The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  Midday passed and day descended to evening. They all knew what it meant. If they really were headed east, they'd have cleared the forest hours ago.

  As they walked, a stiff chill entered the air. Up ahead, forest was even more dimly lit than usual. They paused. And then, like a torn blanket, the mist broke in scattered patches, revealing the ominous form of a mountain face. There was no mistaking what it was. The three adventurers stopped in their tracks, speechless.

  “Well, at least now we know where we are,” Baron encouraged. “Like my uncle always says:

  The road is only longest when,

  When all you know is where you've been.”

  But the Estees Mountains were the last thing any of them wanted to see. Deep within Thob Forest, the three friends were now days from escape. Their food was running out. Their water was running out. And once they set out from here, there was no guarantee they wouldn't get turned around again. A small portion of a haunting poem rang through Durian's mind as he faced the base of the mountain:

  The shadow falls upon the floor,

  The forest shudders cold;

  And even young men bear the weight

  Of cares so very old;

  Within the shadow of the mount

  And on the cliffs of yore.

  Upon the lonely mountainside

  The roamer finds his way;

  But soon his gold will lose its shine

  And all his hopes decay;

  Alas, for such a haggard road,

  For such a wretched guide!

  Encounters

  The three friends lingered in the shadow of the mountain.

  “Let's get out of here,” said Blair.

  “We're so close to the mountains,” Baron argued. “Shouldn't we at least find the path and go the rest of the journey?”

  “What for?” demanded Blair.

  “If the old man was coming this way, there's got to be something worth seeing. We only need to climb a little to get above the mist.”

  “Let's be quick about it then,” said Durian.

  The three set off, reaching the base of the mountain in short order but failing to find a navigable pathway up. Baron searched along it for minutes to no avail.

  “Baron, this is hopeless,” said Durian.

  “It's got to be around here somewhere.”

  “Nightfall is only a few hours off.”

  Baron slowed with a sigh and turned round. His look expressed the question they all shared. If they set off, how were they going to keep from getting lost again?

  “I say we make south for the coast,” said Blair. “It can't be far and we'll follow it straight out of here.”

  That was a very good idea. Baron set off swiftly through the misty trees. If they moved quickly enough, they could reach the coast by nightfall. But after an hour, darkness crept into the forest of the world, reviving the animals that stalked the woods by starlight.

  Baron slowed his pace and came to a stop at a fallen log. They couldn't keep going without rest. Removing their packs, they brought out what little food they had left – another day's rations at most. As they ate and recovered their strength, Durian thought he saw something in the imperceptible distance. He stood to his feet and took a step closer, gazing intently in front of him.

  The others jumped up beside Durian. There was light in the distance, barely perceptible at first but growing brighter.

  “Are those torches?”

  The question hung in the air, the glow intensifying with each passing moment.

  “We need to leave, now!”

  Reaching for their packs, the clanging of pans filled the night air. Baron took his pack and shoved it into the nearby brush, leaving it behind. Motioning for the others to do the same, they reluctantly set off without supplies. The packs were decently hidden, but a soldier passing by would still see them. Having almost no food left, there was little need for packs. But sleeping outdoors without a tent would be miserable business.

  Durian glanced back as they ran. The glow behind them was growing brighter. But something even more appeared. Another glow was filling the forest in front of them.

  The three dropped to the ground and scrambled for cover. Seconds passed. They only had low lying brush for cover. Durian squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to watch. The soldiers seemed to slow, the sound of their armor changing. Had they found the packs? Were they searching for them?

  Scattered torches appeared, half a dozen lights spread out among the trees. Durian's heart beat quickly. The soldiers were searching for something and they were nearly to them. Durian opened his eyes and looked up. A warrior clad in armor was in the distance ahead. His armor was dark with a streak of red on his breastplate. Durian had never seen a barbarian warrior before, but he'd heard of them, and these in front of him weren't what he expected.

  Some of the torches had moved beyond them. Durian glanced to where Baron and Blair were hiding. But as he did, he noticed something. A solitary torch was unmoving, its bearer standing still and faced in Durian's direction. Durian froze. Had he been seen? His heart beat wildly.

  Just then, the torch sprang toward him. Durian stumbled backward as the soldier closed the distance, sword raised. Durian tried to stand and flee but the soldier kicked him back to the ground.

  Standing over Durian, sword poised, Durian raised his hands over his face with a yell. Time seemed to freeze. But suddenly, the soldier fell onto Durian, arrow protruding from his back. Durian yelled again, pushing the man off him and scrambling backward into the nearest tree.

  A battle erupted. Durian heard the clanging of sword on sword and the death cry of at least two persons. What in the world was going on? But Durian was too scared to find out. He couldn't open his eyes or stand to his feet. The battle continued. Durian could hear more armored men approaching from the other direction. He breathed in deep and found the resolve to stand up and see just what was happening.

  Three soldiers were dead on the ground. Three more were holding their ground against two assailants, waiting for reinforcements to arrive. But the two attackers advanced on them fiercely. The battle disappeared behind a line of trees as the attackers pushed the soldiers back.

  Durian was scarcely breathing. Why were these men fighting? After a few moments the battle ended and the two attackers emerged. One set out straight for Durian, the other toward Baron and Blair. Durian scrambled away and let out a muffled yell as the man placed his hand over Durian's mouth.

  “Be silent,” the man commanded.

  Nearby, more soldiers were approaching their position. The man holding Durian scanned about the forest.

  “Sheabor, we must get them out of the open,” cautioned the other man who held Baron and Blair by the collar.

  “This way,” said the lead man and pushed Durian along with resistance.

  “Do not struggle,” said the man. “Or we will leave you to them.”

  Durian glanced to his friends. Baron nodded to follow them. Durian assented and the group set off. The two men were well camouflaged to the forest, with brown leather armor and green cloaks. They were taller than average height for Suriyans, broad-shouldered and muscular. Each sported a short beard and long brown hair.

  The two men led them stealthily away from the other group of soldiers not far from their position. Many times, the lead man would crouch low against a tree, pulling Durian down and placing a hand over his mouth. For nearly half an hour the men at arms were close around them. But soon the sounds faded, leaving them to the night.

  Durian got the distinct sense the two men were leading them back in the way they had come. After walking for the better part of an hour, the forest grew even darker and more cold.

  “Look! The Estees Mountains,” exclaimed Blair.

  “Yes,” said the lead man. “There is a cave not far from here.”

  The group skirted the base of the mountain until it leveled off enough to ascend. Climbing the first few paces, they traversed the small distance until coming to th
e mouth of a cave. Entering, they found it remarkably shallow, and not even a real cave, for the top was exposed to the night sky, a thin patch of stars overhead.

  There were red coals half buried in the sand at the far wall. The three Suriyans made for it and plopped down in the dirt, warming themselves.

  “Thank the stars,” said Blair.

  The lead man watched them silently while his compatriot began adding kindling to the glowing embers, unburying them from the sand with a stick. After a few moments, the lead man spoke.

  “I am Sheabor, and this is Straiah. Now tell me, who are you, and why are you in this forest?”

  “Believe me, if we could leave this forest we would,” said Blair.

  The answer didn't seem to suffice the man for his gaze grew stern.

  “We're from Suriya,” Durian answered, “just east of here. We set out three days ago after an old man. We thought he was a barbarian spy sent to gather information about our town. Who were those warriors you fought with?”

  “The old man, what did he look like?” Sheabor asked, disregarding Durian's question.

  “A wanderer,” said Baron. “Long beard, tanned skin. Definitely not from around here.”

  “You didn't know him?”

  “No,” said Durian.

  “Did he tell you where he was from or what he was doing? What his name was? Anything?”

  “No” replied Durian. “He was very secretive.”

  Sheabor looked gravely at Straiah.

  “Malfur,” muttered Straiah. “It must be.”

  “Who is Malfur?” Baron demanded, rising to his feet. “Who are the soldiers who attacked us? What in the world is happening?”

  “Sit down,” said Sheabor calmly and took a seat himself by the fire.

  Straiah unstrapped a nearby leather pouch and returned with three rabbits in hand, skinning and cooking them while the others spoke.

  Sheabor gazed into the fire thoughtfully for a time. It was clear that he meant to offer an explanation, but seemed to be searching for the means to deliver it with brevity.

  “What do you know of the old world?” he asked at length.

  That was an odd question. The three Suriyans looked at one another in surprise. Baron and Blair nodded to Durian, who knew more of the lore and history of their world than either of them.

  “Not much is known of the old world,” said Durian. “Only that it was called the Prosperous Age, and that it ended twelve centuries ago after a Great War that somehow changed everything. Legend says that during the Prosperous Age, there were three Houses of Men, each with a different ability. The House of Forthura were the Woodlanders who could manipulate wood with their hands as though clay, and breed new forms of trees with magical properties. The House of Kester were the Breath Givers who could somehow breathe spirit temporarily into ordinary objects and call them to life. And the House of Cavanah were the Builders who could manipulate stone like clay, and create new forms with stronger properties, even magical ones. The House, Cavanah, disappeared at the end of the Prosperous Age, never to be seen again.”

  Sheabor seemed pleased at Durian's knowledge. Durian gained a measure of confidence and continued.

  “It was said that the whole world was temperate and mild, that gentle rain often clothed the lands, and fruit and game were rich even in the harshest, wildest places. The world never knew famine or drought. There were forces at work which strictly governed the seasons.”

  “Not forces,” interrupted Sheabor. “Men. They were called the Keepers of the Wind. They were wanderers of the lush world, each controlling his own wind and season. Aravas, Keeper of the East Wind and Spring. Faigean, Keeper of the West Wind and Summer. Pallin, Keeper of the South Wind and Fall. And Malfur, Keeper of the bitter North Wind and Winter, whom the three of you have been following.”

  The Suriyans gazed at Sheabor in disbelief. Could that really be possible? Durian thought back to the haunting picture of the Windbearer in his book. The only descriptions of them said that they were more like spirits that dwelt in the furthest places of north, south, east, and west.

  Straiah handed each of the Suriyans a cooked rabbit, which they ate ravenously.

  “Who are the soldiers you fought with?” asked Baron, mouth full of meat.

  “They're called the Dungeon Core, personal guard to Corcoran, who rules the Banished Lands.”

  The mention of the Banished Lands struck Durian. He had read about a mystical realm ruled by an ancient evil, but he didn't know anything about it.

  “What are the Banished Lands?” Baron asked.

  “The Banished Lands are nothing more than a second continent, much like this one with forests, deserts, mountains and valleys. At the end of the last Great War, the continent split in two, sending the Banished Lands off and away to the west, seemingly never to return. The House, Cavanah, is trapped there, hiding from the rule of Corcoran.”

  Durian's heart was racing and he stood to face the back wall, lost in thought. At length, he turned round and opened his mouth. But there so many questions, he didn't know where to begin.

  “If the Keepers of the Wind are real, what happened to them?”

  “We don't know. They might have perished at the end of the Great War. Before the Great War, the world was once one landmass. There were no salty seas or harsh deserts. Fresh water abounded in streams, pools, and rivers. No one knows how it happened, but at the end of the last Great War, the Keepers of the Wind unleashed something terrible, some primal force so potent that it ripped the world in two and covered most of the lands in flood waters which became the salty oceans.

  Your continent, the Eastern Realm, is only half of a once vibrant world. Did you ever wonder why your continent was called the Eastern Realm if there were no Western Realm somewhere else?”

  Durian was speechless. His mind exploded with questions. He thought of his dream and of the poem, written by the last king of Cavanah, King Euthor, which described the downfall of the Prosperous Age:

  Of gladful things, now nevermore;

  Now bitter wind, now salty shore.

  The peaceful world bound to unrest

  And darkness looming in the west.

  Durian paced back and forth in the small cave. At many intervals, Durian turned to the group to speak, but the words wouldn't form.

  “What is it?” asked Sheabor.

  “I don't know. It just can't be a coincidence.”

  “What?”

  “Three months ago when the strange things started in Thob Forest, I had a vivid dream of a woman lying slain in a field. A rider approaches and carries her away beyond the sunset. I didn't recognize either of them but the dream felt somehow familiar. I had the same dream again just days ago, right before we set off for Thob Forest. The dream seems to be linked to an old poem that was written by the last king of Cavanah. I didn't know it until tonight, but the poem describes the same events you've been telling us about.”

  Sheabor stared at Durian gravely, so much so that it made him uncomfortable. But Sheabor arose and unstrapped his leather pack, revealing a war hammer. The head of the hammer was made of a dark, translucent stone, and as he removed it, to their surprise, the ornately decorated wooden handle was glowing with a golden gleam. The glow emanated through the translucent stone, giving it a faint inner light. Durian's eyes grew wide with realization.

  “That's Candlewood!” he exclaimed.

  Sheabor nodded and handed him the hammer slowly. Durian took it and examined it. It was lighter than he expected. One end of the hammer head was flat, while the other came to a sharp point. It looked as though constructed yesterday, completely free of wear or damage. Flipping the hammer over, Durian was surprised to see writing inscribed onto the reverse side. The writing was gently illumined by the gleam from the hammer's inner core. It was absolutely beautiful. As he read, he could scarcely believe his eyes:

  Dismissing hours as they pass

  Soft upon the windswept grass.

  The hopes of men have co
me 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...

  Durian's heart beat wildly as he held the mystical weapon in his hand. He looked up to Sheabor whose troubled countenance showed that he also was mystified as to what it all could mean. Was the hammer somehow calling out to him? Was it responsible for Durian's dreams? Could such a thing be possible? At length, Durian handed the hammer to Baron and Blair, whose eyes went equally wide as they read the poem and saw its obvious connection. Durian raised his eyes to Sheabor, mouth open but the words didn't flow.

  “It is called the Hammer of Haladrin,” Sheabor said. “It was made by the hand of King Euthor himself, over twelve centuries ago. It is the heirloom of his family. The head is formed of Shade Stone: harder than diamond and unyielding against anything it strikes – indestructible by ordinary means. Shade Stone was the invention of King Euthor himself, and he alone of the Builders was able to form it.”

  “Are you a descendant of King Euthor?”

  Sheabor nodded. Durian opened his mouth to ask another question, but Sheabor held up his hand.

  “There isn't time for more questions. For now, you must tell us exactly what Malfur was doing in your town and where he is now.”

  “We don't know really,” said Blair, handing Sheabor back the hammer. “We think he was taking the abandoned trail to one of the southward peaks of the Estees Mountains. There's a cleft overlooking the Bay of Boreol and the Frostlands beyond.”

  Sheabor glanced at Straiah.