“And you don't strike me as a typical hero.”
Durian smiled.
“So you and your friend plan on sailing off to the coast?” the monk questioned.
Durian nodded.
“I'd give you one chance in ten.”
“Oh,” Durian replied.
“The land of Kester is a wasteland of self-importance and bureaucracy,” the monk continued. “One lord spies on his neighbor. Another hires thieves to steal and sabotage his crops. Strangers are counted as poachers or worse. You'll not find another welcoming haven between here and the coast.”
“We've been given plenty of provisions,” Durian replied. “We'll keep to our own business.”
“Your own business will become the business of every lord, duke, and vassal whose boundaries you cross for the next thousand leagues.
“Surely travelers venture from town to town,” Durian argued.
“Only merchants generally, which makes your expedition that much more perilous. The merchant class travels well-armed and protected. Their wares are the fancy of many a marauder on the long road. Serfs are killed if they stray beyond the boundaries of their lord's lands. And the lords themselves are never far from the safety of their castles. You will stick out as the sorest thumb the land has ever seen.”
“Pallin knows what he's doing,” said Durian, smiling at the man's continued fervor.
“Pallin is going to get the two of you killed,” the man responded. “Sailing down out of the deep wilderness with naught but a grand tale of how you're going to save the world.”
“We've gotten by so far,” Durian said.
“Aye,” he responded. “That you have. At least we know luck is on your side.”
Though the man's many warnings frightened Durian, he suspected that discouragement with his current station had driven the monk to a cynical nature, overly disparaging an otherwise hospitable kingdom.
The two at last released the string of its many tangles, and Durian showed the monk how to lace a better knot to the end of his hook and the end of his pole. Durian was from a fishing village, after all. The monk's countenance transformed into delight, and Durian couldn't help but smile at how prone the monk was to extremes.
“What are you fishing for?” Durian questioned.
The monk seemed confused.
“Fish,” he declared, almost indignantly, as though the question were nonsense.
Durian laughed.
“You've got to know what you're after if you hope to catch anything. Some fish dwell in deeper water, while others stray closer to shore. Some feed in morning and evening, and others near midday. What kinds of fish are in this lake?”
Durian glanced around at their surroundings. The two were standing on the point of a large rock, which had good access to the lake, but the loud demeanor of the monk and his overly visible stature would scare off any fish he hoped to catch.
“Let's try a different spot,” Durian said quietly.
“What's wrong with the spot I'm at?” he demanded.
Durian opened his mouth for a reply, but hesitated to explain that the monk's colorful manner had undoubtedly scattered whatever fish had been nearby. The monk relented and followed Durian a short ways to another sheltered cove, where a large fish swam near the surface. Durian pointed and signaled with his hand for stealth and quiet. The man obliged and walked to the edge with all care.
Durian chuckled to himself now at the monk's excess of caution. He watched him for a short while, throwing his bait out upon the waters, hoping to catch his prize. But fatigue came to find Durian and he departed. He didn't get far before a loud hollering erupted from behind, the monk having caught his first and only fish of the day. Durian couldn't help but shake his head and smile. What a man like that was doing in a place like this, Durian could barely venture to say. But he had given them a possible picture of things to come. Durian hoped the monk was wrong about the lands of his birth. Only time would tell.
The Burial of King Behlyn
Baron stood high atop a windy cliff overlooking Thay Iphilus Forest, the trees stretching away in hazy vastness and a stormy gray overhead. He was alone but felt as though someone watched him. Just then, a light flashed out from the middle of the forest and as it did, an invisible tug pulled him by the shirt toward the edge of the cliff. Baron resisted but the light flashed again, this time brighter and the pull stronger. A third flash came, and with a yell, Baron spilled over the ledge to the forest far below.
Baron awoke in a cold sweat, exploding from his pillow. Fresh images of the dream were jumbled with the memory of what had actually happened the day before. Had the Soul Stone really affected him? Had some dormant ability manifested to save his life? He thought about the strange sensation of soft clay he felt impacting the rocks. Though he hadn't thought about it at the time, he now remembered the key in the tomb of Sheyla, which he and Blair had somehow pulled from the wall. The sensation of his touch against the stone was similar then. But what did it all mean?
Baron glanced to the open window, where darkness was flecked by the first rays of dawn. Arising from bed, he took a stone in hand from the table just beside him. Rough and bluish white, he had taken it from the Ruhkan Mountains after his fall. Baron closed his eyes and concentrated on the stone in his hands, trying to exert some kind of power over it but to no effect.
Soon the dawn came and a knock on the door before Dahlgrin pushed it open. Blair awoke in surprise to find Baron already up and sitting on the side of his bed.
“Up so early?”
“It’s a big day,” Baron replied.
“Not for us.”
Baron nodded slowly.
“The night watch of the Forest Guard already reported in,” Dahlgrin said. “Your friends entered the forest yesterday afternoon. They'll arrive to the city in short order.”
“What do you think they'll do with Gwaren?” Blair asked.
Dahlgrin shook his head with a sigh.
“It's strange that they waited for Sheabor and the others to arrive before moving King Behlyn to the halls of his fathers,” Blair said. “Seems a little too intimate for foreigners.”
“It's a sort of protest, I think,” Dahlgrin said. “Now that the Lorimor tree is gone, the last piece of our fragile heritage will be laid to rest with King Behlyn. They want Sheabor to see what his actions caused.”
“That's hardly fair,” Blair replied. “To pin such extraordinary events on one man.”
“Ogrindal can be a backward place,” Dahlgrin said with a smile. “One you'll not have to deal with much longer.”
“Yeah,” said Blair. “I suppose we'll be leaving soon.”
“With Sheabor?” Dahlgrin asked.
“Doubtful,” Blair said. “We're blacksmiths from a fishing village. We'd only slow them down.”
“Back to Suriya then?” Dahlgrin asked.
Blair glanced to Baron, who had been remarkably quiet thus far, almost ignoring them as he gazed out the open window. Baron still held the rock from the Ruhkan Mountains in his hands and his thoughts were consumed with the notion that maybe he was something more than just a blacksmith from a backwater town. But how would he ever know?
“Well we better get going,” Dahlgrin said. “I'll give you some time to get ready.”
Washing up and having a bit of food, they made themselves ready for the day and headed to the town square, where many had gathered. Baron caught sight of Ariadra and veered to meet her.
“We're waiting for the delegation from Eulsiphion,” Ariadra began. “The Forest Guard is just escorting them in. My father's been telling me about the woman from Melanor...that she has weapons that come to life!”
Baron nodded his head eagerly.
“She sounds fearsome,” Ariadra continued. “Do you think we'll get to meet her?”
“Of course!” he replied. “You'd never know it by looking at her, but she's quite a warrior.”
“We saw her take on a dozen Dungeon Core warriors single-handedly,�
�� Blair added.
“Not quite single-handed, little brother. You may have just been standing around, but I was actually helping.”
Ariadra laughed.
“Don't believe a word he says,” Blair said, which drew another laugh from her.
“I would love to see Melanor someday,” she said. “I hear it's a place like Ogrindal, hidden from the outside world.”
“Someday you will,” Baron said, taking her hand and squeezing it in his.
She smiled at his sentiment but seemed to catch a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“You're leaving soon,” she said.
Baron nodded slowly.
“I don't think we have another choice,” he said.
He opened his mouth to say more, but knew it wouldn't be fair. After today, he'd probably never see her again and there was nothing he could do about it. Everything in him rebelled against the idea of returning to Suriya and picking up where he left off...not after everything he'd seen and done. But what other choice was there? Just then, a horn blew at the front of the city.
“Come on!” Baron said, grabbing Ariadra by the hand and pulling her in tow. The crowd shoved off in the same direction and Baron maneuvered between them, hoping to get to the front of the pack. Sheabor, Straiah, Estrien, Gwaren, Aravas and King Froamb entered the city under escort of the Forest Guard. Riding a short ways, the group dismounted.
“Sheabor! Straiah!” Baron called out, coming over with Blair and embracing them.
Straiah laughed, grabbing the reins of his horse to keep from losing his balance. The twins hadn’t seen him since their company parted ways in the Squall Highlands. Estrien stood next to them, smiling.
“Estrien, I have someone I want you to meet,” Baron declared and extended his hand backward, expecting Ariadra would take it and step forward. But after a long moment, Baron turned to find that she had shrunk backward into the crowd. He laughed at her sudden shyness and Estrien took a step forward, extending her hand, which Ariadra slowly took.
“Ariadra, it's a pleasure,” Estrien said.
Ariadra replied with a nod and flushed red.
“Baron, it's great to see you again,” Estrien said and then headed off with the rest of the group. Ariadra was still visibly flustered and Baron wore a wide grin.
“Don't worry,” Baron offered. “It's the same with my brother and me. He's very shy.”
Horrified that he'd turned her own words against her, she couldn't help breaking into laughter.
“What are we going to do with you?” she asked, shaking her head.
Just then, King Froamb sauntered past them, his eyes gazing about the city in wonder, Gwaren following him.
“To think that such a city existed within the bounds of my own kingdom,” Froamb exclaimed.
Baron was highly intrigued at the statement, but Ariadra wore a look of confusion, and Gwaren, one of agitation. The people of Ogrindal obviously didn’t feel a particular loyalty to the kingdom of Forthura or they would have made their presence known to them. But before anything else could be said, the council elders of Ogrindal arrived.
“King Froamb,” Gwaren began. “I present to you the council of Ogrindal.”
One of the council members smiled and nodded at Ariadra. It was her father, a man named Tohrnan. Baron hadn't met him, but had seen him a handful of times in town. The king stepped forward and greeted each of the elders.
“You have arrived on a sacred day,” Whinden declared in a loud voice. “Ordinarily, we would never permit outsiders to share in such a ceremony. But in the spirit of unity, we have agreed to extend our hand to our brothers from Forthura, Melanor, and the two from the Banished Lands.”
King Froamb grew visibly agitated. The prospect of being excluded from an event that took place in what he perceived to be a part of his own kingdom was intolerable. The rest smiled at King Froamb's disapprobation. In actuality, Ogrindal resided in the territory of the Horctura. But since Ogrindal descended from the Woodlanders of the First Age, who were of the House, Forthura, Froamb had claimed ownership of their city in his own mind.
“The final burial of great King Behlyn will proceed immediately.”
The elders moved off toward the center of town, followed by the rest of the city. Arriving, they found that the last remnants of the Lorimor tree had been removed and in its place, a coffin was exposed. Whinden and the other council members waited for the crowd to come to rest.
“Before we begin the burial rites of King Behlyn, we have come to a decision regarding Gwaren, captain of the Forest Guard. The council has decided that as Ogrindal's existence has been made known to the world, an ambassador is required to represent our interests among them. We have appointed Gwaren, who has already surveyed the lands of Forthura and its capital, Eulsiphion. You will return with King Froamb and will carry out whatever duties he would have you perform.”
Baron didn't know what to make of their decision. The position of ambassador always carried high honors. Gwaren's countenance was stoic and unaffected and he couldn't get a read on him. But it dawned on Baron that though the position seemed like an honor, it was probably more of a sentence of banishment from Ogrindal. Gwaren undoubtedly had no desire to take up politics and live in a city like Eulsiphion, away from his people. This position seemed ill-suited to him.
Just then, six young men came forward, carrying three long wooden poles carved in decorative detail. Sliding the poles into the rings on the coffin, they lifted it from the earth. Having once been ornately carved itself, the detail was marred and decayed from years beneath the earth. Then slowly the procession outside the city began.
Scarcely a word was spoken as the city left in unison. And wandering awhile beneath the trees, they came to a small glen offering a beautiful view of one of the tallest snow-capped peaks of the Ruhkan Mountains. This was the burial ground of the people of Ogrindal, with grassy mounds ranged all over.
An open hole awaited them at the far end of the glen and the coffin was laid beside it, the council members standing behind. Then in silence, they waited. A sudden chill seemed to enter the air, as though the sun had just descended behind the peak of the mountain. An indistinct noise filled the air – something like a low hum that faded in and out. The sound of cracking and splintering wood erupted from the coffin of the king.
The people reacted with fear and gasping. And then, an object burst through the top of the coffin and hovered just above it. It was a sword, the sword of King Behlyn. The sword hovered over the coffin for many moments. The blade seemed elusively translucent, like hardened glass with a greenish hue. All stood mesmerized at the sight. After a few moments, a great commotion broke out among the spectators. But then, above the sound, a distinct ethereal voice was heard.
Aravas
The voice seemed to emanate from all around. Everyone grew deathly silent and all eyes turned to Aravas, Keeper of the East Wind. The sword of King Behlyn began to float slowly away and toward the area where the group from Eulsiphion was standing. All moved away from it except for Aravas. The sword came down gently in his hand. As it did, another word was heard in the expanse of air around them.
Free
For many moments, Aravas gazed intently down at the sword in his hands. What in the world was happening? Aravas seemed as though in a trance, which was broken by the voice of Whinden.
“Aravas, what is the meaning of this?” Whinden demanded.
“The Night Wanderers are to be set free,” Aravas responded.
“They are already free,” Whinden replied.
“No,” Aravas said. “They are to be freed from the bondage of the Soul Stone. And the sword of King Behlyn is to be passed to the defender of Ogrindal. King Behlyn has seen the evil that is coming. His sword will once again defend his people.”
Then he turned and walked a few short steps to where Gwaren was standing, handing him the sword.
“You are the defender of Ogrindal,” Aravas declared. “King Behlyn has chosen you.”
&nb
sp; Then Aravas turned back to Whinden.
“King Behlyn has instructed that I and Estrien of Melanor awaken the Soul Stone and set the Night Wanderers free.”
Whinden was beside himself. But at length, he motioned for the young men to lay the coffin to rest and cover the hole. Then the group departed for the Soul Stone, this time with Aravas at their head. Walking the better part of an hour, the scenery began to change. A heavy mist formed around them, and a cold breeze gusted, tugging at the fog as though forms were moving in the gray. Hazy lights, faint and far off, appeared in the mist, just at the edge of vision.
A jagged shape appeared in the distance ahead. In form, it perfectly resembled a mountain, but one whose peak rose only ten feet up from the ground. It was a bluish white in color, beautiful against the green of the forest. But the stone was damaged, a chunk of it missing from its base. The people slowly encircled it at a distance but for Aravas and Estrien, who came up directly to the stone. Aravas began to speak something in the old language, and Estrien echoed his words.
As she spoke, a strange feeling came over Baron. He felt as if suddenly waking from a dream, as though the Soul Stone were actually a full size mountain and that he was gazing at it from many leagues away. A dizziness came over him and he felt as though he were moving at great speed toward the stone which seemed to shrink as he sped faster and faster toward it.
Aravas and Estrien finished speaking. Then suddenly, just at the edge of vision, hundreds of small orbs of light could be seen hovering. But one by one they began to melt away. Soon all the lights had vanished, save one. The final orb came close and hovered just in front of Aravas and Estrien. Then it too disappeared from the earth forever.
In the excitement, no one seemed to notice Baron, who without his own knowing had begun to walk toward the Soul Stone in a trance. Placing his hands on the cool, rocky surface, at first, nothing happened. But then, subtly, the stone began to swirl beneath his palms as though liquid. Only then did Estrien take notice, turning to him.
“Baron?” she asked, taking a step toward him.
But Baron paid her no mind. Estrien reached out to Baron’s shoulder but before she touched him, Baron’s fingertips actually began to sink beneath the surface of the Soul Stone. She pulled her hand away and watched. In another moment, Baron’s hands had sunk up to his wrists. But then, he seemed to stumble. She reached out her hand to his shoulder, and as she touched him, Baron fainted.
The Banished Lands- The Complete Series Page 31