River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Erelon’s fingers gently ran the length of the lacerations, gently caressing the blue and purple skin. Erelon looked slowly up at Backer, a question in the younger wizard’s eyes asking Backer if he could do anything.

  Backer simply shrugged his shoulder and said, “Son, there are some things magic can’t fix.”

  Erelon’s spirit began to fail as he gloomily looked back into the mirror.

  “Is the rest of you just as bad?” came Backer’s next inquiry.

  Slowly Erelon nodded his head and then asked, “Both I and my horse need to rest. How long do you think we can stay here?”

  “If by stay, you mean hide, not very long. By now, most likely, the mayor already knows of your return. But you can stay here as long as you need. I doubt the mayor or his family of centaurs is too fond of the idea of tackling a house of wizards, especially with you in it,” Backer finished with a smile.

  Erelon awoke on a soft bed in an upstairs room with moonlight sifting through the clouds. Slowly the moons' light went out like a dying candle and a mist rose followed by a drizzle. Erelon felt his face. The scarring was still there, there was no sight in his right eye. Backer, along with two or three other wizards, had put a spell on Erelon, rendering him unconscious before they went to work mending his extensive injuries.

  But his eye still did not work. The scars were still there. Backer had assured Erelon that they would never be able to entirely reverse the damage, but that they could at least help it to heal properly.

  The wizard just stared out the window, thinking about all the decisions he had made in his life, the wise and the foolish. Mostly though, the foolish and futile. Not too many more foolish decisions to be made, Erelon thought about his black future filled with uncertainty. Especially if he kept making decisions like his last one to go to Mortaz, Erelon reprimanded himself mentally. Although Backer felt more positive about Erelon's future, continually talked about Erelon spending some time in Pendle after the last battle was finished.

  “I’m sorry,” a rough voice sounded behind Erelon.

  Erelon did not turn; he did not jump in surprise. He knew Backer had been watching his patient.

  “We tried, and we managed to help your body to heal more properly. We destroyed any sign of infections, minimized damage and scars, even put your eye together in a form that resembles an eye. But you’ll never use it again, I’m afraid.”

  A few moments of silence passed as the rain picked up, washing out all sound outside. Erelon could feel, in the shadowed corners, under the eaves, trying to hide from the view of men and avoid the downpour, soldiers, centaurs of Pendle, lurked. They were watching, waiting for further orders. For now they were just to watch.

  “Then again, you really don’t need that eye, do you?” Backer said.

  The old wizard was referring to the fact that with Erelon’s magical strength, he could most likely see without the use of his eyes.

  “You never told me how you got into such trouble,” Backer continued trying to persuade Erelon to speak.

  A smirk spread across the face of Erelon. It was not the smile of humor, but of horror. It was the smile of a man reflecting on the unintelligent decisions of his past that had brought him close to hell.

  “I went to Mortaz,” Erelon’s voice said far away and without emotion.

  Backer stood without saying anything. Surprise clutched at him, bringing his mind to a crashing halt.

  Then with a gasp, Backer asked, “You did what?”

  “I went to Mortaz, right up to the castle. I even went inside. Faced the wraiths, fought their army, outran a fire demon, and then came here.”

  “Uh huh,” Backer sarcastically replied, “And in that time you picked up a new sword, the kind of which me and no other wizard scholar has ever seen or heard tales of, one which the power is so great that it emanates even beyond the sheath built specifically to contain that power?”

  “Yeah, I picked that up along the way. Where is it?” Erelon asked getting suspicious and protective.

  “It’s in the basement, out of sight, hidden,” Backer assured Erelon, “What’s after Pendle?”

  “Not sure yet,” Erelon started thinking, forming a plan, “I do not think I will cross the mountains, then I would also have to go across the desert. If you do not know, I am going to the flying city. I am thinking about going north of the Gronge Mountains, striking out across the border of the Ironwoods, and then slipping south of the fortress of Witch of the Crescent Moon.”

  “You do realize why they call it the Ironwoods?” Backer asked, but then without waiting for a response continued, “It is said that there is so much iron in the ground that it becomes part of the trees which are a solid steel gray, very heavy, very dense. But mostly you should consider the trolls born in that area, trolls that supposedly come from the mountain rock. They have an unnaturally large amount of iron in them, and they are next to impossible to kill.”

  Erelon turned his battered face to Backer and replied, “I think I can handle it.”

  Backer grunted and, turning to leave, said, “You should get some sleep.”

  “Wait a moment,” Erelon called softly.

  Backer stopped and looked over his shoulder. Erelon stated, “I found the lost city. How does something so huge, so well marked, disappear from maps, from the minds of men?”

  Backer sighed with sadness, “The people of the Gronge Mountains know of the city’s location. But because of the embarrassment, of what happened to the city, and the feeling of being partly guilty for its collapse as we didn’t do anything to stop it, the people of this area just don’t speak often about Ristene. No one goes there anymore. The place is left alone. Besides, many of the young never knew of the city; the old don’t discuss it; and everyone who remembers is trying to forget. Friends and family died in that city.”

  Erelon sat for a moment, silently digesting the information before asking, “Any new information? What has happened, what are the wraiths doing now?”

  Backer swallowed hard and then replied, “There isn’t much. I didn’t want to burden you, but Kintex has fallen.”

  Backer’s throat swelled as he almost cried, choking his voice as he sputtered, “The queen was killed by the general, Iriote. No one knows for sure, but the story goes that the king, in his grief, did something that allowed the enemy within the gates to the city. The remnants of Westeron fled through tunnels below the city, tunnels they had been digging for months in preparation of evacuating. The king and many of his best warriors held the wraith’s army off, giving the fleeing people time to escape. The king died, and so did his men. The horsemen of Sirus came across the river and in a fight that will find its way into many poems, managed to protect the last of the fleeing citizens as they crossed the river.”

  Some time passed as both men sat in revered silence for the lost kingdom. The room was still, but Erelon’s mind was going quickly as he blamed himself for not destroying the assassin when he had the opportunity. But something had called to him, telling Erelon that the task to kill Iriote was not his, and to do so would be disastrous. Tears came to Erelon’s eyes as he remembered the royalty of Kintex who had fought trolls beside him. Now gone. His generation was dying, leaving him alone in his fight.

  Pale light filled the world even though it was late morning and it still rained. Erelon again stood at his window. Soldiers still lurked in the corners, trying to look inconspicuous, but it was difficult for them not to look out of place. Nowhere else along the street was a soldier in sight. But in one small area, around Backer's house, a dozen armed men stood doing nothing.

  Erelon smiled thinking about their discomfort in heavy armor, soaked, cold. Erelon watched for some time before seeing a large form approach, a centaur. At the door, directly below the wizard, he stopped and then banged hard. Erelon could hear the door open slightly and then an exchange of voices. Quickly Erelon raced for the stairs. If there was to be a fight because of him, Erelon felt he should be there.

  Flying into t
he main room, Erelon noticed that the centaur had been admitted into the house. There was only one, and he was unarmed. It was the mayor himself.

  Backer turned to Erelon and said nervously, “Good, there you are. I was just getting ready to come and find you. The mayor wants to speak to you.”

  Erelon looked the centaur over skeptically, “What do you want?” Erelon’s voice was not friendly.

  The mayor proudly lifted his head and replied humbly, “I have come to offer my apology for how you were treated on your last visit. Since then, the servants of your enemy come in and out of my city at will. They mock us for throwing their general out of the city gates, showing that we have no power to stop them. They loot shops and houses, kill men who wander the streets late at night, and stir up the people against each other. The only chance that we have to end their entering our city and terrorizing the citizens is to close our gates, but this city lives because of its policy of leaving our gates open to all. If closed, this city will cease to be Pendle. And I fear even if I do close the gates, I still don’t have the strength in men and arms to stop the enemy from one day completely overrunning Pendle. So I have come to say that this is a battle to be fought by all. I’ve heard you have a battle planned, and I’ve come to enlist myself and offer the assistance of many of the good warriors of my family.”

  Erelon stood with arms folded, the scars on his face glaring, almost purple.

  A grunt sounded from the wizard before he said, “It’ll be good to add centaur warriors to our ranks.”

  “Ah, but not just centaurs,” the mayor exclaimed, “I rule Pendle, the city where all races come to live. Many more will follow me and my kindred into battle.”

  “All will be appreciated,” Erelon assured the centaur, but then warned, “But you do understand that many will die, many may be your family and those who follow you.”

  “Any who go into battle should be prepared to die. It is the nature of war,” the mayor said with a nod and then backed out of the door.

  The door slipped shut, and both Backer and Erelon stood for several moments in silence without breathing. Finally both seemed to sigh heavily at once.

  "That went better than I thought it might," Backer growled.

  "I did not know what to expect," Erelon grunted.

  “Have you thought about your return trip?” Backer asked of Erelon.

  The room was dark, only one candle lit. Erelon reclined contentedly in a chair, practicing the spell that allowed him to absorb the fire’s light.

  “What do you mean?” Erelon questioned.

  “After you get to the flying city, how are you and Easton coming back?”

  Erelon merely shrugged and mumbled, “The same way I go I suppose.”

  “Erelon!” Backer exclaimed, “You are needed back here faster than that. The trip will be dangerous enough going, and the return trip will be just as bad if not worse. Powerful wizards seem to draw the worst obstacles. You are powerful enough to make a doorway.”

  “A what?” Erelon said with annoyed confusion.

  “A doorway, a portal that connects two places far apart. All you need is an address to return to,” Backer was saying with excitement.

  “An address,” Erelon repeated more in wonder than annoyance, but confusion still filled him.

  “Come with me,” Backer commanded as if Erelon had already consented to the idea of using a portal.

  Backer motioned for Erelon to follow him and walked towards the door, stopping to throw his cloak around his shoulders. Erelon followed slowly, more in curiosity than in actual agreement with the plans of the old wizard. Erelon also grabbed his cloak, a new thick black one to replace the one he had previously worn that had been shredded. One of the young apprentices had wanted to move the staff insignia from the old cloak to the new one, but Erelon had refused the offer. He had been humbled at the Keep. No longer did he feel the need or right to wear that rank, that mark of respect.

  Backer led Erelon out into a cold, damp night. The light reflected by a moon managed to break through the thin frill, outlining the contours of the clouds. Someplace water meandered through the road’s stones, singing happily. The atmosphere felt pulled tight, as if something horrible was about to occur.

  At the nearest stables, Backer stopped. A ramshackle building looked as if it had been thrown together overnight using boards that had already half rotted. Without hesitation, Backer led Erelon into the unstable building. A small lamp from the wall cast light in slats across the uneven floor that was covered in straw. Backer stopped at another door within the stables. Pulling out a knife, he ordered, "Look around the room. Even if you were gone for a decade, I still want you to be able to build a mental image. Think of every water stain on the wood, each piece of straw, how the rain water runs in. I want you to know the exact count of stables, how many holes are in the roof. Feel every wooden fiber, every rusty nail, in your mind."

  Erelon turned around, trying to burn the image within his mind, every post, shred of straw, darkened window, and fallen board. Most importantly, Erelon could feel the place upon the earth on which he stood. If taken to look at the earth from a distance, Erelon could still have pointed to this very spot on which he stood.

  Finally his eyes came back to rest on the door itself, sitting crooked on its hinges. The bottom hinge supported most of the weight. Darkness was all that lay beyond. Backer thrust a scroll into the hands of the wizard, causing Erelon to jump.

  “Here’s the manual,” Backer said with a wink, “You’ll need to read it.”

  Then Backer stood on a wooden bucket to reach the board above the door and, with his knife, pried at several of the wood fibers until a large chunk came loose with a pop and fell to the floor.

  Backer stepped from the bucket, one foot at a time, stiffly as if he had been standing like a statue on the bucket for ages and had not used his muscles in all that time.

  Bending over with a groan, he retrieved the chunk of wood and handed it to Erelon, saying, “Here. Take this. It’s your return address.”

  Backer and Erelon both sat at a table silently during the cool morning hours. Erelon was just finishing coffee that had gone cold. His horse was loaded and standing outside Backer’s door. This was Erelon’s fourth day of rest. Backer had wanted him to stay longer. It had not been enough time for Erelon to heal, Backer argued.

  Erelon had stared him down, not saying anything, but the look in his eyes told Backer that Erelon did not feel that he would survive the next battle. Always the great ones look so pessimistically upon their own lives, Backer thought to himself under that stare. But he did not voice his opinion. Backer felt that Erelon had a better chance than any to outlive all who would fight in the upcoming battle, especially with the new sword. But Erelon was a hard man to convince.

  Erelon figured if he was not to live out the year, there was no use in allowing the dust to settle on his shoulders. No, it was best to finish the fight quickly, before more damage was inflicted upon the world.

  Erelon gathered up a strip of white cloth and began to wrap it around his face. Erelon did not want to frighten the people, so he covered the scars and the mangled eye. Erelon’s two swords lay on the table before him. He had replaced all his knives and hatchets along with his bow and arrows. He had also been given a new saddle, along with cheese, dried meat, bread, medicine, wrappings, and extra clothes.

  Still the two men did not exchange words. The world felt too heavy to waste energy on idle talk. Slowly Erelon stood and clutched both swords around their sheaths in one hand. He walked through the door and under the cloud that drizzled, always spitting water.

  Erelon brushed the water from his seat and then pulled himself up. Backer grabbed the pommel and rested his other hand on the horse’s belly.

  The old wizard looked up at Erelon and said, “You’ll be all right. But be quick. Every day the damage escalates. Kintex is finished, soon Samos will also fall.”

  Backer disappeared into the house, leaving Erelon to gently gu
ide his horse down the street into the fog.

  The day was young as Erelon passed through the gates of Pendle. The guards had opened them only a moment before. Erelon had heard the sleepy groan of the hinges long before turning the final corner and looking into the exit. The exit led into a hostile world that would show the wizard no mercy. Once beyond the walls, Erelon was again alone, on his own. There would be no one to protect him, to shelter him. If he was not strong enough, it would all end. The mission would fall to some other poor soul who would to try to finish it, to end the power of the warlocks. But Tix had assured Erelon there was no one else. If Erelon could not succeed, no one would.

  The guards stood before the gate, watching every move of every muscle in both horse and man. Not many passed through the gates at this time in the morning; none at the moment walked the path. With the times, the guards grew continually suspicious of anything that was not ordinary. Erelon looked down at the ground, but his faithful shadow did not greet him as the clouds stood firmly in place laughing at the sun.

  Just as Erelon passed under the walls, he kicked the horse, and Draos sprinted down the path out of sight of the walls and the armed guards. The jolt of the horse caused Erelon's muscles to groan. The wizard gritted his teeth as he felt a trickle of blood run down his thigh.

  Trees still lined the path, and though the world was quiet, it was not silent. Erelon was not alone. Small rodents raced along beside the horse to disappear into dark holes, and a few birds mocked the man who fought for a cursed world.

  Erelon did not push Draos hard. The distance was long, and time was getting short for the world, but Erelon wished to enjoy the moment. Breathing in the smell of cedar, a pleasant burning at his nose, listening to the birds and animals speak to him, hearing the hooves of Draos lightly clip the ground. The breeze easily slipped through the trees, sighing as it tipped them gently over.