The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  The Banished Lands

  Benjamin Mester

  Part 1

  Dismissing hours as they pass

  Soft upon the windswept grass.

  The hopes of men have come to naught;

  Nothing fair for eyes or thought.

  For Sheyla lies on golden plain,

  Of Cavanah, the fairest slain;

  Who met her last and final day

  When all was brought to disarray.

  Of gladful things now nevermore;

  Now bitter wind, now salty shore.

  The peaceful world bound to unrest

  And darkness looming in the west.

  The world and all its light shall fade.

  I'll stay with her beneath the shade

  And wait until the world's remade...

  Suriya

  Two men stood upon a mountainside. Below, a sprawling forest stretched away and behind them lay the deep blue ocean.

  “So this is the Eastern Realm,” one said.

  Then, for long moments, the pair stood silent, examining the features of the pleasant landscape.

  “I can't believe we made it. How long were we at sea?”

  The other man shook his head. He didn't know.

  “It seems peaceful here.”

  “Let's hope it stays that way,” said the second man with a slow smile.

  But the smile faded and his countenance turned dark.

  “Do you think Malfur knows we followed him?”

  “If he did, surely they'd have ambushed us.”

  The second man nodded slowly.

  “Where do you think they'll go from here? Will he stay in the forest or seek out a settlement?”

  “We don't even know if there are settlements close by.”

  “Look over there,” the first man said with a nod at a faint band of smoke against the far horizon. But nothing more betrayed what kind of place lay just beyond – a military fort or some simple fishing village.

  “Malfur won't risk revealing himself,” the second man said. “He'll surely stay in the forest.”

  “But he could move among them without suspicion. What would he have to fear?”

  The other man nodded slowly, each sensing the futility of speculation. Malfur would make his move soon enough and they would either be ready for him or not.

  “We need to figure out how to make contact before it's too late...”

  A few months later, the town of Suriya was just awakening in usual fashion, with thin bands of smoke appearing one by one over the scattered chimney tops, rising to a dawn still flecked with starlight. Few were stirring at this early hour, in this small town in the corner of the kingdom. An autumn wind picked up, pulling at the smoke and signaling the discovery of each hidden crevice in the stone cottages with a shriek of cold.

  Durian woke to the whistling wind, disoriented, his mind still full of a dream. It was a dream he'd had once before, and every detail was the same. A woman lay slain in a field. A rider approaches, dismounts, and carries her away in despair.

  Sleep had almost found him when he snapped back awake – a promise to his best friend, Baron, in mind. Groaning, Durian pushed himself from bed. Baron was competing in the Sea Games and Durian was surely late. This was the worst time of year as far as Durian was concerned, with no reprieve from the roving wind that swept up from the south. With winter at least came snow, piled like a warm blanket against the drafty cottages. But the first heavy snows hadn't yet fallen and the wind moved as it willed.

  Durian ambled to his fireplace and blew slow, hopeful breaths. But clouds of ash were all that greeted him in return. Reaching for the woodpile beside him, he seized some kindling but hesitated, knowing he'd soon be leaving. Thob Forest, a two day's walk westbound, was Suriya's only source for timber. Abundant as trees were, strange things had been happening there that were keeping the woodsmen at bay.

  It brought images of the dream back to mind. The first time he'd had the dream was just before things in the forest started changing. Every morning for the last three months, a fog had gathered, remaining throughout the day. And in the mist were faint hints of perfume and smoke. None knew what caused it.

  He glanced to the book lying idle on the mantle, one he'd rummaged through his room to find when the fog first arrived. Titled Tales of the Prosperous Age, among its grand histories and stories, it contained the farewell poem of King Euthor to his wife, Sheyla. He'd been struck then, how similar his dream was to the poem and how vivid the images were. It felt connected to the happenings of the forest, but he didn't know how that could be.

  He took the book in hand, remembering fondly how the stories had consumed his imagination as a boy. All he had wanted then was to go to the capital city, Eulsiphion; wander the great hall and visit the archives to learn whatever he could of the old world.

  But the demands on a struggling merchant in a small town had kept him from such lofty notions for many years. Durian had never even traveled beyond the bounds of Suriya, and with the troubles in the forest, it was all he could do just to keep his woodworking business afloat. A man of twenty, Durian was born and raised in Suriya. Of average height and build, he had the same hazelnut hair that was standard among his peers. His mother and father were already well along in years when he was born, and both had passed some time ago. Durian now solely worked to maintain the business handed down to him by his father.

  Abandoning his musings for now, he readied himself to meet the day, snatching the book before setting off. Down the cobblestone road, he kept near the walls of his neighbors' homes to escape the wind. And though not by nature an eavesdropper, proximity to the cottages granted him muffled snippets of conversations as he passed.

  Soon he intercepted the broader road and was back in the reach of the baleful cold. The sun would soon warm the plains and put an end, at least for the day, to the southern winds. Until then, a chill threatened Durian’s bones and kept Baron in his thoughts. Despite the intolerable conditions, the Sea Games festival was hard to resist for Suriyans; one last celebration at the end of fall before the long winter took hold of the land. The Sea Games were once a widely attended event by outsiders. But the novelty had long since passed.

  Durian arrived at the edge of town, where cobbled stone reduced to a rutted cart path. But the highland route offered the best view of Boreol Bay and he set off through the pathless plains. A few minute's exertion bought him the distance, and filled his sight with a far reaching blue, dotted lightly with fishing vessels and black shoals. Behind him lay the East and West End of Suriya, split in half by the River Shay. And below, an intermittent line of villagers ambled to the coast.

  One of them he recognized. It was the shyer twin brother to Baron, Blair. Both were tall and slender, and Blair had an unmistakable saunter, nearly masked by his tuck-head cowering from the wind. Durian sprang from the hill toward him, bounding the small distance and letting out a holler just as he ran in front of Blair, nearly knocking Blair down, and himself in the process.

  “What's the matter with you?” Blair demanded and pulled his collar tight against his neck, resuming his groveling posture.

  “Many things,” Durian said, chuckling and hooking Blair round the shoulder.

  “What's that you've got?” Blair asked.

  Durian held up the book, which brought a surprised smile from Blair.

  “I haven't seen that in ages! I thought it must've fallen apart the way you used to bring it everywhere.”

  Durian chuckled and nodded.

  “I didn't expect to see you here,” Durian said. “Where's Baron?”

  Blair extended his hand ahead of them.

  “Wherever the cro
wds are gathered, there the Barons will be.”

  Durian laughed. Though the twins were identical in every physical way, they were dissimilar in others, and each took the opportunity to show it. In this case, Blair's estimation of his brother wasn't far off the mark. Baron was drawn to the limelight like, well like vultures to the smell of decay.

  Though at times gloomy and cynical, Blair could never be labeled a parrot of other men's thinking. Similar to his brother, Baron carried himself more confidently than Blair, which made it easy to tell them apart.

  “It's nice of you to support your brother like this,” Durian offered.

  Blair seemed repelled by the thought.

  “The fact is, he left me little choice,” Blair said. “He's been dodging work for weeks, training for this useless race. I've been stuck with crotchety farmers like Tobin. I'm not spending another day taking grief from agitated hay makers for Baron's sake!”

  The twins were blacksmiths in the West End of Suriya. With the close of harvest each year, battered tools were laid to rest. Baron and Blair spent the whole of winter hammering, straightening, sharpening, and oiling tools, readying them for springtime plowing.

  Durian and Blair emerged on the white, sandy shores of Boreol Bay. A crowd fifty strong stood a hundred paces ahead, cheering at a race already underway. Gusting wind hit more powerfully here.

  “Are you warm enough?” Blair asked.

  “Is anyone warm enough this time of year?”

  “I have a spare coat, you know.”

  Durian opened his mouth for a retort, but only nodded his head slowly and turned his attention back to the bay in search of Baron. The previous race was just ending, and a handful of swimmers for the Race of Skull Island were walking down to shore, Baron among them.

  A small outcropping of black rocks in the vague shape of a skull, Skull Island lay not far into the shallows of the bay. The trophy, which lay in wait on the tallest peak of the small island, was an ornately decorated ram's horn, the winner’s to keep for the whole of that year until the next Sea Games. Primarily an ale horn, studded with stones and a filigreed silver rim, Skull Horn was brandished often in the taverns of Suriya.

  “Get it, Red!” someone yelled to one of the swimmers who waved in reply.

  “C'mon Baron!” Durian shouted and clapped.

  But Baron paid no mind, his eyes peering like a hawk toward Skull Island. Durian couldn't help but chuckle. After nearly begging him to come out and support him, Baron now seemed little concerned with who was in the crowd. That was Baron for you. Suddenly a distant voice called out.

  I'm gunna net me a mermaid for me son to play with... followed by surly laughter.

  The crowd on shore laughed. The voice belonged to Gaffney, one of the eldest fishermen in Suriya who had sailed alongside the island, fishing net now in hand. The prolonged hollering of Gaffney erupted a general clamor among the spectators, so much so that even Baron broke concentration and smiled, turning to see Durian and Blair. He waved, but the sudden ring of a bell sent the five swimmers into blue.

  At first, nothing but the churning of limbs. But one by one the swimmers fell into line. Arriving to the island, each pulled forward inch by inch, frozen hands groping ineffectually on cold rock. Baron made some headway but was suddenly dragged backward.

  “Hey!” Blair said and jumped to his feet.

  Durian smiled at his concern, then stood up alongside Blair. Though there weren't specific rules as such governing the Sea Games, certain activities were considered unsportsmanlike.

  “That's right, Red!” someone shouted. “Drag that horse-shoer off your island!”

  Red, now in the lead, ascended the jagged stones until close enough to make a reach for the horn, fingers inching closer. Baron was on the opposite side, halfway up and wouldn't get to the horn before Red. So he risked a leap. His fingertips glanced the horn as he passed, tipping it from its resting place, bouncing down the dark stone until landing in the water.

  Blair and Durian took a step forward, for Baron hadn't emerged and they couldn't see from shore whether he had hit the rocks. The other swimmers dove in after the horn. Seconds passed.

  And then, as though the sea itself gasped for breath, the waters broke and the swimmers appeared, Baron chief among them, swimming furiously toward shore. He arrived in waist deep water, making labored strides against the dragging sea. Red swam up and hooked Baron round the waist, threatening to pull him under. But after a brief struggle, Baron shook free.

  Ram's horn in hand, Baron arrived on shore, hunching on his knees to catch his breath. Applause ensued and Baron managed to raise Skull Horn above his head. At length, Baron returned to helped Red to his feet. Baron was always a good sport, so much so that Durian doubted the purity of his motives. At length, he ran to meet his friends, grabbing a towel en route.

  “Congratulations,” Durian said. “You must be freezing!”

  “No worse for wear though,” replied Baron.

  “Congratulations,” offered Blair, butBaron paid no mind, admiring the prize in his shivering hands.

  “You ought to get some warm food in you,” said Durian.

  Baron nodded, wedging the trophy under his arm to more fervently rub his hands together.

  “Blair has a pot of venison stew simmering at home,” Baron said. “It's quite good.”

  Blair looked skeptical that his brother would praise him, as was Durian. They waited as Baron battled vigorously against the cold.

  “My kid brother is quite the homemaker, you know,” Baron continued.

  “Don't call me that.”

  Durian let out a laugh.

  “Our mother saw early on that he favored the home life.”

  Durian laughed again. The fact that Baron was born a mere half minute before Blair, yet still referred to him as 'kid brother,' or 'little brother' was a source of constant amusement for Durian. As they lingered someone approached, abandoning the usual formalities.

  “Where is my plow?”

  Though Durian had never met the man, he could only guess that this was Tobin, whom Blair had lamented earlier. Tobin's plow arrived like clockwork each year, beaten and battered from use. Tobin was unrelenting in his accusations of the twins' shoddy craftsmanship, disdainful of acknowledging that he owned the rockiest plot of land in all of Suriya. Tobin had been the first patron their father had awarded Baron and Blair for completing their apprenticeship. They had been so excited at the time. Their father still smiled every time the name of Tobin was mentioned.

  “It's in the shop,” Baron responded.

  Tobin went red.

  “Why is my plow rusting in your shop while you're off frolicking in the sea?”

  Baron opened his mouth for a retort but stumbled over the accusations before him. It wasn't a blacksmith's job to scrape rust from old tools – just repair the damage. But Baron didn't seem up for verbal sparring.

  “Blair will have it for you straightaway,” Baron replied.

  Then he turned to Blair with a scolding look for taking the morning off while poor Tobin's plow rusted away in the shop. Blair clenched his jaw while Durian choked on his breath, turning away to camouflage laughter. Tobin didn't find the exchange funny.

  “Your father never had his head in the clouds. He was efficient. Why he moved to silver-smithing I'll never understand.”

  Baron shrugged his shoulders. Tobin scowled and departed.

  “Well, I'm off for home,” said Baron, light-hearted as ever, unwrapping his woolen towel and tossing it to Blair before Blair could refuse to take it. As he was leaving, he turned back.

  “Will you be at market this afternoon?” he asked Durian.

  “Yes. I'm late already.”

  Then he turned to Blair.

  “Farewell little brother.”

  Baron departed. Durian glanced to Blair with a grin. Blair couldn't help but smile a little and folded the towel in his arms, taking it to the pile heaped on shore. Then Blair removed for the homestead also. Durian took
a moment to scan the crowd, still hopeful a visitor or two had come from the outlying townships. Though Suriyans by and large showed little concern for the happenings of the outside world, Durian had always been fascinated by life beyond their meager corner of the kingdom.

  As he scanned the crowd, his eyes came to rest on an old man on the opposite side, lingering a small distance away. He seemed to be gazing somewhere beyond the bay, or else was lost in thought. Durian watched him for many moments.

  Walking to meet him, Durian always made it a point to talk to outsiders, if ever they came to Suriya. But something in this man's countenance stalled him. He seemed pained almost, as though mourning a lost loved one. Durian was hesitant to disturb him.

  Instead, he set off through the open plains, up the shallow hillside, hoping to cross paths with him again. When he had crested the largest hill, he turned round to the bay and was surprised. A lone figure had disembarked from the group of spectators and was walking south along the shore into the indefinable distance. Durian could barely discern his features, but a feeling struck him that it must be the old man he had been watching. Strange to come all the way to Suriya during the Sea Games and then seemingly to ignore them. Durian didn't know what to make of it.

  Ill Tidings

  The sun was warm against his back as Durian lingered on the large hill, the form at the edge of his vision blending with the distant sands, slowly shrinking from sight. There was nothing in the direction the old man headed – only small caves explored on occasion by children.

  Durian's curiosity was piqued but he couldn't stay here. Market Town awaited. A city within a city, Market Town was a burgeoning tent metropolis erected in the warmer summer and fall months. Though bustling now, another week would empty it, used thereafter for nothing more than the piling of excess snow. The Sea Games officially marked the end of autumn, but Market Town persevered until the weight of wind and snow threatened the tents with perforation.

  Durian hurried to retrieve his wares, pulling his cart with no small effort down the cobblestone road from his home. He arrived on the scene breathless with still a hundred paces to go. The lanes of Market Town were narrow and grooved, and one of his wooden wheels quickly fixed itself in a rut. Struggling, Durian stopped a moment to catch his breath.