River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Kicking open a rotted fallen log, pieces flew away, exposing brightly colored insects and slimy crawling and slithering pests that ranged from thousands of legs to none. Narrow paths wound their way silently through the forest, created by animals brave enough to explore near the opening to the Humban underworld.

  Strange runes cut into the stone decorated the door posts through which the man had exited. He followed flat stones that lay in the ground. Just as ancient as the old runes, a black iron fence blocked his path. A locked gate still stood in the way, not only sealed with rust but also a craftily constructed padlock and a locking spell that kept unwanted visitors from the underground realms. Being persistent, the man soon found where the ground had been washed away from beneath the fence as well as from beneath the roots of an ancient tree, creating a natural tunnel through which animals traveled in and out of the secluded garden.

  Looking down, the man saw the old prints of boots filled with rotting leaves and water. His heart leapt into his throat. Somebody was nearby, somebody had come for him. Slowly, he thought back. No, those were his prints. He laughed at himself and said, “Wow, Easton, you really are losing your mind after all.”

  After escaping from the enclosed space, Easton turned to look back north at the old mountains through which he had passed, marveling at his luck. The massive rock wall towered high above him, blocking all sound that he might have heard coming from beyond.

  The most amazing part of the local landmarks he found as he began descending a stairway made of tree roots was the giant sculptures that had been cut into the rock. Smoothed by chisel and fine sanders, many carven images—several being smooth faces with huge noses, big ears, and decorated with beads—lay peering from their rock wall prison. But there were others that had bodies as well, and some more that were not human, some not even other animals, but instead grotesquely broken figures with gnarled limbs and shrunken bodies.

  As he followed paths formed by the flat stones and the animals that kept them cleared, many more statues followed, some carved from the mountain’s roots that ran above ground. Others came from transported rock that had been set at certain places for reasons understood better during the time they were carved, generations, centuries ago. Still other sculptures were those that had broken from the mountain face and, tumbling, had found their current resting place. Staying for a short time, they found themselves anchored by roots and vines.

  Small animals were seen scampering and playing everywhere. Little gray squirrels with large hairy ears would stop climbing trees to watch as Easton passed, and song birds would float over his head to land in a tree, causing the limb to rustle. Animals big enough to keep such a trail free of brush had yet to appear. Something would creek and groan occasionally far off in the distance. Easton stopped for fresh water which was found in plenty as creeks, rivers, pools, ponds, and beautiful, graceful waterfalls bound across the rocks, falling and twisting in their trail towards the base of the mountain.

  Easton even found a couple of easy mouse nests and had a meager meal. A few times he got a glimpse out of the jungle. He could see spires far to the south. Black towers reached toward the sky, getting narrower as they reached their peak, with smoke coming out in columns from within their perimeter. Dread filled his heart. There was a feeling within his chest that told him nothing could overcome those towers that soared above him. Continuing down the same path, he again saw it several times. It was always to the southwest, but it was not until he broke from the jungle that he understood what they actually meant.

  Easton left the border of the jungle, leaving behind slithering worms and centipedes, fresh, clear, snow-cooled water, and rodents and animals both known and not known. Easton found himself on the top of a hill that led down into a valley.

  Across from him on the edge of a high plateau was a black fortress, with great spires which he had seen from the jungle, overlooking valleys, dark forests. In them lived evil, impenetrable darkness which was much too close. The dark kingdom that this fortress claimed was spreading, same as that of the Witch of Turgeon. As Easton stared at that fortress he felt the eyes of a strong presence watching him. The young wizard shuddered so that his rotting cloak half fell from his shoulders.

  The wizard turned his attention to what laid between him and the dark fortress, a place that he felt would be a refuge. Out of the tunnel of wide green leaves and rich soil smells came the sight which many had thought only to be a mirage. Seemingly hanging in the thin air that filled the atmosphere was a huge berg. But not that of ice like those that floated in the oceans to the northwest, but one made of dirt and rock. Rough dirt, some of the richest on earth, hung from the bottom and was roughly in the shape of a cone.

  Huge roots and vines grew through it, splitting rocks, pushing dirt, and holding it together. Many continued intertwining all the way to the ground, nature’s ladders and ropes for those who had no other method of traveling up. On top of the berg sat a city. Great tan stone walls towered high. The top of the city peaked high in the air, a beacon to all the valleys around, a sign to them of power and wisdom. The city, being higher in the center, was built on a hill on the berg.

  Easton climbed down the hill, walking towards the floating city. Another man, one of dark colored skin and dressed in all black and yellow, stood directly below the flying monolith. He did not climb the vines; he did not even grab for one. Transforming from his feet up, he turned to a mob of crows. Catching the wind under their wings, they whipped up the side of the monolith and gracefully swooped toward the top. Curving over the wall, they disappeared from view.

  As Easton stumbled down the hill toward the floor of the valley, trembling in his excitement at what he had witnessed from above, a dense fog moved in. It enveloped the fugitive, hiding him from the world and the world from him.

  Chapter 2

  ERELON stood in the center of a raised stage. The room was in the shape of a third of a circle with the stage in the corner. A short drop led to the seats, and then as the seats fanned backward, they rose until well above the stage in front.

  Several flights of stairs marked different seating sections. In this amphitheatre, thousands could be seated. From the top row of seats, the walls climbed, and set in the walls were balcony seats where more visitors could observe the ceremonies that were held within this special chamber. Above was a high vaulted ceiling, fashioned in similar design to the rest of the complex. The chairs, stage, balconies, all of it had been carved from stone. Natural light filled the arena as small vents were punctured through the mountain’s outside skin.

  Today was in honor of Erelon’s return, and for this reason, he was on the stage looking out on the crowding faces. Ceremonies had started with different heroes being honored and medals and awards being hung upon them or pinned to their chest. These highly praised wizards became like decorative objects so that the wizards who proclaimed them as heroes could again find themselves in the public eye. To show off power and money for social demonstration was all these ceremonies were.

  Erelon was the main attraction. From his seat at the back of the stage he had been called forward. Around him sat many other wizards, all in their appropriate regalia. Festor sat on the stage, but he had no part to play in the ceremony’s functions other than to look the old and wizened wizard he was.

  Grism was not there, not even in the crowd. He commanded the troops that guarded the wall. Upon stage, Hendle sat gowned in a long robe of honor and rank. Hendle had been recruited to play an important role in the part of the ceremonies that surrounded Erelon. Hendle had been given the honor of decorating the master wizard.

  Erelon was not necessarily against such ceremonies, yet he was not accustomed to so much attention directed towards himself. He did not enjoy it. For others it was fine, and at a more practical time, Erelon might have even enjoyed being a spectator. Heroes should be decorated, but not in the middle of a battle; and indeed, at every moment, a battle at the walls threatened to consume the refuge.

  During
his travels, Erelon had come to the conclusion that there were two types of wizards. One was the normal, average kind that enjoyed studying, ceremonies, and organization. Of this kind Erelon had tried to be, yet had failed, for he was of the second type.

  Erelon was a powerful lone warrior whose goal in life was to protect or change the world. Such wizards backed from praise and recognition, living alone even when among people similar to themselves. The friends of these powerful wizards were multiple and of great variety, mixing among many personalities and races. Of this wizard there were few. Besides himself, Erelon only really knew two others, Chaucer and Tix.

  As his name was called, Erelon looked into the eyes of the crowd. They cheered wildly. Songs that had been written about him could be heard flowing from the crowd, while a chant formed from the different names of the master wizard in many different languages filled the air, picking up a tempo. Pride filled Erelon as he thought of all those who had come to love his name even though they did not even know him personally.

  Everything Erelon had done for this crowd of people had brought him their love and respect. At the same moment, sadness overwhelmed the wizard as he felt his heart sink into his stomach; this was not where he should be. When younger, he had loved the ceremonies of wizards, the inauguration and graduation ceremonies of those who moved up to gain more respect for their years of study.

  Now Erelon looked upon the ceremonies with a wiser, older eye. He was still proud of his rank, the symbol upon his cloak, but it did not hold as much significance as before. It was slowly becoming another symbol in Erelon’s life, much like the flags of Samos and Kintex or the dwarves of the Rusted Mountains.

  Erelon barely noticed a ceremonial blade slipped into his hands. Hendle raised his arm in a signal of triumph that their leader, the master wizard, had returned to them. Then the ceremonies were over, leaving Erelon standing at the center edge of the stage, staring off into times past and ages to come. Crowds began to flow along the stairs, filing out. Many looked up at Erelon with wonder, some at the power that he had been rumored to hold, others wondering skeptically if this dazed wizard could actually be their hero.

  A few men came up to the wizard to congratulate him on his safe return. Erelon recognized their presence with a barely perceptible nod of his head. Erelon was no longer the master wizard he had been. He was more experienced, older, more knowledgeable about the world, which had led him to understand how small he was really.

  He was left standing on the stage alone. Everyone was now gone. Festor had been the last to leave, giving Erelon a sorrowful pat on the shoulder as if he understood the conflicts that tormented the wizard below his cool exterior.

  Slowly the master wizard walked the stairs to a portal that would allow him to leave the uncomfortable world of social customs and traditions. The hall was empty.

  No one walked up or down, and then a surprising young voice squeaked, “Hey, Mister Erelon, if you need anything, anything at all, if you need anything, just let me know, sir. If you need it, just tell me, and I’ll be there. If you. . .” the child continued to nervously ramble on and on, stumbling on his tongue in his eagerness to help this famous, outstanding wizard. Erelon looked down at the kid, about the same age as he had been when he had destroyed the nobles’ sons at Kintex in a short but bloody fist fight.

  “Sure,” Erelon said, “Maybe, sometime.”

  Promptly the wizard walked off, leaving the child behind in a nervous state, tying his fingers together and then tugging on them.

  Erelon stepped on the top of the fortifications. It was a wide strip that allowed for men to easily pass by one another during the heat of a battle. Only, now there was no fight being waged. Erelon stooped above a gate that looked into the forest. It was the same entrance that allowed him to enter only a few days before. Two other gates also were along the wall’s expanse, yet they were far away, beyond the sight of a hawk.

  Both of the other gates were in the section of the wall that stretched into the prairie. The most heavily guarded entrance was this one, the gate within the forest, as it was the entry most aggressively attacked as the enemy preferred to hide within the dark eaves of the trees. Yet a constant guard was kept on the entire stretch of the wall as a precaution so that the inhabitants of the wizard’s refuge were not taken by surprise.

  The forest beyond the walls was quiet. The only enemies that Erelon had seen since he had spectacularly attacked them with fire and lightening was a scattering of goblins. None of the strange and dark beasts of strange nature had come back. Erelon awaited their return with both dread and curiosity.

  Occasionally, a dark lanky shadow would creep from tree to tree, watching the walls. Erelon observed as a few bored men wasted arrows as they took aim at the figures within the woods. The sun above gently caressed Erelon’s body. A comfortable breeze stirred the evergreen needles as well as Erelon’s lightweight cape with his insignia of the staff upon it. Erelon’s eyelids wanted to sink, and they did so slowly as Erelon’s mind wandered into the forest.

  The master wizard had been efficiently controlling his impatience, yet the extremely pleasant weather caused him to want to travel. Instead, he was locked within the walls built for the protection of his people. Word had been sent that dwarven friends proceeded to the wizard’s home now that Erelon had taken command. As the days had been passing, the goblins had been adding to their number. It was as if Erelon had not destroyed any of them. With an angry sigh, the wizard turned from the wall.

  Festor's cracked voice stopped him, "Irritating, is it not? Waiting, only waiting, unable to do anything. You could fight, but that would do no good, they just come back. So we wait."

  "Yes, I am not accustomed to this.... sitting idle," Erelon grumbled.

  "I have seen several seasons come and go here now," Festor replied. "Many of the youngest citizens of Suragenna were even born here now."

  "They do not even know Mortaz," Erelon sighed.

  "They may not want to know Mortaz," Festor pushed.

  "Maybe, but I want Mortaz," Erelon growled.

  "For what?" Festor pushed, "For your own pride? For vengeance?"

  Erelon glowered at the older wizard, "Because of our history, because it is ours. And because of what it represents, the good and bad that the wizards here in the North have gone through and committed in building it so that wizards could study."

  "Not all will want to leave," Festor pushed.

  "Not all have to leave. They can stay if they want," Erelon grumbled.

  "Hmmmm," Festor hummed in thought. "This place has much that everyone needs. More than everyone needs. Take for instance the upper reaches of the castle. They are unfinished and lead into valleys, canyons. And in one, there is a canyon where every winter the temperatures drop to the perfect level where they can sustain frozen crystals for months without a drop melting. It is said that the perfect crystals grow in harmony. Magic crystals that contain the spirit of winter. They have everything from the beat and melody to dissonance. A virtual orchestra, created by the magic of winter."

  It was Erelon's turn to think, "So, Suragenna has everything. Even magic and mystic legends."

  "Hmmm, yeah, and no one has ever really explored there, especially in the winter," Festor fed Erelon's curiosity. "Too dangerous in those valleys and canyons in the mountain's peaks during the winter."

  “I want Draos picketed just beyond the castle door,” Erelon commanded, all patience lost.

  The commanding wizard had just been explaining how he wanted Draos close for a quick race to the wall if it was attacked. Erelon had been speaking to Festor at a round table in a well-lit dining hall. Bahsal, Auri, and Hendle were also sitting there sprawled out. Bahsal and Auri both had their dirty boots resting on the table, the perfect picture of relaxing adventurers. Festor had been explaining the care he had bestowed on the magical beast, knowing that it was Erelon's horse, many times his best friend.

  Yet Festor had given an excuse for why it would not be in Erelon’s bes
t interest to use the horse, “You know, he is not too young and now, well. . . . Let’s just say he is no longer in his prime.”

  Erelon looked up at his old friend, his patience regained, and calmly stated, “The horse is of elvish breeding, with magic running through its blood. Time has not the same impact on such a horse. Draos has many good years left in his life; it is just a shame that I will not be alive to see them.”

  “Please,” Festor implored, “Do not speak like that. Do not discuss your death before its time. I will have the horse tied close to the door for you.”

  “Without the saddle,” Erelon added, “I will ride him bareback.”

  “Of course,” Festor stated, still not convinced that a younger horse would not better fulfill the wizard’s needs.

  With a heavy sigh, all of the men at once leaned back into their seats. A few moments of welcomed silence were interrupted as Erelon grunted and pulled a red stone from out of his cloak, passing it to the dwarve across the table.

  Hendle watched the exchange and, as he recognized the stone, had to ask, “So what happened to the staff you took from the wizard of Samos?”

  “I destroyed it,” Erelon simply said.

  Blank faces greeted his short explanation of the staff’s demise, so reluctantly he continued, “It was too weak to be taken seriously, but powerful enough to cause great harm. There was nothing to be done but destroy the threat before it fell into the hands of a careless man.”

  “And so, you give the fire stone to the dwarves. Why not destroy it as well?” Hendle asked with a mix between confusion and curiosity.

  Erelon simply shrugged his shoulders and replied, “May the stone’s beauty find itself better used in an artwork of dwarven culture and pride.”