The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  The Island

  Durian and Pallin traveled long through the lands of Kester, making frequent stops at small villages and towns, but avoiding the major settlements. Sorren, son of Jaithur, was their guide. Durian was sad to leave Stillguard behind. So much had happened there. He'd love one day to return, perhaps even with his friend, the monk. How surprised he would be to see how much had changed. But that would be many days from now. For now, they had a mission to accomplish.

  “I haven't been in the lands of Kester since I was a small boy,” Sorren commented.

  That was hardly reassuring. But Sorren proved more than capable along the way. Every town they approached, he told them the pertinent details of. And he knew every town in which the Jedra had dealings and which towns his kin would welcome them. For not having traveled these lands since a small boy, he had an acute knowledge of his surroundings.

  They spent many days and nights in the open country, passing by more than one settlement without taking their lodging there. They would travel into towns to buy food and supplies, though Sorren had yet to allow them to stay the night in one of them. Pallin deferred to his judgment. Durian, for one, was glad to have someone leading the way who considered the world more full of real peril than Pallin seemed to. But he longed for the comfort of a warm bed.

  After the fifth day, they came upon a river town very similar to the town of Stillguard and Sorren finally granted a stay for the night in civilization. Durian was overjoyed but the night passed far too quickly, and soon they were back on the open road.

  They traveled for weeks on horseback, through all kinds of terrain, but keeping mostly to the river. The lands of Kester were beautiful, full of rolling hillsides, distant mountains and sweeping plains. Durian lost count of the days and at long last, they reached the port town of Edessa. Very large, it was seated in the curve of a sweeping bay. Sorren took them to meet his kin but advised them to tell nothing of their true purpose.

  They were welcomed warmly, and Sorren explained to them that they had come on a long journey, that Durian and Pallin had given up everything to come and start new lives in Edessa as fishermen. They required a new boat, which Sorren's father had guaranteed them. The people were reluctant to provide it, but the signet ring which Sorren wore was proof enough for them that his house would stand behind the debt.

  So a boat of no small size was provided to them, one with two sails and of different construction than anything Durian had seen in Suriya. This was Sorren's final stop with them and the trio bid one another a fond farewell. Then they left the world of man behind.

  Their craft was sturdily built and caught the winds well and Durian was impressed by its construction. This boat was sleek though surprisingly powerful, able to turn sharply, yet efficient in its employment of the wind. If he studied it well enough, he might find himself with a new, more lucrative business than carpentry if ever he returned to Suriya. He smiled at the thought.

  The coastline retreated from them until only a rolling hillside could be seen standing above the blue. But that soon too passed from their sight, and all that stood around them was the deep blue ocean. The stone in Pallin's hands glowed noticeably more intensely as they left solid ground, almost as though it knew they had fled the Eastern Realm. Would this stone really guide them all the way to the Banished Lands?

  Durian sat lazily at the front of the vessel, called upon only rarely to move a certain rope or pull a certain rigging. They traveled for the better part of the day without interruption until early afternoon, when Durian saw Pallin's gaze catch sight of something. The pair stood to their feet. In the distance, barely perceptible stood a shape. It was an island. Durian couldn't believe it.

  “Quickly, my boy,” Pallin said. “Grab that rigging.”

  Durian pulled hard against one of the ropes to help turn the boat in the direction of the island. But Pallin was pointing the boat to the north of the island, which seemed strange. Durian didn't understand what he was doing.

  “The current is strong here,” Pallin said. “We'll need to hold steady on this course or we'll overshoot it.”

  Durian looked down at the waters flowing past them. He couldn't see the current, but he could feel its effect on the boat that now sought to use the wind to fight it. Pallin was very right. If they had shot straight for the island, the current would have swept them far to the south of it. But since Pallin had pointed the boat to the north, they found themselves lined up nicely in the sheltering lee of the island.

  As they approached, Durian was surprised at the smallness of it, barely a mound of sand and a small forest of strange trees. Undoubtedly he could walk the whole diameter of it in a matter of minutes. Durian turned to Pallin but shoals in the waters below held his gaze and Durian was hesitant to bother him. Soon they moored their boat in the golden sands of a beach.

  Durian's heart beat quickly as he jumped down from their vessel onto the small island. He fastened the boat firmly, as best he could and then wandered up the shallow incline, the waves crashing around him. He couldn't believe he was standing here, in this place. It felt so surreal, occupying a small tract of land within the broad ocean, on dry ground in the midst of endless blue.

  They had found it at last! The island was real, the one the poem of King Euthor had spoken about. What were they supposed to do here, Durian wondered? Pallin was marveling the same as Durian, neither of them really expecting to find the real life place the poem of King Euthor had described. Durian wandered aimlessly through the trees, different than anything he'd seen before, tall and slender, stretching high into the air without limbs, but bushy at the tops.

  As he roamed the soft, swaying grasses toward the other side of the island, he began to hear the powerful sound of crashing surf from somewhere in the distance ahead. Instantly, the poem of King Euthor came to mind. But what did it mean? It had to mean something more.

  The crashing of the waves grew louder as he quickened his pace, and even before he saw it, he could hear the water rushing up a steep incline of sands and then drawing back to the sea. After a few more moments of walking, he emerged into the sunlight on the sands of the opposite shore. The decline was very steep and the waves came up and crashed right in front of his feet, rushing up the embankment and then sliding back to the sea. The sand on this side was mostly golden, but speckled brown and black and even flecked with red here and there. It felt different as well, crunching beneath his toes.

  The sea beyond was a tumult and the waters looked as though moving quickly from north to south around the island. Pallin had said before that the current in this place was strong. A breeze was coming from the east, catching the spray of the crashing waves and sending the cold, salty air against Durian's face. He still couldn't believe this place was real.

  Everything within him screamed that something more lay hidden here to find. But what? After a few minutes, Pallin came up and stood beside Durian. He too gazed out over the open ocean, seeing the same thing that Durian had noticed. The current must have been the reason why King Euthor had wanted them to come here. Striking out into the open sea could spell doom for inexperienced sailors. But with a strong current, it would be much harder to get thrown off course.

  Pallin held up the stone, which was glowing a faint blue. He turned it toward the southwest, and the intensity magnified greatly. But Pallin's countenance looked troubled and Durian didn't understand why.

  “What is it?” Durian asked.

  “I don't know,” Pallin responded. “It's nothing really. I suppose I expected something more left behind by King Euthor for us to find.”

  Durian nodded.

  “If we stay here tonight, maybe we'll find something more in the morning.”

  “Yes, it's late. We'll make camp and see what morning brings.”

  “Do you think that current will take us all the way to the Banished Lands?”

  “I hope so,” Pallin replied. “Without it, we'd never succeed. And the stone has changed even more since coming to this place.
It glows bluer now when pointed southwest. King Euthor definitely intended for us to come here.”

  Durian marveled, recalling the dream of King Euthor finding Sheyla slain in the open field. How could it be that a man dead twelve hundred years could've intended for Durian and Pallin to be here? It didn't seem possible.

  Durian soaked in the beauty all around him and felt the deep seated well-being that comes with finding the purpose of one's life and going after it wholeheartedly. He had never imagined standing in such a place as this, called here and destined to be here before he was even born. Even if they found nothing more in the morning, this was a moment he would remember for the rest of his life. A sadness already filled him that he would soon be forced to leave as they pressed on their journey.

  The Highlands

  Straiah had been following the forces of Corcoran for days along the base of the Ruhkan Mountains, then into the highlands between the lands of the Horctura and Kester. Though gaining ground, he was still a day behind them. Would he arrive too late? If they were planning a trap for Sheabor and he didn't arrive in time to stop it, he'd never forgive himself. Estrien was right to do what she did. If only he knew she was safe. She had been so weak.

  The highlands were still very rugged and rocky, but the impassable peaks of the Ruhkan Mountains were leveler now and sporadic. Straiah hesitated on a hill, gazing across the broad landscape. To the west was the kingdom of Kester and the alliance city, not far within its realm. He almost thought he spotted the solitary mountain peak beside which Sheabor meant to build. To the east were the lands of the Horctura, and somewhere, far to the north lay the lands of Aeleos, the kingdom of the Bearoc.

  They had finally done what they set out to do so many months ago – warn the peoples of the Eastern Realm of the return of Corcoran and unite them to stand as one. But it could all still unravel, the small band of elite warriors from the Banished Lands somehow undermining everything they'd accomplished.

  Straiah set off into the rocky highlands, searching for the better part of the day for signs of Corcoran's warriors, thinking he'd found them and then losing them again. The tracks were elusive, boots leaving little evidence of striking hardened stone, and he was left traveling full stretches without any sign that some had recently come the same way. But one thing encouraged him. If he traveled eastward along the path of least resistance, he would always find sporadic tracks. It told him one very important thing, that the elites didn't think they were being followed, for they didn't take pains to throw pursuers off their path.

  At one point, Straiah saw a caravan in the lowlands, far beyond, a few carts and a half dozen men traveling westward through the lands of the Horctura, surely bound for the alliance city. It encouraged him greatly, for Estrien's warning of a mercenary force was troubling beyond words.

  Straiah's muscles burned with exhaustion as he climbed and descended the rocky hills. But on the peaks, he began catching sight of something in the west, approaching on horseback. It was a pack of riders, more than a dozen warriors and at least one giant, undoubtedly from the alliance city. It could only be Sheabor. Straiah's heart raced. What Estrien had warned of seemed coming to pass.

  But he had yet to catch sight of the enemy, who had hidden himself well. Were they lying in wait, even now, for Sheabor and the others? The thought drove him forward. He had little time before Sheabor's war party passed him by. But he came to a spot where the decline was too steep to traverse, a quick drop to a jagged boulder five feet below he could jump to if he dared. Straiah poised himself and hopped from his ledge, an arrow suddenly whizzing by his head as he fell, which would have caught him right in the chest if he'd waited a moment longer.

  Straiah landed on the rock awkwardly, and grabbed hold of the rocky peak to pull himself up and scrambled forward into the shelter of another rock, barely dodging a second arrow that bounced from the stone just beside him. He had found them, or rather, had been found by them.

  Straiah moved in the cover of the rocks as well as he could, having yet to spot the enemy. He crouched low, sword in front of him and coming round a corner, a sudden swing of a sword came powerfully toward him. He caught the blow with his own sword weakly and was slammed against the boulder at his back with a hard thud, nearly knocking the breath from him. A black-armored warrior stepped forward and swung again.

  They were trying to kill him before he could raise the alarm. The thought infuriated him and he ducked the blow, lunging away from the wall, and with a deep breath shouted a war cry into the still mountain air. This caused a snarl from beneath the helmet of the black-armored warrior, who stabbed at him again.

  There was little room to dodge or maneuver among the boulders, but Straiah was able to hit the tip of the warrior's blade off to one side. Straiah dropped his own sword and hooked the warrior round the arm, throwing his body into the rock, then diving toward him with his shoulder, sending the warrior to the ground. Straiah picked up a nearby stone and cracked it across the warrior's helmet.

  Dropping the stone, he heard the far off trampling of horses, or so he thought. Sheabor had to be close now. Straiah burst forward around the boulder, breathing in deeply.

  “Sheabor!” he yelled. “It's a...”

  Straiah felt a strong force hit him in the chest and he staggered backward a step, his back impacting the rock behind him. An arrow was stuck fast in his leather armor and he stared at it for long moments in shock. But his eyes turned upward in anger and saw a black-armored warrior standing not far atop a boulder, bow in hand. Straiah took a step forward but was suddenly pushed back by a powerful blow to the shoulder.

  His world began to spin. The last thing he heard was the sound of battle erupt in the nearby places. Was it Sheabor? Had he heard Straiah's cry? Straiah felt a wave of peace come over him. Then he closed his eyes.

  Meanwhile, Sheabor, Drogan and the Melanorian warriors had heard the warning cry of Straiah and readied themselves for battle. They had almost walked headlong into a trap and surely would have perished but for the courage of Straiah. Sheabor realized then in that moment what it had all been for – the sightings of the black-armored warriors and the constant harassment of the supply caravans. It had all been to draw Sheabor out to this place. Corcoran didn't need to defeat the alliance city. He only needed to capture Sheabor's hammer. Sheabor wasn't hunting the elite force. They'd been hunting him this entire time, lying in wait for the opportune moment.

  Sheabor examined his surroundings quickly. He broke for the stony highlands and away from the low pathway, riding as far as he could, then dismounting and climbing the steep ascent on foot. Just then, an arrow ricocheted from his Shade Stone plated armor, startling him. Forms in dark armor began popping out from behind rocks and boulders.

  “Quickly!” Sheabor yelled. “Get into cover.”

  The arrows sailed from a hundred paces away, having little effect at that distance. If they'd traveled down the lowland road another minute, they'd have been riddled with arrows that quickly would have found the weak points in their armor. Straiah had giving them a fighting chance.

  The forces of Corcoran repositioned themselves and were firing arrows in rapid succession. One of the Melanorian warriors took an arrow to the shoulder and slid down the embankment. Another arrow struck Drogan's thick helm, and he turned with a fierce yell. Soon the group was in the highlands behind the cover of boulders. But at least three of their warriors had been injured or killed.

  “Fan out!” Sheabor said and took a forward position, shield poised in front of him.

  All around the highlands were narrow corridors and passageways. Two of the Melanorians took up positions atop nearby boulders and began sending arrows back at Corcoran's forces. Sheabor dashed around a corner and was instantly met with a volley of arrows from a trio of warriors firing from cover. Taking them in the shield, he slid back around the corner.

  Drogan was beside him, fists clenched in fury. This was the same force that had caused the killing of the war party under his command.
But they were pinned down. Drogan glanced about, finding a large stone lying idle and lifting it onto his shoulder.

  “Go!” Drogan commanded.

  Sheabor came round the corner, running low with shield in front of him, sprinting the distance toward the trio of elites, who each had an arrow trained on him, waiting for him to get close enough to expose a weakness. But their eyes went wide as he neared and Sheabor saw a large form sail overhead. The three warriors scrambled as the large stone smashed into the boulder they took cover behind, dislodging it.

  And even though Sheabor sprinted forward, Drogan still got there first, leaping over Sheabor with broadsword in hand, landing amid the trio of warriors. Drogan swung powerful blows, which the elites were forced to duck in the close quarters. One of them had Drogan flanked and slashed at his leg. Letting out a roar of pain, Drogan smashed his fist into the warrior's chest, sending him into the boulder just as Sheabor arrived to engage the other two warriors. Sheabor and Drogan battled them, making quick work of them.

  A small ravine now stood in their way, and an arrow came in from across it, striking Sheabor just under the shoulder plate of his armor, cutting him but not severely. Sheabor growled, raising his shield against the attacker but able to go no further. One of the Melanorian warriors arrived on a boulder just above them and loosed an arrow back, while Drogan made a mighty leap across a ten foot ravine.

  The distance was too far for Sheabor to cross, and he analyzed his surroundings for another way, the sounds of battle ringing all around. Coming around a corner, he was met with another dead end. The forces of Corcoran had chosen a very defensible position. There was a steep ravine to one side and a very steep incline in front. They only seemed approachable from the far side, which they'd never get to without being shot full of arrows. If their ambush had been allowed to work, he and the others would never have survived.