“You Windbearers stole twelve hundred years from my rule.”
Pallin felt a hot stony hand grasp his ankle and pull him upward, upside down. With his other hand he grabbed Pallin by the chest and started pulling.
“I should pull you apart just like you tore the world in two.”
Pallin felt a searing pain, yelling out until Corcoran suddenly relented, holding him up by the throat once more.
“No. You will live another twelve hundred years in chains, watching as I make use of your powers to establish a rule that will never end.”
But just then, there was a loud crack and Pallin was falling, the rocky hand around his throat falling with him. Seriah swept past him, mace in hand. Pallin landed on his feet but fell, the stony arm crumbling free from his body.
Corcoran roared as Seriah struck his leg with the mace.
“Get the orb!” he yelled, ducking a blow from Corcoran.
Though his whole body burned and ached, Pallin pushed himself up and ran as fast as he could manage toward the mountain. Stumbling over branches and roots in the dark, he heard the sound of battle for many moments, until suddenly it stopped.
Pallin arrived at the base of the mountain but he didn't know whether to go north or south along it. Thinking a quick second, he tried to remember the direction he had fled and turned south. In less than a minute, he discovered the hole through to the crypt.
Just then, Seriah came up beside him.
“Where is he?” Pallin asked.
“I don't know. He disappeared back into the earth. Get moving!”
Pallin wasted no time but pulled himself through the opening and into the tomb. Stumbling forward until his eyes adjusted, he saw the rectangular coffin of King Euthor just in front of him. The cavern was small, and even the meager light from the moon through the hole was enough to illuminate it. Then Pallin saw it on a ledge on the left hand side – a dark sphere.
“Pallin!” Seriah called out. “Hurry!”
Pallin made for the orb and dashed back to the opening. But he could see an orangy glow and heard once more the sounds of battle. Pallin emerged just as Seriah once more engaged Corcoran in battle. But this time, Corcoran's form looked different. Instead of the small, smooth stones of the forest, he had taken on the form of the large and jagged stone of the mountain.
“Get out of here!” Seriah commanded.
“We go together!”
“No!”
Seriah ducked a blow from Corcoran, which struck the mountainside with a crash. Seriah attacked back ineffectually with the mace. He splintered the rock in Corcoran's armor, but couldn't shatter it like before.
Pallin ran north along the mountain base, clutching the orb in his hands. He had found it at last but for what? He would never escape Corcoran. The sound of battle continued until Pallin heard Seriah suddenly let out a mortal cry. Spinning round, he saw Seriah on his knees, impaled from behind by a sharp rock.
“No!” Pallin yelled.
But it was too late. Corcoran pulled the jagged stone, now red, from Seriah and he fell to the ground, lifeless. Pallin froze.
“Come to me, Windbearer, and I promise your demise will be swift.”
Pallin's eyes darted round frantically for anything to aid him. But nothing could be seen in the darkness of the forest. He turned and ran, leaving the cover of the mountain and out through the trees. His body still burned from injury and exhaustion and he knew he would make very little headway before Corcoran found him.
How could this have happened? How had King Euthor ever expected him to evade Corcoran and make it safely back to the Eastern Realm? What had he missed? His thoughts were racing. Something, somewhere had gone desperately wrong. Durian had been captured and most certainly killed and Pallin would never escape this place.
Pallin heard what sounded like faint laughter through the trees. Corcoran was mocking him, stalking him like a cat with its prey. But he couldn't just give up. There had to be a way out. So he pressed on.
The moon began to rise overhead, bringing a soft light into the forest, illuminating things just enough to navigate more easily. Off in the distance, Pallin thought he saw a break in the trees. His first thought was that it was better for him to stay hidden beneath the cover of the trees.
But Corcoran was a spirit, traveling effortlessly through the forest. And Pallin was only hampered by the derelict branches and roots. Being once more in the open plain, he could at least run without interference. And so he made for it.
But coming closer, he saw to his dismay that the break in the treeline was a cliff overlooking a river far below. The river was much too far to risk a jump. Pallin began to move off, but a stony hand reached up from the ground and tripped him.
Pallin scrambled backward, losing the orb and dashing forward to retrieve it. But it was too late to escape and Pallin backed toward the river, glancing again over the cliff. He would have to jump. But it couldn't be. It was twice as far as he could survive. There had to be another way. But what?
Standing here at the edge of the cliff, every option gone and nowhere else to turn, Pallin's mind raced. There were only two options now. If he jumped and survived the fall, he might yet still somehow evade Corcoran. But even if he survived, he would surely be badly wounded and would never make it back to the Eastern Realm.
But if he perished, it could only mean that he was never meant to leave this place alive. But how could that be? If he died, Corcoran would gain the orb. Pallin glanced down to the dark sphere still clutched in his hands, nearly identical to the orb they had broken in Eulsiphion.
For centuries the people there had debated what was truly inside the orb. None could break it until Sheabor came with the Hammer of Haladrin to put the mystery to rest. There could be anything inside the orb he now carried. Or even nothing. Staring down at it for long moments, it was different from the orb he had seen briefly twelve hundred years ago.
Suddenly, a wave of revelation swept over him and he understood the ultimate plan. And with it, a rush of peace and a firm resolve for what he had to do. Pallin turned and stared over the far expanse, lit dimly by the moon. How he would have loved to explore this continent; discover all its beautiful secrets. But Pallin had only one thing left to do.
“Give me the orb, Windbearer, and I will let you live.”
Pallin turned round and faced the bane of the free world with a fire in his eyes.
“You may take this orb from me but you will never unlock its powers. Sheabor will defeat you. Of that I am certain. And my powers will pass to Aravas and Faigean.”
“Fool!”
But Pallin felt a rush of pride and courage. He was glad for the sacrifice King Euthor was calling him to make; glad for the monumental contribution it would be to the alliance's cause. Corcoran roared and came toward him.
“Give me the orb, old man!”
But Pallin stretched his arms out wide and fell backward, plunging from the heights down to the river below. He felt the cold, crisp surge of water over his body and then all swiftly passed to darkness.
In the dim of the moonlight, the waters gleamed gently as they wound around the base of a tall cliff. Up from the water emerged a rocky form. In its hands was a dark sphere of Shade Stone. And on the stony bank of the river, a lone figure had washed up to shore. Corcoran approached the lifeless body.
“Fool.”
Then he ascended back up to the tomb. Smashing open the entrance, he held the dark sphere up over the sepulcher. The cavern dimly lit, Corcoran exerted his power to fuel the molten lava of his form, causing the red to glow with great brightness, casting an ominous hue over the resting body of King Euthor.
Corcoran was surprised by the age of the man beneath the clear crystal, not the same Euthor he remembered. This man had the look of Cithran, Euthor's father. And then it dawned on him how much time Euthor had spent after the war setting things into motion to try and thwart his return. The molten form lifted its head back to the ceiling and roared with laughter.
“All your scheming and all your planning has come to ruin. Your arrogance will cost this world its freedom. Nothing more will stand in my way. Our beloved Sheyla will live again, but you will nevermore feel the cool breeze on your face.”
Fracturing
Sheabor sped through the lands of the Horctura atop Agur. He had passed from the lands of Kester and would soon arrive at the tomb of Sheyla. The last time he had been to this region, he had been ambushed by the elite forces of Corcoran and had nearly been destroyed.
Agur seemed to sense Sheabor's anxiety, for his eyes darted about as they traveled, searching every hidden place for signs of danger. But Sheabor's worry wasn't only for Baron and Ariadra. He couldn't afford to pick up and leave the alliance city at a moment's notice. The forcefulness of Durian alone had compelled him.
But he should've sent another in his stead, perhaps even Durian himself. Sheabor still hadn't heard anything from Kester. The diplomatic envoy they sent hadn't yet returned. How was Sheabor supposed to plan for battle not knowing what forces would be committed to the war? Sheabor wanted to have something concrete to tell King Froamb.
He didn't have time to go on a treasure hunt through the catacombs of Eulsiphion looking for who knows what. If not for the danger to Baron and Ariadra, Sheabor wouldn't be here. But he had given the order to send Baron and Ariadra to Sheyla's tomb. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself.
It was at least a five day ride from the alliance city to the tomb of Sheyla. Sheabor was pushing to make it in four. But he had to follow the route marked out for him by the captain of the convoys. Water was scarce in the lands of the Horctura, making it too risky to cut through the open deserts.
But by afternoon of the fourth day, the landscape began to grow familiar. He was close and might make it by nightfall. Riding hard until cresting a small hill, he saw something that made his heart sink. The large rock in the Shady Marshes had been blown out from within, pieces of it scattered about with a gaping hole facing him.
He knew what it meant. But as he sped down the hill, he saw something he didn't expect. A lone figure seemed to be seated atop the stone. Sheabor's heart beat quickly. The figure paid him no mind as he approached but seemed lost in thought, watching as sunset colors slowly began to fill the skies.
Sheabor dismounted near the base of the stone, trudging through the waters until finding the staircase up. Coming to the top, he saw Baron seated on the far end, his clothing stained with blood. But no sight of Ariadra.
Just then, Baron seemed to notice his presence, startled at the sight. He immediately jumped to his feet and came toward Sheabor, the look in his eyes murderous. Sheabor opened his mouth but Baron lunged for him, delivering a glancing blow to Sheabor's cheek, which nearly sent both of them over the edge of the stone.
But Baron doubled over in pain, clutching his side. Sheabor put his hand on Baron's shoulder.
“Stay away from me!” Baron demanded, scrambling backward.
“Baron, I'm so sorry. We didn't know.”
“You destroy everything you touch!”
“Please, Baron, you're injured. Let me help you.”
“Just go away!”
Then Baron turned and rejoined his seat to watch the sunset. Tears began to fill Sheabor's eyes. He couldn't just leave Baron like this. Coming over to join him, he seated himself and watched in silence. Sheabor didn't know what to do. He just needed Baron to know that he wasn't alone.
Nearly an hour passed with nothing spoken between the pair. But as the evening stars began popping into the sky, Baron arose unexpectedly and Sheabor jumped to his feet.
“Please come have something to eat,” Sheabor implored. “And let me check your bandages.”
“Just leave the supplies and go.”
“Baron, please come with us. I know how you're feeling. I can help you. Please don't be alone right now.”
Baron's jaw clenched and his fists were shaking.
“If you knew how I was feeling, you'd know there is no help for me.”
Sheabor was struck by his declaration and nodded slowly, his eyes misting with tears. For not many days had passed since he himself had spent days sitting alone on the floor of his tent in bitter grief. He longed for the right words to comfort Baron. What could he say? He opened his mouth to once more plead but knew what little good it would do.
“I'm going to Ogrindal,” Baron said. “I'm going to tell Tohrnan that his daughter is dead.”
“The Forest Guard will kill you.”
“It would be a mercy.”
“Baron, please don't do this. We need you.”
Baron shot a look of rage.
“I don't care what you need! I'm dead to you and your alliance!”
Sheabor stood there, mouth gaping.
“I can't let you go, Baron. Blair needs you to help us trap Corcoran. The whole world is depending on you.”
“Find another way. I've given all I have to give to this alliance.”
Baron turned to leave.
“Wait!” Sheabor demanded, hand on Baron's shoulder.
But Baron dropped down, touching his palm to the stone about Sheabor's feet and softening it until he sank a short ways, then solidifying the stone up to his knees. Then Baron descended down the stairway, mounting Sheabor's horse, who grunted his disapproval.
“Baron, don't do this!”
But Baron didn't reply. Pointing Sheabor's horse toward the northwest, he made for Thay Iphilus Forest. Then Sheabor was alone again. Sitting down, he sighed deeply, not only for Baron but for the alliance. What were they going to do now? Blair had already tried once to trap Corcoran without success.
At length, Sheabor took the hammer strapped to his back and struck the rock about his feet, freeing himself. Without Agur, Sheabor would never be able to set out after Baron. And it could be days until the others arrived.
Sheabor needed to find a place to sleep for the night. It would be a long, cold night but he would manage. So, finding a huddled spot in the hillside, he lay down and closed his weary eyes. But sleep was slow to find him.
Baron's declaration rang through his mind: you destroy everything you touch. He recalled what had happened to Ogrindal, the sickness and early winter that claimed so many lives. And he'd almost lost his own wife, Cora. He would have but for the faithful and tireless efforts of the men and women of the resistance. Sheabor felt the weight of the whole world bearing down on his shoulders. He had let many people down, but so many more were still depending on him.
At length, night passed to morning and he arose, stiff and sore. He didn't want to spend another night like that in the open plains and would find some food and wood for a fire. But first, he wandered the area near the rock, wanting to pay his respects to Ariadra. But he couldn't find where Baron had buried her. Surely he hadn't left her lying on the cold cavern floor.
Sheabor approached, trudging through the chilly waters and pulling himself inside the cavern. The floor was stained with blood, and two arrows lay idle on the ground, one with a blunted tip and the other stained red. But no sign of Ariadra.
The cavern was illuminated in the first morning rays, and a weak beam shone down from above over the sepulcher of Sheyla. Sheabor approached it, gazing down into the clear crystal. What he saw surprised him greatly – Ariadra resting peacefully beside Sheyla. Baron had placed her there for all time, just as Euthor had done with his own wife.
But gazing at them, side by side, struck him as though something significant was there to understand but deeper than he now perceived. It was tragically poetic, that two women should die in the same way, laid to rest side by side by the last great Builders of each age. They even looked similar, with flowing dark hair and fair skin.
“I'm so sorry,” he said to Ariadra, tears once more filling his eyes.
“I would gladly have taken your place if I could.”
Sheabor was stricken with grief, seeing the arrows about his feet, knowing they were meant for him. H
e lingered there for longer than he could tell but was urged onward by things yet to be done.
Climbing up, he took the crossbow, snatching the arrow with the blunted tip from the floor, sharpening it, then setting off into the plains to hunt game and gather what fuel he could to cook it.
It was a long day, but he felled two rabbits and found enough wood for a proper fire. As night fell upon the plains, he was able to bury the remaining coals after his meal and lay down atop the warm earth. Then, exhausted, he fell fast asleep, hoping Durian and the others would arrive tomorrow.
Waking up with the dawn, Sheabor did the same as he had done the day before, hunting small game and gathering fuel for a fire. Once midday had come and gone, he climbed the nearest hill to see if any convoy was approaching. Scanning the north, he saw a very distant plume of dust rising into the sky. A band on horseback soon came into view and he lingered on the hilltop until they finally arrived.
Coming up, Cora and Durian dismounted, seeing the grave look on his face and the blown out rock.
“Baron?” was all Durian asked.
“He left a few days ago,” Sheabor replied. “But Ariadra didn't make it.”
Durian turned away in despair.
“This was all my fault.”
“You can't blame yourself, Durian.”
“If I wouldn't have been so caught up trying to figure out King Euthor's plan, I'd have told you everything I knew. I just never thought anyone would come back here before we did.”
Cora placed her arm on Durian's shoulder.
“It's a tragedy, Durian,” she said. “But it wasn't your fault. Corcoran is to blame, not you.”
“What about Baron?” he asked Sheabor, disregarding Cora's attempt at comfort. “What did you tell him?”
“I couldn't get through to him. He rode off alone.”
Durian nodded slowly, his eyes welling with tears.
“How am I going to tell him I could've prevented his wife from dying?”
Sheabor felt compassion for Durian. Baron was his best friend. But it wasn't Durian's fault. It was a terrible culmination of factors. Even so, the grief would eat him up if he let it.
The Banished Lands- The Complete Series Page 95
