The Banished Lands- The Complete Series

by Benjamin Mester

  “Blair! You went unconscious. They're still trying to break in. We have to stop them.”

  Another thud and the shell cracked even further, revealing a thin sliver of light. Blair placed his hands against the crack and sealed it.

  “What happened?” Blair asked.

  “I don't know. You fainted. I've been trying to dig through the other side but I thought we were going to suffocate.”

  Another crash and the sharp tip of a weapon broke through into their chamber. Baron gasped.

  “We can't let them in!” Baron yelled.

  But they were breaking the wall faster that Blair could repair it. One more loud crack and a wide opening appeared in their stony shell. Placing their hands instinctively in front of their faces, and squeezing their eyes shut, after a moment, they opened them and peered through their fingertips to see Sheabor and Straiah.

  “Sheabor!” Baron called out.

  “Baron, Blair! Where is Estrien?” Straiah asked.

  Blair placed his hands on opposite sides of the newly formed hole and pulled the rock apart, to the amazement of the crowd. The two brothers emerged. Before Baron and Blair stood a group of warriors – Sheabor, Straiah, Gwaren, Bowen and a giant. Baron's eyes darted about but he saw no sign of Estrien.

  “Men in black armor attacked us,” Baron said. “Estrien battled them. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes ago!”

  “Is she alive?” Straiah asked.

  “I'm sure she is alive,” Sheabor interjected. “They'll want us to chase after them. If they had killed her, she would be here among the others.”

  Baron studied the surroundings again where a handful of warriors lay slain on the ground, relieved of their armor. Someone had taken it. Straiah glanced to Gwaren and motioned for them to depart, hoping to catch the warriors before they left the mountains.

  Sheabor walked up to the warrior imprisoned in the earth and struck the man's armor with the tip of his sword. The armor resounded in a strange manner, almost as though made partially of metal and partially of clay or stone. None of them knew what to make of it. Sheabor's gaze was troubled.

  “How did Corcoran's forces know you were here?” Sheabor asked.

  Baron glanced at Blair and both shook their heads. Just then, Straiah and Gwaren arrived, a look of urgency in Straiah's eyes.

  “We've caught sight of them. They're riding toward the Espion Forest on the other side of the mountains.”

  Sheabor nodded slowly.

  “We'll track them if we can,” Sheabor said. “But we need to get Baron and Blair safely to the site of the alliance city.”

  “What about Estrien?”

  Sheabor clenched his jaw. He knew exactly what Straiah was feeling. He knew that only weeks ago, he himself was planning to abandon the building of their alliance city to go and rescue his wife, Cora, the princess of Cavanah.

  “They're trying to bait us. They could've waited and engaged us but chose to flee with Estrien as their prisoner. If we chase them, they'll surely ambush us, which is exactly what they're hoping for.”

  Straiah's fists were clenched and his countenance downcast.

  “Their tracks lead north,” Sheabor said. “With a little luck, we'll overtake them before our path turns west.”

  “Then let's be off,” Straiah said.

  The group set off, Baron riding with Sheabor and Blair with Gwaren.

  “Those warriors,” Sheabor said to Baron. “Did you see them?”

  “Yes, but only for a minute. Blair helped Estrien fight off the first two. But they kept coming. Their armor seems nearly impenetrable like ours. It's black as night and harder than forged iron.”

  “What about your training?” Sheabor continued. “Was it completed?”

  “More than you can know,” Baron responded. “Somehow, King Euthor met Blair in the city...gave him powers beyond what we thought possible.”

  Sheabor didn't answer, struck by such a statement and what it could possibly all mean. Somehow, beyond what any of them understood, the long dead king kept popping up at just the right times to aid them.

  “We're going to save Estrien, aren't we?” Baron asked.

  Sheabor didn't answer. This elite force from the Banished Lands had threatened to undermine everything they had gained. If they pursued them, they could lose days or weeks chasing them through the lands of Forthura and the Horctura. If they didn't pursue them, they would surely kill Estrien and continue to wreak havoc on the weak towns scattered about.

  They needed a plan. This elite force seemed one step ahead of them every step of the way. They had planted a successful ambush for the giants and they had somehow learned of the location of Baron and Blair. But their force was slowly dwindling. Estrien had killed three of them and another two had fallen in the ambush they'd set for the giants. Even with near impenetrable armor, their chances of striking at major targets was dwindling.

  Sheabor glanced to Blair who rode beside him. He was lost in thought as he recalled the visions and dreams he had seen. This last one filled his mind. Had he made it all up? What about the poem? He could barely remember it now, only the theme of it. Was King Euthor trying to tell him something more? Blair needed to know.

  “Sheabor, you are the Lord of the House, Cavanah,” Blair began. “What can you tell me about the wedding of King Euthor to Sheyla? How did they meet and what was it like?”

  “Oh,” Sheabor replied. “I'm afraid I don't know. Very little history is known from before the Great War.”

  “Who would know?” Blair replied.

  “Pallin probably, or Aravas. Others, maybe. I'm not certain.”

  Blair nodded his head slowly.

  “When Aravas returns from the lands of Aeleos, we'll see to it that all your questions are answered,” Sheabor concluded.

  Blair clenched his jaw. He couldn't wait that long. Perhaps he would have another dream, and find out what it all meant.

  The group traveled for the remainder of that day. The pathways through the Ruhkan Mountains were very narrow and winding, the tracks still fresh and easy to follow. By mid afternoon, the landscape began to change. Tufts of grasses were growing in the patchy soil and the air seemed to grow a bit warmer. By sunset, they had come to the edge of the Ruhkan range. Before them was a sweeping landscape of forest trees far as the eye could see.

  “We are now in the lands of Kester,” Bowen declared.

  “How far does the forest stretch?” Sheabor asked.

  “Many leagues. If we head northwest, we'll arrive at the city site in a couple of days.”

  Sheabor hesitated long. The elite force was so close. But if they chased them, they'd surely fall into a trap. They couldn't risk Baron and Blair falling into their hands.

  “I'm not coming with you,” Straiah announced.

  Sheabor gave him a hard stare.

  “I know what you're feeling,” Sheabor began.

  “Don't!” Straiah interrupted. “If I don't keep after them, then she's as good as dead. I couldn't live with that, not when I knew I could have done something to stop it.”

  “If you set out after them, you're as good as dead.”

  Straiah breathed in deep and exhaled with a sigh.

  “Sometimes a good death is better than a life of regret,” he said. “You don't need me. You have Baron and Blair. You know what you have to do.”

  Sheabor only nodded slowly, knowing he'd have done the same, were he in Straiah's position. In truth, Sheabor almost envied him. In weeks prior, Sheabor had again felt a measure of hope. Things had begun to work out well for them. They had formed a plan, and it had looked like it might just work. Sheabor was growing tired – tired of the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders; tired of dreams of his wife, Cora, being snatched away from him, and him, helpless to stop it.

  “Go in peace,” Sheabor said. “I will always cherish our friendship.”

  Straiah nodded and the two men embraced. And even though time was against them, Straiah took a moment to
say his farewells to each man in the group. Then he set off, skirting the edge of the mountain range and disappearing into the trees. Sheabor sat there upon his horse for many long moments, creeping doubt filling his mind. Had he made the right choices? Should he have even come to these lands? Watching Straiah ride away to fight and die for the one he loved made Sheabor nearly sick to consider Cora still locked away in the fortress of Malfur. But at length he turned to Bowen.

  “Lead the way.”

  “We'll need to find water soon for the horses,” Bowen began. “I know there's a stream south of here. Then we make for the borderlands of the four kingdoms.”

  The Tournament

  The day of the tournament had arrived, the town of Stillguard bursting at the seams. Caravans had poured in the whole of the previous day, so much so that extra area was cleared to accommodate them all. Durian was lying low among the tents of the caravans. Were they still searching for him? And what did they want with him? But he already knew the answer. Whoever those two men were who'd attacked him, they were undoubtedly assigned with beating whatever information out of him they could about the Brotherhood.

  But if Captain Cross had figured out Durian and Pallin were in league with the Brotherhood, their entire plan could unravel. Durian wished he had found Pallin...warned him about Captain Cross. But it was too late now. Durian was frozen in indecision. Should he still compete in the tournament? What if Captain Cross had him arrested upon arrival?

  The tournament was beginning in less than an hour. Durian left his tent and walked with a group of warriors toward the arena. The knights wore thick leather garments with attendants walking beside them carrying polished armor strapped to their backs. Durian ambled with them, acting as one of their attendants.

  They moved through the town of Stillguard at a slow pace, townsfolk from all around filing toward the tournament area, as cheers already emanated from the arena. There must be some kind of opening ceremony. Durian chuckled to himself, thinking about the Sea Games in Suriya compared to the tournament here. This is what a real festival looked like.

  When they drew near, they saw two gates, one for spectators and one for warriors. The spectator's gate was nearly overwhelmed. Durian didn't know how attended the tournament usually was, but this year, it was already spilling over. People had truly come from far and wide to compete for the mace of King Euthor.

  Durian's group moved toward the smaller gate, guarded by two soldiers. The three knights each tossed the soldiers a bag of coins. One of the bags spilled onto the ground, revealing a mix of silver and gold coins. The cost of participation seemed steep, the fee having surely grown due to the special nature of the winner's purse, which would ordinarily just be drawn from a portion of the entry fees. This year, however, the entry fees would undoubtedly end up in the pockets of Captain Cross. Durian and Pallin had made him suddenly rich.

  “You there!” said one of the soldiers, finger pointed at Durian.

  Durian froze. The soldier grabbed Durian by the arm and brought him inside. They traveled a dark corridor. Durian could hear creaking wood and footsteps from above. They must be beneath the wooden stands. Turning a few corners, they came to another gate guarded by a single soldier who opened a door for them. Durian was thrust forward into the same room he had been in before, a staging area for the warriors with weapons and armor all along the walls.

  Durian was pushed forward and led to where Captain Cross stood with a squire busily strapping armor on him. Captain Cross gave him a cold stare. The soldier had his hand gripped around Durian's arm. When Durian came to rest, he pulled his arm free from the soldier's grasp. Durian saw Bretton standing nearby, a few paces over the left shoulder of Captain Cross, readying himself for battle. Durian very nearly waved to him without thinking but stopped himself short.

  “I know what you and your friend have been up to,” Captain Cross declared.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” said Durian. “I haven't been up to anything. I've been visiting my relatives in the caravan area. I'm from one of the noble families of Forthura.”

  “And which family would that be?”

  “Captain, I don't know what this is all about but you really must excuse me. I don't have time for this. Am I allowed to compete in the tournament or not?”

  Durian spoke with as much confidence as he could muster and Bretton gave a slight smile. Durian noticed with a glance, and Captain Cross turned his head and gazed at Bretton for the moment whose countenance had returned to it's normal stony disposition. Captain Cross turned his gaze back to Durian, with narrowed eyes, waving off his squire and took a step toward Durian.

  “You will be allowed to compete,” said the captain. “But if any treachery should befall my city from your friends in the forest, you might as well let yourself die in the arena, for it will be a quicker death than you'll receive from my hands.”

  Durian's heart beat quickly as Captain Cross' gaze bore into him. Captain Cross wasn't bluffing. Why did Durian come here? He could've fled the city. If Pallin and Thorne attempted an attack and failed, Durian couldn't imagine the things Captain Cross would do to him. Durian's mouth was gaping and he hesitated for long moments, very nearly coming clean and telling the captain everything. Bretton was behind the captain, giving Durian a hard stare.

  Why was Pallin so intent on helping Thorne overtake the town of Stillguard? If Durian told Captain Cross everything, surely he'd let Pallin and Durian go peacefully on their way? Why did Pallin insist on being in league with outlaws from the forest? Captain Cross still stared at him, as though seeing his indecision.

  “Out with it boy!” he yelled.

  Bretton took a step toward Durian and Captain Cross either heard it or sensed it, for his head cocked slightly to the side and his eyes glanced over. Durian had to make a decision, trust Pallin or not.

  “I'm sorry,” Durian said. “I don't know what you want from me.”

  “Get out of my sight,” the captain said in disgust.

  Durian hurried off to the corner, his hands shaking, barely able to assemble his armor. Desperate to talk with Bretton, Durian waited for Captain Cross to exit. But Bretton exited first and Durian was left alone. Many of the warriors began to smirk and chuckle at Durian, knowing full well that a warrior can't fully assemble his own armor.

  Durian attached the leg pieces and gauntlets with little difficulty, but was hopeless on the rest.

  “You really have no idea what you're doing, do you?” asked one of the other warrior's attendants.

  Durian shook his head. The young man of Kester walked over to him.

  “Stand up straight and take off those gauntlets. Those go on last.”

  Durian did as he was bade, overjoyed for the help. The attendant tied his breastplate on with leather ties, which fit almost too snugly. But the squire had to work quickly, as the tournament was already beginning.

  “You're the one who brought the weapon, aren't you?” the attendant asked.

  Durian nodded.

  “Where did you get it? They say you robbed the treasury of Eulsiphion and were fleeing to the lands of Kester when Captain Cross caught you. They say you've hidden a whole treasure trove in the forest with the Brotherhood.”

  Durian smiled but didn't answer him. Sometimes a good story was better than the truth.

  “You'll have to finish the rest yourself,” the squire concluded, hurrying off to join his knight.

  “Thank you!” Durian called out.

  He muddled forward on his own, barely able to bend down and tighten his boots. Having never been inside a suit of armor before, he found it very constraining, and wondered how anyone could fight in something like this. The last thing required was to select a weapon. He was the only person in the room now, and weapons of all kinds lined the walls. Durian chose a mid-sized sword and slid it into his sheath.

  Then he departed. The tournament was in full swing when Durian arrived out of doors. Targets at various distances, already littered with arrows, stood
fifty paces from a squad of five archers, each dressed in the same robe with a cowl, hiding their identities from the crowd. Durian caught glimpses as he moved through the masses. Only a handful of arrows had hit the bullseye, and each time another met its mark, the crowd roared its approval.

  Archery was good but jousting was what Durian had really hoped to see, having always heard tales of it but never witnessing it in the flesh. The upper seating area was already swollen to overflowing, and the ground level was ill-suited for one of his height.

  The first contest ended and points totaled, and a man dressed as a court jester emerged onto the field, carrying three apples in his hands. The crowd began to murmur as though this were a favorite event, and Durian pushed through them for a better view. The five archers stood twenty paces from him, each with an arrow notched, waiting.

  The jester began to taunt them, holding the apple out in front of him to the five archers, even pretending to throw it in the air. The crowd laughed but the contestants remained stoic. At length, the jester finished his taunts by taking a large bite of the apple and reared backward, throwing the apple with all his might above him. The archers took aim and quickly fired, all five missing the mark, their arrows sailing over the heads of the spectators.

  But quickly reloading, they took aim at the apple now plummeting to the ground. Those in the upper seating area pushed away from the direction the archers pointed their bows, nearly spilling out of the stands. This was madness, Durian thought. But the archers held their arrows tight within their bows and let the apple sail down below the spectators. And just before the apple struck the sands, two of the archers loosed their arrows, one glancing the apple but the other missing. The crowd roared in delight and the jester ran to the archer, raising his hand in exaggerated congratulation.

  Dropping the apple down in front of the archer, the jester returned to the center of the pit, the five archers making ready once more. Throwing the apple once more, this time, one of the initial arrows struck the apple clean through, sending it to the other end of the arena and splitting into pieces upon contact with the sand.