The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  Baron was speechless.

  “That glimmer you saw in the forest,” Dahlgrin said. “We've had scattered reports of something similar over the long years. We don't know for certain, but we think it might be the Soul Stone.”

  “Soul Stone?” remarked Blair. “The stone that brought the Night Wanderers into being?”

  Dahlgrin nodded.

  “But I thought it was no longer active?”

  “That's true,” he replied. “It takes someone from Estrien's people to call it to life. But the Soul Stone has never been fully understood. It was the pinnacle of the creative efforts of the Three Houses. Their combined abilities created something never before seen.”

  Baron and Blair marveled.

  “Do the people of Suriya trace their bloodlines?” Dahlgrin asked.

  “Not really,” Baron began. “But we grew up deep in the lands of Forthura. So I always assumed we had Woodlander's blood, though I never gave it much thought.”

  “The Houses were scattered during and after the Great War – nomadic wanderers without a place in the world. There are no histories recorded from that time. Surely not everyone from the House of Cavanah was trapped on the Banished Lands. You may have the lineage of King Euthor's people in your blood.”

  The thought enraptured Baron and filled him with wonder. But while they still thought, Dahlgrin arose unexpectedly.

  “Wait here,” he said, and quickly vanished into the crowd.

  “Where’s he running off to?” Blair questioned.

  The two sat and Baron poked at his stew mechanically, his mind bursting. Was this ability something that could be developed over time? Would he ever gain control over it? Dahlgrin returned only a minute later with someone following in tow, and the two stood there waiting a few moments before Baron even lifted his eyes from his rabbit stew.

  When he did, to his great surprise, just beside Dahlgrin stood the girl that Baron had been admiring earlier that morning. Baron exploded to his feet, spilling his bowl of stew on the ground. His first inclination was to reach down and retrieve the fallen bowl, but he stopped mid-action and stood up, thrusting his hand forward to meet Dahlgrin's unexpected friend, while accidentally kicking the derelict bowl toward her.

  Baron's face went red and the girl blushed at his awkwardness, glancing to Dahlgrin who wore a surprised, but intrigued look.

  “This is Ariadra,” Dahlgrin said slowly. “Ariadra, this is Baron and his brother, Blair.”

  Baron extended his hand while Blair, on the other hand, stepped forward with a wide grin.

  “Ariadra, it’s truly a pleasure,” said Blair.

  And it truly was a pleasure, for Ariadra was beautiful and Blair could see why his brother was taken with her. But Baron still racked his brain for explanation at the girl's sudden appearance with Dahlgrin.

  “Ariadra and her sister, Aerova, are the only twins in Ogrindal,” Dahlgrin explained.

  And the realization dawned.

  “Of course they are,” Blair said with an ever growing smile.

  The girl wore a look of concern for Baron, stepping forward and placing a hand on his forearm.

  “Don’t worry,” Ariadra said. “It’s the same with my sister and me. She’s very shy.”

  Blair almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “No, I’m not…” Baron began. “I mean, you don’t understand...”

  “What my shy brother means to say,” Blair interrupted, “is that he's very happy to meet you.”

  “Yes, very happy,” Baron declared, almost forcefully. “And I hope to see more of you during our stay in Ogrindal.”

  The girl nodded in a bit of dismay and glanced once more to Dahlgrin.

  “I brought Ariadra over because I was hoping that she and her sister could talk to you about your abilities,” Dahlgrin commented.

  “Yes, let me go and find her,” Ariadra said, and retreated into the crowd.

  “Someone kill me,” Baron groaned in utter disbelief. “Malfur, where are you when I need you!”

  Blair and Dahlgrin laughed, but Baron clenched his jaw and shook his head, and soon was back to his normal self, just in time for the return of Ariadra and Aerova. Baron and Blair shook hands with Aerova, Dahlgrin watching with marked anticipation for more of Baron's awkwardness.

  “Sorry about before,” Baron said, rubbing the back of his neck while sheepishly gazing to the ground. “I guess I'm not myself today. Though you'd think falling off a mountain would've topped my list of cringe worthy moments for the day.”

  “What?” Ariadra exclaimed in surprise, glancing to Dahlgrin whose expression verified what Baron had said. But a slow smile grew on Baron's face.

  “It's okay,” he said. “It all worked out great in the end.”

  Blair rolled his eyes with a smirk, glancing to Dahlgrin. Ariadra appeared to take his meaning, for her eyes narrowed and she seemed to fight back a smile of her own.

  “I think that's my cue,” said Dahlgrin. “I'll see you both tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  “I intend to,” Baron declared. “I'm sleeping in from now on. No more death hikes.”

  Dahlgrin's head threw back in laughter and he raised his hands in surrender, the rest chuckling.

  “So what's all this about you falling from a mountain?” Ariadra asked. “Dahlgrin only told me one of the newcomers might have had contact with the Soul Stone and unlocked his ability.”

  “I guess that's what happened,” Baron said. “Sure beats the story that I fainted and nearly killed myself.”

  Ariadra and Aerova laughed.

  “Do you two have abilities then?” Blair cut in.

  “Only very small ones,” Aerova replied. “We're seamstresses and our Woodlander ability lets us harden the fabrics we weave with. We've both tried deepening our gift, but that's the most we can ever accomplish.”

  “The first night we arrived, I saw you in the council chamber,” Baron said to Ariadra. “What were you doing there?”

  “I remember,” Ariadra replied with a smile. “I took you both for warriors in all that armor. Though it seemed a little off. Our father is one of the council elders. I was delivering a message.”

  “You don't think we're warriors?” Baron asked in feigned surprise.

  Ariadra shook her head with a smile and Baron put his hand to his heart as though in pain.

  “I think that hurt worse than the fall from the mountain.”

  Ariadra laughed and struck him in the arm.

  “Tell us about where you're from,” Ariadra said, still chuckling.

  “Suriya?” Baron said in surprise with a glance to Blair.

  Then the four talked late into the evening. Baron told of Suriya and Thob Forest, of barbarians and mythic creatures and all of their adventures since leaving home. Ariadra and her sister listened with rapt attention, confessing that neither of them had ever visited a city outside Ogrindal. With the barbarians just outside the forest, none from Ogrindal ever ventured beyond. By the end of the night, Baron couldn't stop smiling. He laid his head to the pillow captivated by all the things the future might hold.

  In the morning, Sheabor and the others would arrive from Eulsiphion. The elders would deliver a verdict on the fate of Gwaren, and King Behlyn would be laid to rest in the burial chambers of Ogrindal. Perhaps they would finally get the chance to see the ominous Soul Stone that had somehow brought the Night Wanderers into existence, over twelve centuries ago.

  Homelands

  The wind was gusting cold, with clouds rumbling overhead, robbing the sky of stars, while streaks of lightning crackled over the golden plains. An army was gathered at the base of a rocky hill, brightly clad in armor, while archers lined the narrow pathway up, where the hill leveled off to a flat plateau. The banner-men stood atop it, standards fluttering in the wind. And in their midst, a king paced anxiously back and forth.

  None was stirring but for a lone soldier making his way past the archers lining the passageway, heaving deep breaths. Those
whom he passed bowed to him – their captain, just returned from a long journey. The man crested the top of the passageway and when the king heard him, he came eagerly to meet him.

  “What news of Sheyla?”

  The captain opened his mouth for reply, but only shook his head at length, which struck the king as if with a mortal blow.

  “The Queen and her entourage never made it to the main camp,” the captain answered. “I've searched for her everywhere. They may have taken her captive. I'm not certain.”

  “Send out riders!”

  The captain stepped forward gravely.

  “My Lord, the forces of Corcoran have cut off all routes. They are nearly upon us.”

  The king's eyes were desperate and his fists clenched tightly. But he hung his head and nodded slowly, turning back toward the edge of the plateau as the captain took his leave and joined the infantry at the base of the mount. A bright flash of lightning and loud clap of thunder boomed around them and suddenly, four men dressed in white stood in their midst. He turned round, startled.

  “Aravas, good, you've come,” said the king and came over to greet them.

  But the countenance of Aravas stalled the king's approach.

  “You mean not to help us,” said the king.

  “We do mean to help you,” Aravas responded. “Though not as you intend. We cannot fight this war for you.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  The four men in white stood their ground. Just then, a nearby flash of lightning shot across the wide plains. King Euthor turned to see a moment's glimpse of a vast army approaching.

  “Go in peace then. And pray that Corcoran's blood lust ends with the Houses of men,” he said, turning round to find that the four men in white had already vanished.

  Raindrops began to fall. Another flash of lightning illumined the plains. The armies of Corcoran were drawing near, an army to end their way of life. A strong wind picked up suddenly, whipping across the hillside and the banner-men lost control of their standards. Another flash of lightning. And as the world lit up for that brief moment, the king caught sight of something never before seen in all the world, and never to be seen again – a cone of air, massive and terrible, ripping into the plains. The king's face went white and he gasped in astonishment.

  Durian awoke with a start, rubbing his temples and falling backward into his pillow, the vivid dream still occupying his mind. Mellow rays of sunlight filtered lightly through the open window. He had overslept. He and Pallin were in a monastery at the base of the Ruhkan Mountains on the other side, just inside the lands of Kester, deep in the Espion Forest. They had taken the pass from Ogrindal, but Durian had grown ill and weary from too much travel.

  Having collapsed on the descent, Pallin had only barely gotten him to the monastery in time, whose occupants were more than a little dumbfounded at guests from the lands of Forthura. The monks had shown them pity, and took great pains to rouse Durian back to full health. Pallin took advantage of the lapse of time, and spent the week perusing their surprisingly extensive library, full of histories and writings from the First Age.

  Durian, on the other hand, had resided without exception in a bed chamber, a fever coming and going, at times leaving him delirious. But he had taken food yesterday and was finally regaining his strength. Sitting up in bed, he felt almost back to normal. It was time to stretch his legs.

  Coming away from his bed chamber, he marveled at the grounds of the monastery. The modest inner chambers scarcely matched the beauty of the outer grounds. Pillared walkways and stone arches bordered the walks, with colorful and well-kept flower beds interspersed throughout. He had never seen such a floral array. And there seemed to be little governance here. Each knew his role and did it without grumbling.

  Beyond the grounds of the monastery was an equally beautiful scene. A deep lake lay just beside them at the base of the mountains, a river flowing lazily away. This, he had learned from Pallin, would be their passage to the western shores of Kester and and the great beyond. Pallin still carried the blue stone they had recovered from the tomb of Sheyla. It glowed the more brightly the further west they traveled, and much more now that they'd passed the Ruhkan Mountains and into the kingdom of Kester.

  Durian wandered down the walkway toward the library where Pallin undoubtedly resided. Opening the large wooden door, he found him, document in hand.

  “I was wondering when at last we might find you among the grounds. What do you think of your benefactor's home?”

  “It's magnificent,” Durian replied.

  Pallin smiled, returning to his documents.

  “Have you learned anything important?” Durian questioned.

  “More or less,” Pallin replied. “Most of these parchments are simple histories – a census here and there. But I think I've managed to identify all the documents written by King Euthor himself.”

  “Really?” Durian said, and walked eagerly over.

  Pallin dug a document out of a stack, handing it to Durian.

  “Here. I think you'll enjoy this.”

  Durian took the document in hand:

  The golden speckled sands array

  The distant, pounding shore.

  Our brief, intruding footprints

  Wash away to nevermore.

  The undulating grasses sway

  Amid our roaming feet.

  We undiscovered rovers steal

  Away to our retreat.

  While all the tired ways of man

  Fade slow across the sea,

  Out here beyond, our hearts dissolve

  Their anonymity.

  But all the hungry hours pass

  Beyond the misty veil.

  The unescaping time will come

  When we must put to sail.

  The unescaping fate: We too

  Are subjects to decay.

  Our unescaping memories

  Will never fade away...

  “This too, he penned for Sheyla, though in better days, I think,” Pallin said. “And though it contains no hidden meaning, as far as I can tell, it is a fond remembrance of what we're fighting for.”

  Durian stared at the parchment before him. The poem was beautiful, and it took a moment to realize the strange shape of the poem actually formed the shores of the mystical island described therein. Durian had never seen anything like it before.

  Durian thoughts were once more consumed with King Euthor and Sheyla, how they found every opportunity to steal away from duty and responsibility, discovering hidden spots where they could spend an hour away from prying eyes. It struck him how this poem was almost a fulfillment of the sentiment of the earlier poem he had read, inscribed on the tomb of Sheyla:

  And I, my thoughts are drawn to distant lands,

  Where we could flee beyond the world's demands

  These were the distant lands he dreamed of, where he and his beloved could spend precious moments away from duty and care. But something struck him then that he couldn't describe. Though Pallin had claimed the poem contained no hidden meaning, the wording seemed to betray a deeper significance.

  Durian thought of Sheyla's beautiful and undecayed form encased in crystal. It struck him as strange that King Euthor would use the phrasing:

  We too are subjects to decay

  For Sheyla was still as beautiful in her crypt as the day she died. It could mean nothing. But Durian's heart began to burn as often it did when he considered the mystery of King Euthor and Sheyla. It drove him from the library to consider what he'd read. His wandering led him outside the cultivated grounds and into the wild, along the deep blue lake and its shimmering waters. Approaching its edge, the crystal waters mirrored the face of the mountain range. The lake was bouldered all the way round, with little vegetation along its perimeter. As a result, the waters had maintained an unmatched purity. Durian bent down and took a handful of water to his lips – icy cold but amazingly refreshing.

  Durian turned round and gazed at the mountains. How strange it was that
just on the other side, a war was raging for the fate of the continent. Here, in this place, war seemed like a forgotten term from a faraway time. How were his friends faring, he wondered? Durian and Pallin had been here for more than a week. If Sheabor and the others had survived, they'd have had more than enough time to take the passage across the mountains and arrive at the monastery. The thought brought a sinking feeling to his heart. What if Malfur had conquered Ogrindal? His friends might already be dead.

  But Durian consoled himself in the notion that if Malfur had won the battle at Ogrindal, he surely would have sent warriors over the pass to chase down Pallin. Whatever had happened, Durian chose to hope for the best. But something suddenly broke Durian from his ruminations.

  “Blast this confounded lake!”

  The shout came from around the bend. Durian hopped along the rocks until rounding the corner, where a monk was seated at the edge of the lake. Rod of wood in hand, a tangled ball of some sort of string hung there knotted beyond repair. Durian smiled at the monk's agitation.

  Having little success working out the knots, the monk stood to his feet in pronounced frustration, pulling harder to little avail. But he suddenly caught sight of a form in his periphery, and shot surprised eyes to Durian. His cheeks flushed red, undoubtedly wondering how long Durian had watched him.

  “Well don't just stand there!” the monk snarled.

  Durian assented and went to work with him, making slow headway, Durian smiling at the unexpected nature of the monk.

  “Where are you from?” Durian asked him.

  The man shot an angry look.

  “Stillguard,” he replied. “Why?”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but you don't strike me as a typical monk.”