carved, Straiah took his cue and began in like fashion until the scrutinizing gaze of concern from the king compelled him to pause. But the king relaxed back into his chair and smiled, waving away his concern.
“Continue, my good man, you're doing just fine.”
“The people seem in very high spirits,” Sheabor commented to the king, doing what little he could to distract the king and aid his friend. “It sounds as though many of your subjects are eager and determined to rebuild the fallen towns. I've heard the people talking of little else.”
“And it's a good thing too,” Froamb replied. “With the barbarians burning many of our northern townships, and your companion’s zealous handiwork with your hammer on my main village in the south, I'm lucky to have a kingdom to rebuild at all.”
Straiah ignored the jab and began doling out the meat.
“In truth,” Froamb continued. “The damage was not as extensive as we had first feared. The barbarian army left most of the townships unharmed as they marched for Suriya, hoping to strike a fatal blow and perhaps to settle the vacant towns themselves.”
The Banished Lands- The Complete Series Page 28