River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Erelon’s mind began to grow warm, his sight fuzzy. A nonchalant smile crossed his face; his arms grew tired and content to simply lie on his belly. Erelon ceased to try to focus on the conversations around him and allowed them all to turn into a jumbled murmur as the bottle slowly became lighter. At first a quarter of the bottle disappeared, and when that seemed to have little effect, the rest went fast.

  One question uttered by a man close by escaped into Erelon’s barely conscious mind, “Who’s your friend?” someone asked of Fresmir.

  That’s Erelon,” came the fuzzy response.

  The entire tavern went quiet, as if a ghost had walked into the center of the room.

  “The Erelon?” someone asked.

  “I’m the only Erelon I know,” Erelon replied with a giggle before falling from his seat.

  Half an hour later, both moons glided into the sky as Erelon and Fresmir stepped into the street, the Brect half supporting the wizard. Together they stumbled down the street. They were singing a song in a language Erelon did not understand. Somehow he had picked up the words from the tavern, and in his drunken state, mispronounced them all as he sang along with Fresmir.

  Up the stairs they tumbled, at times almost tipping backward. They finally made it into the house. Erelon sank to his knees and tipped forward onto his packs, content just to lie there, leaving his body in the position in which it fell. A hiccup bubbled from his lips.

  The room was dark, and slowly Erelon’s vision blended with it, with his last remark being, “Good bye.”

  The light struck Erelon in the face. It warmed him unequally as what remained in shadow stayed cool, and what the light rested upon began to sweat. The wizard’s nose twitched, his equilibrium disturbed. Finally his eyes popped open. He looked around the room. It was empty except for a table, a scattering of chairs, and some half deteriorated logs for the fireplace. Erelon propped himself onto one arm. His muscles were sore from lying awkwardly on the hard floor. Erelon had almost forgotten the beating his body had taken during the past month even though one eye was darkened. His muscles and joints did not hesitate to remind him.

  Fresmir wandered in, dressed in boots and pants. He wore no shirt so that his brawny, wool chest stood out, each muscle chiseled so that their edges could be clearly seen. Erelon groaned as he sat up and stated, “I am not as young as I used to be.”

  “Hangover?” Fresmir asked, a smile cutting across his face.

  “No,” Erelon stated, “Hard floor.”

  “Oh,” Fresmir sighed with disappointment, “Thought maybe your head would at least hurt with as much of that rum as you drank.”

  “Erelon slowly shook his head and asked, “Have you ever heard of elvish wine?”

  “Yeah?” Fresmir said, as almost a question.

  “I grew up on that,” Erelon replied, knowing that this simply statement would explain everything about his drinking habits.

  A low growl sounded from the door, “Fresmir, are you up yet?”

  “Tanton,” Fresmir stated for Erelon’s knowledge.

  “Yeah, just a moment,” Fresmir called to the leopard. Quickly the Brect moved toward the door and opened it.

  “I found your friend,” Tanton stated to Erelon.

  “That was fast!” Fresmir exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s not hard to locate the only wizard to enter and return alive from the Humban spirit world. I thought the name sounded familiar, but didn’t realize why until I found him.”

  The Brect turned silently toward the wizard, his mouth dropping. Erelon picked himself from the floor, dusted himself off, and looked up toward the two creatures who stared quietly back toward him.

  “What?” Erelon asked, as if such events as Easton’s accomplishment were everyday occurrences.

  “He volunteered for the job. I was going to go, but he insisted. Easton went to get a tool to help me against our common enemy. I’m assuming that you can take me to him, but I want some breakfast first.”

  Tanton led Erelon, with Fresmir trailing, into a well-recognized inn, one level higher than Fresmir’s home. The higher level in the city meant more money, more prestige.

  Tanton sat by as Erelon and Fresmir ordered from the inn menu.

  The leopard waited until the waiter had been gone for a few minutes before giving instructions, “Easton is trying to keep his accomplishment quiet. He came to the city seat to ask for directions to the Humban spirit world. The council laughed but gave him directions anyway. At that time he asked for secrecy. When he got back, they were shocked and wanted to throw a celebration. Easton refused, again asked for secrecy. The council got him a room in this inn, makes sure he’s comfortable. But the wizard is rarely seen outside of his room.”

  Tanton looked up at Erelon with grave eyes and finished, “I will take you to him after you finish eating, but I warn you, I do not think he is the same wizard that went into that ghost world.”

  The waiter brought out their order, eggs, biscuits, gravy, pork sausage, goat cheese, and milk, along with a variety of fruit. Erelon retreated into his own mind, revolving ideas and thoughts about what might have happened to his friend in that strange plane of existence. Erelon was trying to prepare himself for anything he would face, but finally came to the conclusion that he would be walking blindly into that room.

  A fruit that was a mix between an apple and a peach squished between the wizard’s teeth, cool juice oozed down his throat. Fresmir sat passively eating and observing the mental process of the wizard. The Brect was long finished with his breakfast before Erelon finished. It was almost time for brunch before the wizard’s vacant eyes filled with consciousness.

  “Okay,” Erelon said solemnly as he stood. Quickly the leopard was before them, the Brect filled with curiosity following. Tanton led up a few flights of stairs. The building was built solid with the walls painted white and enhanced with fake gold hangings, decorations, and lamps. Tanton stopped before a floor that appeared to be deserted. Only one of every three lamps was lit, keeping the hallway filled with shadow. Nothing moved, none of the floor boards creaked, and there was no hint of muffled voices. It was an eerie absence of life in an inn located in a city so busy that there was seldom an empty room.

  Erelon looked at both creatures with him for reassurance, mental support, almost pleading for advice as if he should enter or flee. Erelon’s hand touched the knob. It was cold, no heat from within, almost as if only spirits lived in the room. Slowly Erelon turned the knob and pushed the door inward. With one look back at the other two, Erelon stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

  Erelon strained his eyes as he looked into the darkness that filled the room. A table about halfway in, several large stuffed chairs, and a bed was arranged in the room. The back of the top of someone’s head poked above the back of a chair. Erelon cleared his throat, alerting Easton to his presence. Easton turned to look over his chair. Both men were pale shadows, ghosts of what they had been.

  Slowly Easton stood and walked toward Erelon, shaking his hand and exclaiming, “It’s good to see you, my friend, my brother.”

  Erelon smiled weakly. Easton led him to the table. A bundle wrapped in a shroud was in the center, but Easton ignored it, sinking into a chair that groaned below his weight. Erelon slowly sat in a chair opposite his friend, his eyes never leaving Easton as one does not turn from a strange wild dog.

  Easton stated with a sigh of horror, “I’ve been to hell and back.”

  His eyes were glazed over. If the experienced wizard could have looked behind the veil of stoicism, Erelon would have seen the terrors of another time, a different plane of existence.

  Trying to ease the tension, Erelon joked, “You may have been to hell and back, but I passed straight through it.”

  Easton chuckled, and for an instant, a gleam of life shone through as he affirmed Erelon’s decree, “You look it.”

  Easton was examining the torn and disfigured face of his friend.

  “You do not look too g
ood yourself,” was the reply of the elder.

  For a few moments there was silence. Easton pulled a pipe from his robes. It was made of jade. Easton packed it and then lit it. After a puff, he offered his pouch of tobacco to Erelon. Easton watched in silence as Erelon packed his own pipe, the bowl made from ivory, the stem oak.

  “None expected me to come back alive, you know,” Easton commented sadly. “They warned me, pleaded with me not to go. Known as the Humban Trail, also as the Trail of Skulls, "cause none who go in come out,” Easton stopped to cackle as he mimicked someone.

  Regaining his composure, Easton went on, “When I got back, they were so amazed that they treated me as a hero, as royalty. Gave me these fancy clothes, the wonderful room, and even this,” Easton said holding up his pipe.

  “So do you have the stone?” Erelon broke in, going straight to the subject of the rendezvous. Time was becoming short. Erelon knew what needed to be done and wanted to move on with it.

  Easton pointed at the table, at the lump enshrouded in the black cloak. The younger wizard pointed at it as if it was the enemy. Horror of the stone itself, and the terrors Easton had to face to retrieve the artifact, gleamed from his face. Easton’s face was a warning to Erelon, showing him a shadow of what the cloak veiled. Erelon reached forward to gingerly take hold of the relic which had held up Erelon’s quest to destroy the wraiths.

  “No!” Easton screamed before the elder could even lay a hand on it.

  Easton was wild, his hair stood straight up like a cornered angry beast, his eyes growing huge.

  “You must not open it, or touch it, not even look into it. At least, not until you need it.”

  Erelon looked at his young friend with annoyed curiosity, “Why?”

  It was all Erelon could ask as he was rendered speechless by his friend’s behavior.

  “I would not even advise touching it when you go to use it. You see horrible things,” Easton’s voice was drawn out as if he spoke to Erelon from his subconscious.

  “The future, the past, the worst of both. What may be, but only bad outcomes. It is enough to make anyone want to lie down and stay where they are, to never leave and seek out the world, to instead live in fear of the world and the future. The only reason that I came back is because the world in which I stood was worse than facing the future and its path shown to me by this stone.”

  Erelon looked at his friend and pitied him as Erelon knew something of the horrors Easton had faced. It should never have been Easton’s task to bear.

  “Can you explain to me the path of the Humbas?” Erelon questioned.

  This path which led to another world had long been an underground legend among the wizard's guild, something seldom spoke of, and not often believed either. This one young wizard, alone, had traveled its length to retrieve this one relic.

  “I have long shoved the Humban Trail into the back of my mind. The horrors along its length I do not wish to remember even on my dying day with my last breath.”

  “Did you see any of the other artifacts that the Humbas were rumored to have packed with them?” Erelon’s eyes were now wide with excitement.

  This was a road he now wanted to travel and now wanted to know what it truly was, for Erelon knew that it had to be unlike anything that could be imagined and developed in this world. A path part physical, mostly mental, and spiritual. Erelon did not realize that he would travel this path many times to come, but not in the form he thought or dreamt about.

  Easton slowly shook his head, “I do not know about any other artifacts. I saw the stone and grabbed it. I don’t know why I did not look for others. This is what I went for, the only thing I looked for. It conspicuously was there before me.”

  Erelon looked cautiously at Easton and then suspiciously at the stone. Slowly he reached forward and, touching the round cloaked object, could feel the pulse of the magic as if some heart pumped, each throb a heavy beat.

  “I do not know if you will be able to defeat them even with the stone,” Easton warned, “From what the stone showed me, they will still be powerful. And there are many of them and only a few of us powerful enough to oppose them.”

  “Maybe the stone alone will not be enough, but with this I can,” Erelon said with triumph, pulling Rivurandis from its scabbard. It hummed and vibrated, its magic only contained by the power and will of Erelon, and it filled the room with an orange glow.

  “A sword forged by the wraith’s enemy, containing the spirit of the wraith’s enemy, meant to destroy the wraiths. Together we can do it,” Erelon said grimly.

  Easton looked at Erelon in confusion. The younger wizard had never known Chaucer, and even though he could feel the nauseating power, Easton did not recognize the spirit within it.

  “It is Chaucer’s last and greatest gift to this world,” Erelon explained. “The great wizard and smith entrapped his magical spirit within this sword before he died. He left it in a place where I would find it when I needed it most.”

  Easton looked on the sword with a mix of amazement, awe, curiosity, and some amusement.

  “Then indeed I believe we have a chance,” Easton sighed.

  “And to think,” Erelon laughed, “the wraiths offered me a job.”

  “A job?” Easton asked confused and amazed.

  “Yeah, as a commander, as an equal, but forget that. Come on,” Erelon said, “It has been some time since you have seen life.”

  “But the stone, it should be guarded,” Easton argued.

  “If it is as bad as you say, none will be able to take it and leave. It will be fine. Let us go,” Erelon reassured.

  Both men stepped from the dark room. Easton’s eyes blinked rapidly as they watered, unaccustomed to the light. For weeks he had lived in darkness and secrecy. Easton had feared the wraiths and the world. Erelon had faced the warlocks in the Keep and had survived; he no longer feared their pawns, especially at this distance from their source of power.

  Tanton and Fresmir both stood outside the door, at the same moment both protecting and waiting. Their heads snapped to attention as the two legendary wizards stepped from the door.

  “Let us see this city of yours,” Erelon said to Fresmir.

  “Gladly,” was the reply.

  Down the stairs all four proceeded. Slowly they walked, allowing Easton’s eyes and muscles to both adjust. The first few stairs the young wizard almost tripped down, but finally arriving at the bottom, Easton had regained a sense of balance and stability.

  A quick nod toward the waiter brought a quick smile of greeting to his face, and the four disappeared out the door. The sky was clear excepting a small cloud now and then. Sometimes a shadow seeming to float gently above the ground would stroll by, bending to all the contours of the buildings and trees.

  “So where to first?” Fresmir questioned.

  “It is your city,” Erelon returned.

  “I say the temple,” Tanton suggested. “It’s at the top of the city. A large colonnade plaza where all the politics happen and the best vendors are located.”

  Fresmir looked at his two visitors, and when they simply shrugged their shoulders, he led the way. They waded through the normal traffic of people congesting the streets. With the respect that Tanton and Fresmir had earned, a path seemed to constantly open before them, people nodding and giving a cheerful hello.

  The city was filled with color, and the late morning sun sparkled off the water and glass and illuminated the green shrubbery. On the top of the flying city, a large complex stretched. Columns lined flat stone roads, and small shops and tents sparkled. On the far end, a huge domed building rose, and to the left, an oval building with flat smooth sides pocketed with a multitude of windows could be seen above the back side of a hill, the stadium.

  Slowly Erelon watched as the floating island turned, the perspective of the mountains continually changing. The entire area was filled with gardens and spotted with the living quarters of those with more money.

  “We have politics just as any oth
er developed country or society. And yes,” Fresmir added with contempt, “Many of them are no better than those of the other places in the world. The rich look after their own, promising to be looking for the good of the people they represent, but really only trying to start a scheme by which they can increase the money they control, more money than either they or three of their generations could ever spend. We have simply decided to ignore them. Laws to keep peace are enforced, but beyond that, we allow the politicians to argue and fight, and we ignore them. Years ago it’s been when they lost their power, but they have not yet come to realize it.”

  “Yeah, it’s just like we no longer pay taxes to politicians,” Tanton piped up, “We tax all trade, it goes into a pot, and someone who is good with figures makes sure that everything gets paid to keep up the city. Records are made available to the public. And if anyone were to try to cheat, they would quickly find themselves strung from the vines that hang from our island. It’s a community effort to bypass politicians. Before, money seemed to get misplaced or simply go missing. They were careless with it, paying friends too much and cheating those they didn’t know. Now they have to fund their own campaigns so that they can continue to argue.”

  Several townspeople went racing by, down the hill toward the stadium. Behind Erelon and his friends, more rushed in the same direction. Steadily this stream of racing creatures grew thicker.

  Fresmir grabbed hold of one man, “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Castor has a challenger,” the stranger said excitedly.

  “What luck!” Fresmir exclaimed, “Let’s go.”

  Fresmir led the charge through passages, leaping walls and hedges, almost shoving others into wild roses in his hurry to be one of the first into the stadium. His pace did not give either wizard a chance to ask questions. A stone path led them into an entrance. They passed through a colonnaded hallway and to a flight of stairs that continually doubled back on themselves while leading upward. Fresmir led them halfway up the stadium.