“I am honored,” he said. “But you must take my horse in exchange.”
The man did not refuse him. Sheabor dismounted and looked his horse in the eyes and stroked its mane.
“You're a good horse,” Sheabor said.
He was somewhat sad to render him the horse he had gotten from the barbarian lands, the one which had reminded him of the horse his father had given him for his fourteenth birthday. The other man was not so gentle with his former horse, whom he had called Agur.
“You listen to him. You hear me,” he said to the horse. The horse grunted and stamped, as though he understood the command, yet was hesitant to keep it.
The man handed Sheabor the reigns of his horse, Agur – a wonderful gift. The art of thoroughbred horses was one perfected by the merchant class, whose meticulous breeding over centuries had yielded the finest animals the world had yet seen. The personal horse of a wealthy merchant was worth more than gold or silver or jewels.
“I will guard him with my life,” Sheabor said.
“And he will guard you with his,” the man declared. “Farewell. May you never meet the fate you seek.”
Then the caravan moved off to the west, leaving Sheabor and his warriors to go in the other direction.
“Bowen, why doesn't that man believe the Bearoc are responsible for the havoc happening in the barbarian kingdom?” Sheabor asked at length.
“Because he is a fool,” Bowen replied.
“And yet we still have no idea what motivates the giant's attacks.”
Bowen was silent.
“Speculate,” said Sheabor.
“Perhaps the giants have finally grown hungry with that same hunger that drives all men. Greed. The Horctura are weak. Perhaps the giants have outgrown their kingdom and seek new lands abroad.”
Sheabor hadn't considered that. Bowen had a point. No one had seen the giants in centuries. If they'd grown past the size of what their territory could bear, perhaps they would seek to conquer another. But why had they only sent one band of a few dozen warriors? Nothing made sense.
“We need to find the giants' trail,” Sheabor said.
They didn't have time to wander the Maelstrom aimlessly. The giants must have some mission in mind, some task to accomplish. Finding out what was the key to finding their trail.
“Let's consider what we know,” Sheabor said to the group. “The giants passed through the northern realm of Kester and have entered the realm of the Horctura with only a small war party. That would suggest they are prizing stealth over numbers. They want to move about in secret. The merchant was convinced that whatever this malevolent force was, it was attacking the weak. Though we know little of what drives them, for now, let us assume that whatever the giants' motives are, they will attack those places which are weakest, where they can slip in and out, avoiding detection. If we look for those towns and strongholds most vulnerable to attack, perhaps we can find them before too much damage is done. Bowen, you know these lands better than we. Where are the barbarian settlements located, and which are the least fortified?”
Bowen thought for a moment.
“There are settlements and forts littered throughout the barbarian kingdom. The Horctura have three main strongholds, which the merchant mentioned – Hadrach, Baliac, and Trakhendor. Attacking those would be futile. If the giants are seeking places to strike that are both weak and secluded, then I would say that the fort of Pel Acham would be closest to our current location. It is near enough to the borderlands of Thob Forest and the lands of Forthura. The giants could strike the fort and slip away undetected.”
“Lead the way.”
The group set off to the southeasterly, back toward the lands of Forthura, a streak of fear suddenly gripping Sheabor's heart. If the giants really were preying on weakness, the lands of Forthura were tattered and vulnerable. They traveled the rest of the day and into the night, over an interminable set of dunes and desert wastes peppered sparsely with clumps of shrubbery and grasses.
Sunset fell and with it, a chill, the night equally cold as the day was hot. They huddled close to their horses, stopping a mere few hours for sleep. Their weariness grew over the next two days, with sleep difficult in any hour and little water to find. By the third night, the desert waste began to give way to the grasses of the plains. They were drawing near to the lands of Forthura.
On the fourth night, they saw it from a distance, a glow, a distant burning glow. They picked up their pace toward it, and faintly detected the smell of smoke on the breeze. Had the giants sacked another outpost? Until now, it had only been a story told by Bowen, one Sheabor hadn't yet allowed himself to believe.
Rounding a small hill, the scene came fully into view. It was indeed a distant outpost burning brightly in the night. They were too late. The outpost was gone, as was any sign of the invaders who had destroyed it, the fires already smoldering to ember.
“Come on,” Sheabor said and bolted forward atop Agur.
They came as close as they could manage to the blazing fort, peering through the tattered walls for any signs of survivors. Everything was gone. Sheabor studied the ground around him. There were tracks everywhere, of men, horses and something more – something human but larger.
“There were over a hundred men at arms living in this fort,” said Bowen.
“Come on,” said Straiah. “We need to find out where they went.”
Straiah began searching the ground with Sheabor.
“To what end?” Bowen said.
“We must find them and stop them,” Gwaren replied.
“Do you propose how?”
Gwaren didn't answer him.
“Sheabor, this is madness. With a hundred men, maybe...”
Sheabor stopped his searching and came angrily over to Bowen.
“This is just a taste of the darkness to come,” he declared. “If we don't stop this now, this will spread.”
Just then, Straiah called out.
“Sheabor, I've found them.”
The group rushed over and stood beside Straiah, gazing down at a grouping of tracks leading away from the fort. It was the Bearoc giants. But there were other tracks as well, the tracks of men and of horses. Perhaps the giants had pursued some who had fled the fort. The tracks were leading southwest.
“Bowen, what leads that direction?” Sheabor questioned.
“The northern tip of Thob Forest and the Westward Wilds.”
“Are there any barbarian settlements?”
“Trakhendor is the closest, but many leagues away.”
“They must be heading for the forest then,” Straiah concluded. “They'll steer clear of any major fortifications.”
The thought brought a pang of fear to Sheabor's heart. If the giants reached Thob Forest or the Westward Wilds, they would lose them for good.
The Brotherhood
Durian and Pallin had spent a very cold night on the floor of the stockade. The walls were drafty and the straw for their bedding was meagerly scattered. Being a Suriyan, Durian fared remarkably well, but vowed to never begrudge the draftiness of his cottage ever again. In the morning, they were brought back to the leader of Stillguard, whom Durian had learned was called Captain Cross.
When they entered his quarters, he was writing with a large feathered quill pen, which he continued for nearly a minute before addressing them. Then folding the letter into thirds and heating some wax in the candle flame beside him, he sealed the letter with his signet ring.
“To Rovak,” the captain said, handing it to the soldier who had escorted Durian and Pallin.
The soldier took the letter and departed, Pallin and Durian now alone in the captain's company, Pallin's weapon lying idle on the table between them. Captain Cross reclined back in his chair, eyeing his two prisoners for long moments.
“Is there anything you'd like to tell me?” the captain asked.
“We are refugees from the lands of Forthura,” Pallin replied. “No doubt, by now, you've heard the reports, that the la
nds of Forthura are overrun by the Horctura. We had no choice but to flee into the wilds. I am taking my grandson west, to seek out an ancient line of our family that may still dwell in these lands. We did not mean to poach in your forest. We are but weary travelers who have lost everything.”
The man huffed.
“I might have believed your story,” he replied, “but for this.”
He tapped the Shade Stone weapon still lying on his table.
“It is the heirloom of our family,” Pallin explained, “passed down for generations. It is our only worldly possession. Would you deprive what little we have fought to save?”
“I am no thief,” the captain asserted. “But you are lying. I have come to a solution that will satisfy both law and honor. The penalty for poaching is death. But as I am a generous man, I will allow you and your grandson to live. As for this weapon, if you would like it returned to you, you may take it if you wish.”
Pallin's eyes narrowed.
“You have arrived at a most opportune time. Every year, the people of Stillguard host a glorious tournament. Every year we provide the winner's purse. This year, you will provide it. This weapon will be the grand purse for the victor of the winter games. Your grandson will compete in this tournament. He will give you the opportunity of reclaiming your heirloom.”
Durian couldn't believe his ears...him, compete in a tournament!
“You may go,” the captain said. “Flee the city if you wish. No one will stop you.”
Then, with a wave of his hand, Captain Cross went back to his quill pen and pile of papers before him. Pallin hesitated for a moment, but then walked swiftly from the room and back into the cool morning air.
“Glorious tournament!” Pallin growled. “Law and honor!”
“Pallin, where are we going?”
“To the forest.”
“We're leaving?”
“Of course we are!”
“But what about the tournament? What about the weapon?”
“Don't be a fool!” Pallin said. “The weapon is lost. And so are we if we stay here another instant!”
Durian was taken aback. How could they just abandon the weapon? Without it, what hope did they have of breaking into King Euthor's tomb?
“Make way!” Pallin commanded to the guards at the outer gate.
They straightened their posture and gave him a hard look, but obliged him in the end. Soon they were back in the grassy basin, following the river back to the forest, Pallin still muttering angrily to himself. Where was Pallin taking them? Durian couldn't believe the soldiers would have just left their boat and provisions sitting there still in the forest. Surely they would have taken them. But it was a short walk at least. Arriving back where their camp had been, they found it empty but for the small circle of river stones they'd made into a fire ring.
“Curse these wretched lands!” Pallin declared.
Durian heard what sounded like the bending of a bow. He swung round to see a pair of men standing just behind him, one of them pointing an arrow straight at him. Durian's fright alerted Pallin, who turned. More men appeared, some holding bows, but most equipped with swords and daggers. At length, one man stepped forward from the group.
“So,” the man began. “You've returned to reclaim your possessions. I'm afraid we've gone and relieved you of them. We've been watching you for some time...saw you float down out of the deep forest into the hands of Captain Cross. Not too bright of you, I must say. We saw the weapon they took from you. Tell me, what manner of thing was that?”
Pallin shot an angry look at him.
“That's none of your concern.”
But Durian slowly raised his hands in surrender, unsure that Pallin's tone was the right approach against a band of armed outlaws.
“Tell me, or the boy dies.”
Pallin's look softened and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“It's a weapon from the old world,” Pallin declared. “Forged by the hand of the great King Euthor himself.”
The man was surprised by the declaration as though he perhaps had heard the name before.
“Who are you?” Durian asked.
“We are the Brotherhood – thieves and poachers exiled to Espion Forest. You are in good company it seems.”
The man was broad-shouldered and muscular, confident in his declarations with a commanding presence. He seemed at least somewhat well-educated.
“How have you escaped?” the man inquired.
“Captain Cross let us go,” Pallin said.
The man smirked. But Pallin relayed the conversation with the captain just an hour earlier.
“So, Captain Cross has relieved you of your family heirloom to use as the winner's purse. Convenient for him, since many years he competes in the tournament and wins. He bleeds Stillguard dry with his taxes for the garrison. And he has the gall to call us thieves!”
The men in the group grunted and nodded to one another.
“Will you return our boat to us?” Pallin asked.
“Perhaps.”
A slow smile grew on the man's face.
“But not until you help us with something. Come.”
Durian again felt a pair of hands clamp down on his arms. This was getting burdensome.
“There's no need for that,” Durian complained. “We'll come with you.”
The man nodded, and they released Durian and Pallin.
“What is your name?” Pallin asked.
“Thorne,” the man replied.
Then they were off, veering away from the river and into the deep forest, setting a swift pace through difficult terrain, which Durian had trouble keeping. But they arrived at a small clearing, where others of the Brotherhood were gathered, most around a large fire, where a large hunk of meat was slowly being turned over the fire.
“You all live here in the forest?” Durian questioned.
Thorne nodded.
“This is but a small outpost. Only members of the Brotherhood know of our real home.”
“Are you all in exile?” Durian continued.
“Yes. The price for thievery and poaching is death. Most choose exile over the hangman's noose. All of the game and fish belong to the lord of the lands. And he does not take kindly to such as we making meals of them. Since the arrival of Captain Cross, taxes have forced many into hiding. But here, we're beholden to no man.”
“I met a man from Stillguard, at the monastery on the edge of the Ruhkan Mountains,” Durian said.
“Not all are cut out for the life of an outlaw,” Thorne replied. “Some choose the simple life and the way of peace.”
Durian smiled as he recalled the monk whom he had met. His surly disposition made much more sense to Durian now. The monk had never chosen the monastic lifestyle, it had been forced upon him by hard times.
“Why have you brought us here?” Pallin inquired.
“I find that I need your help,” Thorne replied. “We are ill-provisioned. Everything we have is fashioned by our own hand.”
Pallin glanced at the sword hanging from Thorne's belt. Thorne smiled.
“Our infrequent encounters with the Stillguard soldiers sometimes go our way. But we have far more hands than weapons to fit them. We are not interested in your trinket, but if you aid us, we will help you reacquire it.”
“How?” Pallin questioned.
“Most of the Brotherhood are known in Stillguard. We could never reenter the city unnoticed. But a few of our number have come down from the north. Bretton here is a fine warrior. He will enter the tournament, and will help keep the young man safe, and help him win the final battle and claim the winner's purse.”
“Thorne, that isn't going to work,” said Pallin. “When people hear of the winner's purse, a weapon from the old world, they will come from far and wide. We will have the finest warriors in the region fighting against an outlaw and a simple fisherman.”
Thorne smiled.
“No doubt Captain Cross has already sent letters to every c
ity in the region. The tournament is perilous, to be sure. It is true that men are often killed in the arena, but one can surrender and accept defeat at any moment. Most who perish, do so in obstinate pride, already bested, yet unwilling to lay down their arms. Bretton will keep you safe. You have my word.”
“And what do you want from us?” Pallin questioned.
“Information. For the time being, Captain Cross has given you a wide berth, no doubt overjoyed at the good fortune of making acquaintance with the two of you. You are the only ones who can pass between the town and the forest without notice. We need to know their movements, how many men will be stationed on guard during the tournament, and where. You will get more instructions later. Do you agree to help us?”
The Illian City
The first rays of sunlight brought a gentle glow to the grassy valley, lighting brightly the snow capped peaks of the Ruhkan Mountains. Baron awoke, sitting up and finding, to his surprise, Estrien already awake and staring across the broad valley at the desolate Illian city. Baron came over and joined her, feet hanging over the small cliff, wondering what things lay in store for them on the other side of the lonely valley.
“Where do you think the others are right now?” Baron asked.
She only shook her head slowly.
“Whatever's in there, I'll take it over a war party of giants,” Baron joked.
Estrien turned to him with a smile.
“Don't be so sure of that.”
Then for long moments, the pair sat in silence, watching the sunlight creep down the snowy peaks.
“I've been thinking about our Builder ability,” Baron said. “Trying to make sense of it all. When Blair and I were in the tomb of Sheyla, there was a key buried inside the wall. When Blair and I worked together, we managed to pull the key free. At the time, I thought I felt the stone soften beneath our fingers, but I didn't know how that was possible. Now I know it was our latent ability just barely rising to the surface.”
“What did you use the key for?” Estrien asked.
The Banished Lands- The Complete Series Page 37