Into Forbidden Lands

The Shakim made it down without mishap. They did not ride their horses. Instead, some of them descended first and then called the horses from below. The Surmur steeds made their way down as a pack, twenty horses skidding simultaneously down the side of the ravine, generating a great dust cloud that soon completely hid them from view.

Argolan and the Riders watched, astounded.

“Maybe we should have taken Provan’s offer and ridden the steeds instead of our own horses,” Tarmel speculated.

“Too late for that,” the Shieldarm said.

Once all their horses were down, the Shakim offered to do the same with the party’s Surmur steeds. Having witnessed their success, there was no objection.

The Iolans lined up next.

Keilon and Dreel went down together, some distance apart. Where the conjurer’s descent was measured and careful, the dwarf’s progress would have been comical under different circumstances. He ran, skidded, slid and bounced his way down the slope. As he approached the bottom, he gave up trying to control his descent and ran the last stretch, ending in an untidy tumble. Apart from the mortification apparent on his face, he was unscathed.

Kassargan, assisted by a pair of Shakim warriors, was carefully guided down to the water below.

Illiom had noticed that the Shakim treated the descrier with deference. She asked Z’essh about it.

“We Shakim see blindness as a gift,” he answered. “In our tribe, the blind are often blessed with uncommon powers. We value their gifts and accord them due respect.”

Finally, it was Illiom’s turn. She approached the descent with some misgiving, but once underway she quickly found her rhythm. In no time, she joined her companions below.

“We will camp right here,” Argolan stated. “Pell! Tarmel! I saw some small trees a way upstream. Get some wood for a splint and a stretcher.”

The others went about the business of setting up camp.

The Shakim did the same, but they also sent two of their own to inspect the path up the other side of the ravine. They soon returned with armfuls of kindling to build a fire, while others left to collect more firewood.

By the time the Riders returned with the wood for the splint, Angar had regained consciousness. Azulya cradled the Rider’s head in her lap while the pair set about the grim task of straightening his broken leg. Angar struggled for control, jaw clenched, as perspiration beaded his brow. In the end, he could no longer contain the scream of agony that ripped from his throat, until it ended abruptly.

“He has passed out again,” Tarmel informed them. “Better for him.”

Once the splint was in place, Undina took Azulya’s place until her Rider regained consciousness. A Shakim warrior held out a skin which Angar accepted, grimacing at the taste of whatever it was. Nevertheless, he kept on drinking.

Illiom guessed it was not water.

When Illiom arose the next morning, it was to Angar’s muffled grunts as he was carefully lifted onto the improvised stretcher that had been assembled during the night.

Their drinking skins full once more, the party was soon on the move. They tethered the horses loosely to one another and made their way up to where the narrow path began. It was steep at first, but then levelled out and they proceeded in single file, walking the horses behind them.

Tarmel and Pell bore the injured Rider between them.

It was a slow climb, but eventually they drew near to the western edge of the ravine.

Argolan, at the head of the party, suddenly called a halt.

Dozens of people lined the ravine’s edge, blocking their way.

“Go away!” a woman standing at the fore of the group shouted. “Go back! Back where you came from!”

Her voice was strong and carried an unusual authority for someone dressed in little better than rags.

Argolan turned to look questioningly at Azulya.

Illiom thought they appeared a desperate lot. Their weapons included a couple of bows and swords, but for the most part were knives, axes, and a couple of hammers. The rest were equipped with nothing but pointed wooden staves.

Sereth took the initiative.

“We cannot go back, but we harbour no harm towards you or your people. One of ours is injured and we need your help. And we must continue on our journey west.”

The silence weighed heavy between the two groups.

“We cannot help you. We have nothing to offer you. You must go back or else,” the woman repeated.

“No, you do not understand. There is no going back for us. We cannot go back, only forward, but I give you my word, we will not harm you!”

The woman laughed.

“Your word means nothing to me.”

Malco spat and drew his sword.

“Well, in that case you will have to kill us all, here and now, because we are not going back.” He glared at the woman. “How do you imagine that will go for you?”

“Malco!” Azulya shouted at the Blade. “Let me talk to her.”

“Well, she does not seem interested in listening, does she?”

Azulya turned to the woman.

“A terrible power is awakening in the west,” the Kroeni said. If it remains unchallenged it will consume the whole world. Your people here, they will not be safe. We are on a mission to stop it.”

Now the woman began laughing, so hard that she had to lean on the man next to her for support.

“How will you face the horrors in the west?” she asked when her laughter had subsided. “When you are not even able to pass the first obstacle that you meet?”

Azulya’s expression hardened.

“You are not our first obstacle and we are more capable than you can imagine.”

Her voice resonated with power.

“You are mistaken to underestimate us! Keilon, show her!”

Illiom, feeling the electrifying impact of her friend’s gift, recalled its effect during the Skeet attack. They had not spoken of it since, but she knew that the Kroeni was now using her gift on these people.

Keilon Var requested the assistance of Mist and Zoran, and the three made their way towards the strangers. Illiom thought it truly odd that there was no reaction to what was developing. Rather, the strangers barring their way seemed to be frozen in place and, to Illiom’s incredulity, the trio walked from one to the next, prising weapons from their hands and dropping them in an untidy pile some distance away. This done, Keilon instructed the two Riders to draw their weapons and to position themselves on either side of the woman who seemed to be their leader.

He then returned to his place in the column and glanced at Azulya.

“Ready?” he asked.

The Kroeni nodded and Keilon closed his eyes.

A moment later there were several shocked cries from the other party. None were louder than those of the woman who had addressed them. She stumbled backwards and fell hard, to sit on the ground.

“As I was saying,” Azulya resumed, “we are not defenceless. So, you must believe me now when I say to you that we mean you no harm. What we do need is your help. One of our own is injured and we need for him to rest in some comfort. Will you help us?”

The poor woman looked up at the two armed warriors before turning to Azulya with eyes so filled with fright that Illiom felt pity for her. These people looked so destitute and pathetic, it was evident that they posed no danger at all.

“We … I am sorry!” she muttered, scuttling backwards. “We had no way of knowing … no way of being sure … if we can, of course we will help you, but we have very little to offer.”

“We do not want anything that is yours, save shelter for our friend. Where do you live? Is it far?”

“No, not far at all. Come, follow me,” she muttered and, pulling herself back to her feet, she limped away.

“You understand each other!” Argolan said, as they trailed after the woman and her bedraggled companions. “Just as it happened with the Shakim. Yet I did not understand a single word she said.”

“Really?” Azulya’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Because again, to me, she sounded like she was speaking Common.”

The Shieldarm smiled and shook her head.

“From wonder to wonder…”

They walked along the ravine’s edge in a northerly direction for about half a league.

They then descended into an eroded depression where their village lay. To call it a village was rather grandiose, Illiom thought, for it comprised ramshackle structures that were no better than her own shelter back in the Sevrocks. The main difference was that their dwellings were made of mud, and sticks instead of stones, but like hers, most of them relied on the depression’s walls for support. The Shimina and the Virupa tribals had lived in luxury compared to this.

It seemed like everyone in the village had assembled to witness the party’s arrival. Goats and black sheep bleated. Chickens squawked and scrambled out of the way. Somewhere, in one of the hovels, a baby cried. A dozen children of various ages gathered to watch their approach, eyes wide with wonder. They were all thin and hungry-looking and their faces were smeared with dirt.

Tarmel and Pell gently placed Angar down in the shade of a rocky spur.

An old man emerged from one of the hovels.

“Faer! What have you done, you fool woman? Bringing these strangers into our village! Do worms addle your brain?”

“Stop your ranting, Temer!” she snapped. “Do you think for a moment that I would bring them by choice? They have shown frightful powers and yet still insist that they mean us no harm. What did you expect me to do? Bite them?”

Illiom sensed that a long-standing feud existed between the pair.

“Anything but bring them here!” the man growled. “We cannot even feed ourselves and we have nothing to offer them. You well know that our stores are as good as empty.”

“You had better mind your fool’s tongue, Temer. These people speak our language.”

The old man looked momentarily surprised, then snorted dismissively.

“So where are they from?”

“Ask them yourself,” Faer snarled. “You have a tongue, if no sense. Use it.”

Temer surveyed them belligerently.

“We are from Theregon,” Sereth said in a placating tone. “Most of us are from Albradan, one is from Kroen, three others from Iol, and the rest are Shakim.”

The old man scowled at Sereth as if he had just uttered complete gibberish.

“What? You are what?” he asked.

“All you need to know is that they come from the far side of Ehalan Drin,” Faer said, and then as if it explained everything, she added, “From the east!”

Temer’s snort was derisive.

“Complete nonsense! There is nothing in the east.”

“Funny, that is exactly what we used to say about the west,” Scald commented.

Faer turned back to the Chosen.

“Your man is injured, yes? Let us tend to him first, then we can continue this fool conversation with Temer.”

The old man raised his staff as if he meant to hit Faer with it, but the old woman defiantly stared him down.

“Bah!”

Glowering, Temer lowered his staff and shuffled away.

A woman who looked at least a decade older than Faer approached Angar and inspected his leg.

The Rider had regained consciousness, though the blood had drained from his face, leaving him looking as pale as a winter sky.

“I could not have done better myself,” the woman said, looking into the Rider’s eyes. “You will heal, but you will not be able to walk for at least two, maybe even three moons, and after that you will limp.”

Angar stared blankly at the woman.

“What did she say?”

Azulya told him.

“Two moons! But that is impossible.”

Azulya gave a small shrug.

“She is right, Angar.”

“But two moons?” There was panic in his voice.

“We cannot stop for that long!”

Argolan shook her head.

“No, we cannot. And that is before you can even walk; it will be longer before you can ride a horse, let alone fight.”

Angar glared at the ground and slammed his fist into the dirt. His eyes were pools of misery. “So my journey ends here?”

Argolan nodded.

“We cannot wait for you to mend. But you already knew that.”

The Rider nodded.

“What about Zest, my horse, is he…?”

Argolan shook her head.

“I am sorry, Angar.”

Tears welled up in the Rider’s eyes as he gripped Argolan’s arm.

“Who will take care of Undina?” he asked.

“We all will, Angar,” Grifor said, kneeling beside him.

“We all will,” the Shieldarm confirmed.

Undina, weeping her own tears, knelt down beside her Rider and laid her cheek against his chest.

“Sorry you hurt, Angar. So sorry Zest die. You good Rider. You best Rider.”

He caressed her hair.

“And you are the best Chosen. I am sorry I cannot be there for you any more.”

Illiom walked away from the two to give them a moment, but primarily to deal with her own feelings.

If that had been Tarmel…

She could not allow herself to follow that thought.

They had gathered around a small fire in the centre of the settlement to share some food: a lean meal comprising a sliver of dry meat, a few tubers and a tiny bun of hard bread.

The eroded depression in which the settlement nestled was in shadow as Iod had already vanished from view, and even though the skies were clear, the air was cooling rapidly.

There were more than thirty villagers around the fire. Only two of them were in their prime and both were female. One was a young mother with her newborn, and the other girl’s swollen belly showed that she was nearing her birthing time.

“I see only old people and children,” Azulya commented. “What has become of the young ones?”

“They have gone north to hunt,” Faer replied. “We are praying to the Gods that they succeed or else we will starve.”

“Have you had a bad year?” Illiom asked.

This elicited a snort from Temer.

“Every year is a bad year in Stonecress!”

Illiom repeated what was being said for Tarmel’s benefit. It was such an odd thing, to be repeating exactly what she heard, but if she did not, then Tarmel would be unable to follow the conversation.

This did not escape Temer.

“Is he addled? Or do you have him under some spell? Why does he not understand me, but then understands when you repeat my exact words?”

Illiom shrugged.

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

Temer’s glance moved from Illiom to Tarmel and back again.

Illiom found that she had little tolerance for the old man.

She deliberately looked away.

“This old one is testing my patience,” she whispered to Tarmel.

Tarmel responded with a commiserating smile.

“Someone once told me that the ones who irk us most are the ones we have most to learn from.”

Illiom hit his arm.

“If it is so bad,” Sereth asked, “why do you live here? Surely there are better lands elsewhere?”

Temer’s laughter was ripe with old bitterness.

“Shows what you know. Do you think we live here by choice? Would anyone with half a mind choose to live in a place like this? On the edge of nothing, where little grows and even goats struggle to find enough to eat?”

Sereth shrugged, looking slightly put out by the old man’s antagonism.

“You tell me, old man. I know nothing of your situation, and that is why I ask.”

Temer jabbed towards the west.

“There are richer lands over there, great fertile valleys with no lack of water or game. The Great Plains of Abanas, where the Thel Drus, the longest and broadest of all rivers, flows. Everything one wishes can be found there. The river is so full of fish that it alone could sustain the entire world. But we choose to live here, in the dustbowl of Stonecress. Why is that? Are we all mad? You can ask that, you have the right to. Yes, we are mad, but better that than dead. Better poor and hungry than slaves - yes? Is that a wise man’s choice? Many choose slavery over hunger. Our ancestors did not.”

“Temer, you are ranting again!” Faer intervened. “You are not explaining anything, just confusing our poor guests with all your nonsense!”

The two were at each other so often that Illiom was beginning to anticipate their clashes before they occurred. They settled down eventually and Faer took up the tale.

“You must understand that none of us have seen this, for the story is old, passed down by our elders, and to them by their elders in turn. These tales speak of Mereas, a great realm that once flourished in the Great Plains that Temer spoke of. Mereas was a free realm that boasted many magnificent cities, and its wealth was beyond compare. Then the Illian Gar descended out of the western mountains and attacked. Mereas repelled them, time and again, and was easily able to defend her borders. But no sooner was one wave defeated than another came. Even when the onslaught did not stop, the armies of Mereas were able to stop the attackers. But no one foresaw that the attacks would persist for as long as they did.”

Faer took a sip of water and Temer seized the opportunity to interject.

“What are you drivelling about, Faer! Tell it like it is!” he snapped irascibly. “Saying that the attacks persisted is not even scratching the surface. The attacks continued, year after year, decade after decade, century after century. And more, it was not just men who descended from the mountains, but demons! Monsters! It began to turn bad when a dark cloud spread across the west, shrouding the mountains. From it emerged creatures the likes of which no one had seen before. Two-headed demons that flew on giant wings, bears and wolves with human faces, an army of corpses covered in seaweed and stinking of rotten flesh. These abominations unmanned our soldiers and eroded Mereas’ wealth in a never-ending, unwinnable war.”

“That is when the rulers of Mereas made their big mistake,” Faer picked up the story. “They attempted to negotiate with the Illian Gar. Promises were made, hostages exchanged, but every treaty eventually crumbled to dust, for the Illian Gar made promises and assurances they never intended to keep. They did not care what fate befell their own hostages and the Meresian hostages were never seen again. In this way the Illian Gar sapped gold from the realm’s coffers and hope from the hearts of the people.”

“Eventually Mereas, in an attempt to hold back the onslaught, ceded to the Illian Gar large tracts of the plains closest to the mountains,” Faer continued. “But this did not appease the invaders for long and they were soon clamouring at the very gates of the cities. And again the rulers of Mereas sought compromise.”

“Bah!” Temer spat. “It was no compromise! It was madness driven by mindless fear!”

“Aye,” Faer agreed. “That it was, for the Illian Gar’s demands did not cease. One by one, the great cities of Abanas - including magnificent Quendor - fell to the advancing hordes. The fleeing populations retreated into the eastern mountains, thinking that there they would be safe at last. But it was not so, for the Illian Gar demanded yearly tributes of gold. The Meresians had no choice but to submit, and exiled as they now were from the Great Plains, their main source of wealth, it was not long before they were unable to meet the invaders’ demands.”

“And so the Illian Gar’s true face showed itself at last!” Temer snarled. “When there was no gold left, they demanded tribute in the form of slaves. A thousand younglings, five hundred boys and an equal number of girls, were to be gathered up each year and surrendered to the vicious invaders, never to be seen again.”

Temer stopped and scowled at his audience.

“And this was how the toad-rulers of Mereas, fearing for themselves, became at last the foul instruments of the Illian Gar, instruments of their own oppression, and heartless tools in a rule of terror. The armies that had once fought to protect the realm from the Illian Gar now turned against their own people! They became thieves, liars and murderers. Each year the Meresian soldiers enforced the tribute to the Illian Gar, forcibly rounding up and collecting the children and killing anyone who fought back!”

Illiom felt as though her heart might break. The plight of Mereas was etched in the features of Faer and Temer. What monsters could possibly require such horrific tribute?

“Where did the Illian Gar come from?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

“There was once another kingdom far to the west of Mereas,” Faer answered. “Beyond the great range of the Razorback Mountains and the impassable Werewood. Our ancestors warned that something dark and fell had happened there, something that spawned the Illian Gar…” And here Faer’s tale faltered. “…but we know only half-forgotten tales about this kingdom, so we have very little to tell other than myths.”

“What happened after that?” Azulya asked. “How could the people endure such conditions?”

“Oh, the people rebelled, to be sure,” Faer continued. “But having been betrayed by their own rulers, who could they turn to for help? Many fled. East, for that was away from the Illian Gar. Few did so at first because the journey was fraught with danger and they had to abandon everything. Our ancestors were among them. We are the descendants of a group that fled here, to the end of the world, to become the Edge Dwellers in this hole we call Stonecress.”

Temer laughed.

“Have we not come far? Look at our great empire!” He waved a hand about.

Faer ignored him.

“The stories say that the trickle of refugees continued for many years, but each year fewer arrived until, eventually, they stopped coming altogether.”

Temer leaned forward to drive his next words home.

“The last ones to arrive spoke of great walls being built by the Meresian rulers, around all the cities, even the ones in the mountains.” He shook his head and his lip curled in a sneer. “Not walls to protect, but walls to keep the people in and to stop them from attempting to save their children from the Illian Gar demons!”

The tale of horror was interrupted by a cry from a man sitting on the edge of the depression.

“The sun has set. Time to put out the fire!”

Faer sighed and nodded.

She and half a dozen other villagers stood and, working in unison, smothered the flames with sand. They did not stop until the last of the fire was spent and the embers were hidden beneath the sand. All that remained was a pale pillar of smoke rising into the night sky.

“Why this do?” asked Undina.

“It is the Dark Night,” Faer replied. “Watch the stars and you will have your answer.”

Of course, Illiom realised, it was the dark of the moon. She had been watching Sudra’s pallid crescent set each night ahead of her beloved Iod and now both were gone to their beds and only the stars illumined the heavens overhead. Irrsche’s malefic eye glowered over the landscape, tinging everything with crimson.

Illiom remembered that night when they were fleeing from Varadon’s Keep towards Altra, the night when Who had alerted her to the danger of being seen by the creatures flying towards the besieged Keep.

When the first dark shapes passed overhead, no one spoke.

Illiom’s heart went out to the unfortunate people of Albradan. What of the rest of Theregon? What was Ollord’s horde doing? What of all the people who had not sought refuge on the great bastion? What of Iol and Evárudas?

What of the beautiful, serene, and magical Altra?

For a moment she felt her heart tighten in despair, but the sensation did not last. She knew that to indulge her fears was not the answer – she had learned that much. Little by little she mastered her thoughts, returning to what was happening right here, in this small impoverished village.

Here was the truth: they held the seven Keys; they were following the prophesied path towards Sudra’s Orb. They were doing everything in their power to deliver the land from the threat of madness. Could anything more be asked of them?

Illiom squeezed Tarmel’s hand and allowed herself to feel grateful for what she had.

The party remained in Stonecress for fourteen days.

When the score of hunters returned from the north a few days later, the meagreness of their kill prompted Argolan to suggest that if Angar was to remain here and heal, then the least they could do was offer an equitable exchange. So two days after their return the hunters set out again with Argolan, Grifor, Mist, and Tarmel, as well as ten of the Shakim tribesmen. Malco, Sereth, Scald, and Elan also chose to go.

Illiom opted to remain with Azulya and Undina.

With Tarmel gone, she filled her days following Faer around the surrounds of Stonecress, impressed by the woman’s stamina in sustaining the few and widely scattered fruiting trees and small garden beds. They were all down in the ravine where the only water was to be found. Even so, some of the crops required almost daily watering to keep them alive.

Faer had dug small channels that delivered water to the crops she had planted, thereby minimizing the amount of care they needed, but the rest required watering by pail. Hard work, that yielded just enough fresh food to keep the small community hale.

Faer responded to Illiom’s interest by talking incessantly about the attributes of the various plants in her care. A boy no older than twelve accompanied them and Illiom soon understood that the lad was the one who would take over Faer’s duties in due course.

On returning to Stonecress one evening, Illiom found Angar engrossed in an attempt to communicate with a throng of children who looked upon the Rider with undisguised awe.

When he saw Illiom, he grinned.

“Just because I cannot understand them does not mean that I cannot learn to. These little ones have been teaching me words. I already know that they want me to teach them to ride when I can walk again. I told them that I will teach them how to fight, too. They seem to like that idea a lot!”

“Akena, akena! Ee Shet! Akena ee Shet!” he called out to the children and, laughing delightedly, they echoed his words.

The hunting party was gone for eight long days and returned with enough meat to keep the village fed for many moons. It was the longest separation that Illiom and Tarmel had endured for some time. They fell into each other’s arms.

Sudra was nearly full again and they knew it was time they resumed their journey. They announced their intention to depart the following day – the day of the full moon.

That evening, the village of Stonecress celebrated the successful hunt and honoured their guests with a great feast. When the hour grew late, Faer and Temer counselled the Chosen’s party as they sat around three fires.

“Follow Ehalan Drin, the ravine that we are perched on, to the north until you see Karganath,” Temer started.

The cantankerous old man had mellowed noticeably, probably as a result of a full belly.

“Karganath is Mount Defiance. It is part of the same mountain range where the people sought refuge and where they are now trapped. It towers over all other mountains and you cannot possibly mistake it. Do not venture into the mountains themselves for they are daunting to cross, even in the middle of summer, and they would only lead you straight into the claws of the Meresians.”

He tended the fire as he spoke.

“When Karganath comes into view, abandon Ehalan Drin and cut a path north-west towards the mountain. You will reach the foothills within five or six days. There you will find plenty of water and game. Follow the edge of the hills south-west until all the mountains are behind you, then head west through the foothills. That should set you on a path that will eventually take you to the southern reaches of the Plains of Abanas. More than this I cannot say. What you will find there – friend or foe – is beyond my knowing. If it is at all possible that you can rid the world of the Illian Gar, you will have my eternal gratitude.”

The following morning Undina, who had spent much of her time with her Rider, felt a great reluctance to leave him. In the end, it was he who prised her hand from his arm.

“You must go, Undina; you have a quest to complete. Just come back for me when you are all done. I do not want to spend the rest of my days in this place.”

“You here stay!” she chided him. “No alone follow, yes? You here wait until we back for you come!”

“Sure,” he reassured her. “But do not take too long, or I will become one of them.”

Undina laughed.

“How will you pass your time here?” Sereth asked.

“Oh, I have more on my hands here than ever before! First, I need to master their language. Then, if you leave me a horse - as soon as I am mended - I will teach these people how to ride, how to hunt and then how to fight. When you come back for me I should have my own private army.”

They waited until Undina was ready to go and then said their farewells. Argolan was last.

“Angar, I have decided to leave all the remaining destriers here with you, as the Surmur steeds have proven themselves far better suited to this journey. Look after them and make good use of them.”

“You will all be riding the steeds then?”

“Yes.”

“What about supplies? You will have no packhorses.”

“We have redistributed what we can. Much will remain here with you: one tent, blankets, several weapons, plenty of missiles.”

Angar whistled softly.

“I could make myself king,” he said playfully.

The Shieldarm grinned.

“Do not let it go to your head, Rider. I will be back this way to check on you.”

“Good,” Angar replied. “I will hold you to that.”

They clasped each other’s forearms in the warrior’s way, then Argolan walked to where the others waited.

“Wait!” a voice called out.

It was Faer. She came towards them at a slow run.

When she reached Azulya’s horse, she rested her hand on the Kroeni’s knee as she caught her breath.

“Please take this,” she said, holding up a leather cylinder. “It is an old map. It may be of some use to you. We are never going west again, so we have no need for it.”

Azulya thanked her.

They left Stonecress riding north, close to the western edge of the ravine. The day was bright, the sky deep blue, and Iod bathed the lands on the far side of the chasm in blinding light.

Nevertheless, Illiom felt the darkness that lay ahead. She looked towards the west - to the lands of Mereas and the threat of the Illian Gar.

Igollianath beckoned with a presence that she could feel – even from this distance – a poison that tainted the pristine clarity of the day.