by Paul Drewitz
“I think so,” was Easton’s reply.
“Well, it's just down the street to your left as you step from the stables.”
Erelon dropped Draos’s reins at Easton’s feet and said, “Take care of the horses and then go to Backer’s. He will put you up. Get some sleep. You need the rest.”
Erelon patted Easton on the shoulder as he walked by, grabbed the stone as he passed the pack horse, and stepped out the door. Erelon looked up and down the street. Rain covered the cobblestone road so that it gleamed, a warning as to how slick it was. The older wizard walked down the road, not heeding the puddles and streams of rain water, ignoring the giant drops that fell from the roof tops, striking him on the head.
As Erelon stepped before Backer's door, the rain eased to a fine mist that cloaked the city in a fog, physically hiding travelers, corners, shadows. The door opened before Erelon had a chance to knock.
Backer looked Erelon in the eyes, “Come in. I felt the portal open and close. I knew you were here.”
Erelon stepped out of the weather and shook himself, causing water to scatter to the floor. From within his cloak, Erelon pulled a scroll and placed it in Backer’s hands.
Backer wandered the large room before collapsing into a chair. Erelon also sat in one near the other wizard.
“How many of yours are coming?” Erelon asked.
“I don’t know,” Backer sighed, “I’m not planning on going. Fighting is not my best talent. I teach, I raise young wizards. I make a few potions. Not much more. And I’m too old to be running around, swinging a sword.”
Erelon’s look told Backer that the wizard of Mortaz understood if the wizard of Pendle showed for the battle or if he decided to stay home. Erelon's face showed that he had not expected the other wizard to join the fight at Mortaz. A few moments of silence allowed Erelon to observe the presence of a young wizard standing with his arms crossed in a dark corner of the room. A scowl creased the young man’s face. Fair hair, dirty blond with curls, lay on his head.
“So you are supposed to be the great wizard Erelon,” the young wizard said with a voice laced with vicious sarcasm. “The one about whom all the legends are told,” the young wizard finished.
“So some say,” Erelon replied with no hint of emotion.
Backer glared at the young wizard, a look that demanded that the young man sit down and close his mouth.
“The giants did come down out of the North. They came through here a few days back. It won’t be long now before they reach your home,” Backer informed Erelon.
“Uh, that’s going to cause some trouble,” Erelon assured both himself and Backer. With a sigh Erelon also added, “Guess I better get back as soon as possible.”
“Samos has dispatched as many horsemen as they can spare. You know that they barely hold their side of the river,” Backer told Erelon.
“Yeah,” Erelon replied.
From the dark corner of the room the young wizard’s voice bit, “You know, all I see is an old worn wizard. A pathetic skeleton of a real legend. Like most legends, overrated. A tall tale.”
“Jeffrey!” Backer’s voice boomed threateningly.
Erelon shrugged off the insult, though his ears perked up at the name. Only those who had something to prove, those with low self esteem, would try to threaten back with more petty insults. Erelon had nothing to prove. But the name was so close to Jaffrey, the one he had avoided, hated at Mortaz so many years ago, Erelon could only smile as he made a parallel comparison to the two boys, from two different generations, who had both been arrogant.
“It will make Bahsal happy to hear that the giants made the trip. He was kind of counting on them,” Erelon said, even while he thought about how Bahsal and Hendle would have to fight with some of the other wizards about housing the giant race. But the giants were imperative to part of Bahsal's battle plan.
“Yeah, well I guess a wide variety of creatures and races are traveling across the world for this battle. Some for you, some just to fight a common enemy, and a few more because they assume this to be the legendary battle of the century,” Backer warned.
“We could do without the mercenaries,” Erelon commented, thinking about the trouble they usually caused, “But this is a battle for everyone.”
Erelon listened as a fire behind him cackled. Sometimes liquid would expand and the wood would pop, causing a burst of red ash and embers. It was cool in this city of the Gronge Mountains year round. There was always a fire in the hearth.
“What about the centaurs?” Erelon asked.
“The mayor has ceased wearing a suit of clothes and now wears a suit of armor. I am to send him notice of when he is to lead his clan to war. But I don’t think he and his family go alone. Many others from the city and around here, I think, also plan to march with him,” Backer told Erelon quietly but with pride.
A rough knock sounded on the door.
The young wizard Jeffrey pulled it open and grunted at the sight of Easton and said sarcastically, “Another wizard from the South whose powers die before they can even understand them.”
Easton looked first at Jeffrey in surprise and then toward Erelon with a confused look. Easton did not understand why his appearance was greeted with sarcasm and if he should beat the young man or ignore the insults. Erelon shrugged, signaling his own confusion. Easton simply ignored the remark and came over to sit with Backer and Erelon.
“Does it always rain here?” Easton complained.
“In these mountains, on this side, it usually does,” Erelon replied.
Backer turned to Easton and said, “It’s been a while since we last talked. Last time I saw you, you were only beginning your training. Now you’ve excelled past what most wizards can hope to accomplish in a lifetime.”
“Yeah, had a trip that I never want to face again,” Easton commented.
“So I’ve heard,” Backer said, “Rumor of your adventure has reached the ears of many wizard circles.”
Erelon stood, setting the stone in his chair, “Keep an eye on this for me. I need to go for some air. Make sure to get some rest.”
Erelon said the first to Backer and the last to Easton.
Erelon turned to move around his chair and toward the door as Jeffrey hissed, “Old and worthless, that’s all. How do you expect to face the enemy? You should let me do it.”
Then the wizard of Pendle attacked with a quarter staff.
“Jeffrey!” Backer roared in disapproval.
As Erelon easily slipped out of the path of the descending stick, he stated sadly, “You would have fit well with many of the wizards of Mortaz. Picking and causing fights with those who mean you no trouble or harm, and making friends with those who wish, in the end, to see you dead.”
Erelon eased out of the path of another awkward lunge by the young wizard. Erelon snapped his fingers in Jeffrey’s face. The young wizard froze in mid-stride with his staff out before him, rigid paralysis instantly overcoming his entire body.
Erelon turned to Backer and stated, “I regret I had to do that. He will be released when I leave the city.”
“You had to do what was necessary,” Backer assured Erelon.
Erelon turned and shrugged on his coat. The door opened, and for a moment, Erelon’s frame filled it. Then there was a short cool breeze as the door was empty, looking onto a silent wet street, and finally the door slowly slid shut.
“Look out for him,” Backer told Easton, “He has some unhealthy ideas about his future and preoccupations with some spells that could do harm to both himself and the world. You have to be the voice of reason.”
“I’ll try. But it's not easy trying to advise or tell Erelon anything that goes against what he has decided he wants to do,” Easton warned Backer.
“Even so, look after him,” Backer emphasized his suggestion.
Erelon crossed the street without looking in either direction, his eyes set straight before him. Still, he knew what and who was up and down the street. The water began to soak
the bottom of Erelon’s cloak, and his boots began to gleam from the water that covered them. A soft light that was filtered by the clouds filled the city with a blue glow. Nothing dangerous or ominous could Erelon feel in the city.
He had told the men in the room he needed air, fresh air. Erelon needed out of the cramped room, to move, to feel his muscles work. He felt cornered in Backer's home, and he could not allow his mind to wander with those men constantly trying to ask him questions. He wanted to think about the future battle, about his own involvement. He was considering if all the weapons, all the assets needed, were coming together, or was he rushing too fast into this fight. Or maybe he was already too late. Erelon did not know, and he wanted to think about it without other wizards trying to invade his mind.
Erelon trudged around the city as water began to drip from his hat and run down the inside of his cloak. The entire city seemed to be made of stone with wooden beams and shingles. No one moved, only a few lights broken now and then by a moving shadow.
Erelon knew where to find life. The older wizard turned up a few more alleys so narrow that a horse could never have passed. Erelon came from between two houses; to his right lay the city’s garden, a park filled with plant life. Erelon looked around and then slipped down the town square and between a couple trees. He did not follow the stone paths laid by those who had planned the garden, those hired to do the landscape. Instead Erelon passed across the grass and pushed his way in between bushes.
Several wild roses caught Erelon’s cloak, stalling him for a moment as he tediously untangled himself, trying to avoid tearing his cloak. For a moment Erelon thought about destroying the rose bush, disintegrating it. Erelon glared at it for a moment, but his eyes softened as he watched it bob in the slight breeze.
Slowly Erelon stretched his hand out and lightly touched it with his finger. Erelon closed both his eyes and drifted back to a time when he had lived in a twilight world of the elves, a world where there was no sun to help plants grow. Magic was the power behind everything that lived. An elvish word, one that was soft and musical, issued from the wizard’s lips.
From the deepest core of the wild plant poured the colors of strawberry red and the bright yellow of lemons. They blended together into a delightful twist. From the plant's surface this color blossomed into an interweaving ribbon in a circular form. Erelon smiled at the rose. In the flower’s center, Erelon could see the elves at play, the high-pitched cackle of the young elves still filled with fun, not yet burdened by the decades of memories stored by the immortal race. A tear rolled down from both Erelon’s eyes as he remembered the elves and his time spent with them.
Erelon slipped back into the house of Backer. He had not knocked before entering. By now he was more than just a guest. Jeffrey was still frozen. Easton was gone, and Backer was asleep in an arm chair like a father waiting for his son to come home after a long night out with friends.
Erelon grabbed a saddle blanket and lay on the floor with a saddle for a pillow. The fire was almost gone, but Erelon did not move from his solid bed to stir or feed the flames. It would wait until morning.
As morning came, it was still gloomy. Erelon was not sure if it was morning or just a continuation of night. Slowly, though, the atmosphere lightened, assuring Erelon of the time of day.
Erelon was seated at the table eating breakfast, Backer nearby watching.
Backer said, “Easton went out to saddle and feed the horses.”
Erelon continued to eat without response.
As Erelon emptied his plate, he leaned back with a sigh of contentment and, looking at Backer, finally said, “Thanks, for everything. I do not think we shall see each other again, especially if you do not come for the fight.”
As Erelon stood, Backer stepped forward to shake his hand and replied, “You never know. Pendle is now friendly with you. After the fight, you can always come back, for a vacation of a kind.”
Erelon smirked sarcastically.
“Besides, if I don’t see you again in this world, I doubt it will be too long before I meet you again on the other side,” Backer said, trying to relieve some of the pressure of the moment by joking about his own old age.
“Take care of yourself,” Erelon demanded before turning and walking toward the door. He put on his cloak that had been lying on the back of a chair and, without turning around, stepped out the door.
It was not much brighter outside than it had been within the building, and Erelon’s eyes quickly adjusted as he power walked up the street. Alleys and buildings alternated. Alleys looked down rows of buildings until ending at another main street, or until another building cut off the view. Each building was architecturally the same, but at the same moment, each house was unique, an individual with a mind of its own.
As Erelon reached the stables, Easton already stood outside sitting on his own horse while holding onto the reins of the other two. Both men wore dark clothing and oiled leather hats so that the rain slipped off in beads.
Erelon took the reins from Easton, mounted Draos, and took the lead. He let his horse walk slowly. He was in no rush to leave the protective walls of the city. Both men hunched down in their cold saddles, trying to contain their own body heat within their cloaks. A light fog drifted from their mouths as they breathed in the biting morning mountain air.
Very few others were out to witness the departure of the wizards. A shop keeper opening his store, a woman quickly walking, only glancing up for a moment before again looking toward her goal. A faun with a bucket were all that had a chance to wish the wizards a good day. Even the guards barely showed any sign that they observed the wizards leaving. A couple guards sat in rooms at the base of the towers that were built to both sides of the gate. They looked up, nodded toward the two wizards, and went back to their fire.
A couple big barrel torches mounted to the wall blazed with fire; embers exploded sending a shower of ash into the air that was quickly cooled by the rain. Huge drops of water fell from the wall under which Erelon and Easton rode. Dropping with rhythm, the water almost became the drums, a marching rhythm, a beat to war. Erelon knew that from here, a large battle was soon to come. The city walls disappeared quickly into the trees. Erelon followed a well worn path.
“You do realize that there are no more civilized cities between Pendle and Sine? Until Sine we live outdoors on our own,” Erelon asked Easton more to remind the younger wizard of what was to come.
“Yes,” Easton commented, but his mind was wandering far down the trail. Mentally, Easton was already in Sine.
“How do you know she is still waiting on you?” Erelon asked, half serious half in amusement.
Easton eased back in his saddle, allowing his muscles and shoulders to relax. It had been a long time since he had been able to take the day easy, allow someone else to bear the burden of anxiety and decision making. Now that Erelon was back and Easton had delivered the stone to his superior, he could let Erelon take care of all the mentally cumbersome work.
“She promised me that she would,” Easton said with conviction.
“Uh huh,” Erelon replied with amused sarcasm. “Do not know if she expected you to be gone this long, though?” Erelon questioned.
Easton looked up through the trees into the sky.
It had been a long time since Easton had last been able to allow his mind to drop its guard long enough to dream.
“Kit’s father owns that tavern,” Easton announced, “and it belonged to his father, and his father’s father, and to many of the generations of her family before them. She wants to escape from Sine, from the curse of their tavern. Kit wants to see some of the world. She will still be waiting,” Easton reasoned out the situation and reassured himself at the same moment.
The wizards walked their horses. They did not want to tire them, especially as there was a chance that they might turn any corner and have to flee the enemy. The day became comfortable as the clouds finally began to break up, allowing a little sunlight to drift through and warm t
he earth.
Travel between Sine and Pendle had not ceased even with the threat of the wraiths. The trail was still well worn, so the grass was short. The wizards even passed a few travelers hurrying along the path, trying to reach Pendle before dark, not wishing to spend another night outside of the walls of civilization.
The path led down out of the high mountains, lower to where the air was more comfortable to breath, the cold less biting. A few limbs hung down, brushing at Erelon’s hair, but most that had hung low had been cut down by passing travelers as the upkeep of the path became the responsibility of any who used it.
Bare spots popped up occasionally, either where a stone came to the earth’s surface, or where the path was more narrow and there was less area to support the travel.
The two slept under the stars. Always they made a fire. As they woke in the mornings, it had burnt down to nothing, and in a rush to warm themselves and loosen stiff muscles and joints, they soon had the fire again going. A pot went onto the fire, followed by water and coffee. The smell filled the forest, and if anyone was around, they knew where to find the wizards, but no one showed. The wizards almost ceased to see any travelers, friend or enemy, pass them by.
Both wizards began to ease, relaxing, forgetting the enemy that wanted them both dead. They talked openly, not heeding the volume of their voices, and quit trying to cover up the light of their fire or their trail. For the wizards, in their minds, the enemy lay far before them.
Several paths crossed before the wizards. Some well used, probably leading to small villages or water holes and then on out of the forest and into the prairie. But as they began to pass one that led back into the mountains, Erelon pulled Draos to a stop. Easton rode up until even with Erelon and looked at the older wizard who had seemed to grow darker.
“What is it?” Easton asked. He sensed no immediate danger, he could not feel any of the enemy close by, but Erelon’s attitude suddenly had Easton nervous, anticipating a fight.
Erelon remained silent for a few moments longer before shaking his head, shaking away the mental images that had absorbed his mind, “The last resting place of Chaucer, my city of birth. The lost city of the Gronge mountains. Victim of its own insanity, now only a trap. A huge wall that at one time promised protection, and could still easily offer it. But instead the wall only obstructs the escape of those who enter.”