River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  “Hang on,” Erelon simply said with disgust.

  Erelon stepped onto a table and clapped his hands. A huge boom sounded from his clap, resounding through the room and echoing through the hallways. It caused the mountain to shake and dust to fall.

  “I am Erelon,” the old wizard announced, “Easton and I have returned. Let it be known that in two hours, after Easton and I have eaten and washed, there will be a meeting in the council hall. All the wizards and my generals should be there.”

  Erelon stepped back down from the table. At first the room was filled with silence. Slowly, starting with where Erelon had stood and given his short speech, a low roar of voices spread outward, gaining speed as it went. The name of Erelon was on everyone’s mind, and it was the name that all voices spoke.

  Erelon no longer had to push a path; instead one opened up. The name Erelon, to many here, had only been a legend, a story. Now it took shape, the name and legend took a human form, a real face, that they could see and touch. Though it was for this wizard that everyone waited, the presence of such a great wizard and warrior was still shocking. Erelon and Easton stepped to the counter and only seconds later were handed platters of food with mugs of ale. Silently they sat at a table. The lines began to again flow, but slowly as everyone had to first look at the legend and then ponder the future events that were no longer so distant.

  The two wizards had peace for half an hour and then a voice boomed, “Boys, you look like shit!”

  Erelon looked up into the face of Grism. Yalen was not far behind.

  Erelon smirked, “Yeah. Well you try going through hell.”

  Grism nodded toward Easton, “Been a long time since you last was here.”

  “I was nothing but a pup then,” Easton said with pride and sadness.

  “What happened to ya?” Grism asked.

  “Not now, not here,” Erelon replied.

  The long table was lined by the grim faces of many wizards. Erelon looked down at the many friends and rivals. Hendle was at the other end, looking back. As Erelon and Hendle had entered, Hendle had assured Erelon that most had been very cooperative, and those causing trouble were becoming fewer.

  One wizard stood, and Erelon could see by the disgruntled look that he was one of those causing trouble. He was blond with blue eyes, not a large frame, but not thin either.

  “I don’t like all of these strangers here eating our food, taking up space. The dwarves and elves were bad enough, but the giants, they eat everything.”

  Erelon looked at him and growled, “I don’t see you sweeping the goblins off the front lawn. There’s only maybe a few dozen of them, and they eat as much as all of the wizards, but the giants are more useful than a few of the wizards I know,” Erelon’s biting words pointing toward the blond wizard.

  “Easton and I are back,” Erelon stated the obvious, “Now it is time. Are we ready?”

  “Only a few of the dwarves are here,” Hendle said, “Bahsal and an army are still coming.”

  “Food, weapons, armor, strategy, and the men are lined out and ready,” another wizard assured Erelon, “We can march when Bahsal arrives.”

  “You do have what you left to get?” the troublesome wizard asked.

  “Yeah,” Erelon answered already prepared for trouble.

  “Then why do we all go to fight? Why don’t you just destroy them?” the blond wizard reproached.

  “Are you my master strategist?” Erelon asked mocking. "How many battles have you fought in? Must have been a lot considering you seem to think you know how to plan this fight."

  “No,” the blond wizard replied with confusion as Erelon had not answered the younger wizard's questions. "I've only fought in a few here, on the walls," the boy finished in embarrassment.

  “Then don’t concern yourself with the battle strategy,” Erelon reprimanded. "You do not look hardly old enough to be weaned when we left Mortaz."

  "No," the wizard mumbled. "Left in a wagon." His voice shrank until it was barely audible.

  “Everything is ready?” Erelon asked one last time for confirmation.

  A long murmur of positive assurances went around the table. “Alright, then I am done here,” Erelon stated, “I am going for some rest. Someone find a room for Easton.”

  Erelon stood to leave but as he was walking out the door, he grabbed Grism’s arm and pulled him close and whispered, “I want to know immediately when Bahsal arrives.”

  Erelon was seated at the edge of his bed after sleeping for several days. He had only been up long enough to say hello to friends and eat before going back to an unconscious state. The only one who did not come by the room was Festor. Erelon did not know where the old wizard was located.

  A loud knock came through his door. Erelon looked over and sat there for a moment just allowing his mind to clear. The knock came again, and once again Erelon ignored it, looking towards the window. The knocking did not stop.

  “Just a moment,” Erelon growled.

  The wizard looked toward the bolt lock. Erelon cast his hand before it. The bolt slid back; the knob turned; and the door cracked open. The young mage pushed it farther open and began apologizing for interrupting the wizard’s sleep before he stepped through the door. Erelon was not wearing a shirt or wraps, his scars visible for all to see.

  “It is okay, it is okay,” the wizard grumbled.

  “I was told to bring you these,” the mage said, holding out a pair of dirks whose steel was a red-brown. They had brown and gold handles and brass hand guards, and in the pommels were amber fossils.

  Erelon took them from the mage and swung them around. Whoever had made them knew their craft well.

  “What is your name?” Erelon asked the mage.

  “Trabin,” came the reply.

  Erelon placed the swords back in the mage’s hands, saying, “Keep these. They are good swords. You will need them worse than I.”

  Erelon walked over to his window, ignoring the mage until he had left.

  Erelon was seated in the cafeteria eating with several friends. Auri and Yalen, Easton and Grism were all there.

  “Erelon! Erelon!” a soldier called out to the wizard as he neared.

  Erelon’s head came up, “Yeah.”

  “There’s somebody here, asking for you,” the soldier said. “You won’t believe who it is.”

  Erelon’s mind thought for a second. It could not be the dwarves. Bahsal would have come to see Erelon himself.

  “Where are they?” Erelon asked.

  “We’re holding them outside the walls,” the guard answered.

  “Well, who are—what are they?” Erelon demanded, his patience growing low as the soldier kept him guessing.

  “Trolls,” the soldier answered ominously. “They came with a white flag; the giants are ready to destroy ‘em.”

  “Trolls,” Erelon said with confusion.

  “Yeah, and one carries a pendant that he claims belongs to you,” the soldier replied.

  “Ohhhh,” Erelon said in recognition before roaring in laughter. “Come on,” Erelon told his friends.

  The older wizard led his friends from the castle. Horses always remained saddled near the exit. Each man picked a beast that they liked and followed Erelon through the forest.

  The gates to the prairie were closed. Erelon was forced to climb the walls and look down upon the trolls.

  “Bunkir!” Erelon yelled, “This is a long way from home!”

  “Ya. I hear ya was acceptin' volunteers frum every race. Thunk I’d represent my own.”

  The giants glared in the direction of Erelon. The master wizard was making friends with the sworn enemies of the giants.

  “They are okay,” Erelon said to Auri, “Let them in.”

  Slowly the gates opened and about a dozen small mud trolls cautiously stepped through. Erelon was the first off the wall to greet the new warriors.

  “Do not worry,” Erelon assured the trolls, “Here you are under my protection.”

 
“I refuse to trust them,” one giant told Erelon as he dropped to one knee to get closer to the wizard’s height. The trolls were being led away by Auri and several other soldiers to a place they could encamp.

  “My friend,” Erelon said to the giant, “These are simply mud trolls. I doubt they come to cause trouble in these few numbers, especially where they are outnumbered three to one by giants alone.”

  Runners came by to alert Erelon to Bahsal’s progress. As time went, one rider even brought a report that a significant army of dwarves from the Broken Mountains also trailed with Bahsal.

  “Thousands of dwarves marching,” the rider said excitedly, “Never has such a large army of dwarves assembled.”

  Loud horns and the beat of drums woke Erelon from where he slept in a room in the wall. Erelon had been warned that Bahsal was not far away and so had spent the night at the wall.

  Erelon jumped to his feet and raced to the gate where the dwarves marched through.

  “Should we watch my army from the wall?” Bahsal asked from behind the wizard.

  Erelon smiled as he turned to shake Bahsal’s arm, “Sure, sure.”

  They climbed to the top of the wall, looking far across the hills. A line of dwarve warriors snaked its way far off into the east until it disappeared. It was an impressive sight that gave Erelon hope.

  “What happened to you?” Bahsal asked with concern.

  “Long story that you will hear soon enough,” Erelon said.

  The dwarve crowd piled in. The Rusted Mountain dwarves wore their armor made of their special alloy; those from the Broken Mountains wore iron and leather armor and weapons. Huge wagons and carts were packed by stocky horses.

  “Siege towers and weapons that only need to be assembled. Also stores of weapons and armor, cranes, everything,” Bahsal explained proudly, “We’ll be here for hours if you want to watch my entire army come in. Let’s go.”

  Erelon had just left Bahsal in the dining hall with a squad of other dwarves and friends, and with instructions to meet him in the meeting hall as soon as Bahsal was finished.

  Erelon was walking along with Auri and Easton, giving them instructions, “I want my generals, my close friends, those that will be leading the armies into battle. I want them in the meeting hall in one hour. It is a private meeting; those attending are the only ones to know.”

  Erelon parted from their company. Erelon was going to his room to prepare for the meeting, the other two were going to inform the others about it. The old wizard was walking when the sound of something big cleared its throat behind him. The wizard turned to look a centaur in the eyes. The warrior was dressed in armor, covered in large weapons.

  “Erelon,” the centaur stated in greeting.

  “Mayor,” Erelon replied as a question as he pulled himself up to full height. It was a motion of both pride and self respect as Erelon wanted to be seen in the posture of a warrior and not an old man.

  “We’ve come to fight,” the centaur said.

  “Good to have you,” Erelon said, “You won’t have long to wait.”

  The centaur turned out the door, and Erelon went on up the stairs. The wizard sat at the end of his bed, staring blankly forward, forgetting why he had walked to his room. Slowly he came out of his trance and grabbed the bundle that had the stone in it. He strapped his swords to his body and grabbed at the leather-bound journal, his memoirs. Erelon walked from his room, shut and locked the door.

  The meeting hall was empty as Erelon stepped into it. The experienced wizard set the shrouded stone on the table and collapsed into a chair at the end of the table, his respectable seat that he had assigned to himself. Erelon waited on the others.

  Slowly they filed in. First was Festor. It was the first time since being home that Erelon had seen the ancient wizard. Festor’s skin was drawn, filled with wrinkles. He was fragile, a cane held up his sagging body. Festor’s form, his muscles that at one time commanded power and had the ability to swing a hammer, now barely had the strength to move his own body. He had at one time been feared for both magical and physical power. Now he was respected for his wisdom that came with his age.

  Festor gently lowered himself into a chair near Erelon. The old wizard was gasping for air at the exertion to simply come down from his room.

  “You are the youngest and last of the original five?” Erelon asked, though he knew the answer.

  “Yes,” Festor answered proudly.

  “You then will be the one to represent and witness the events to come for your generation. Before you die, the evil left free during yours and Mellacobe’s generations will end. You will see this and the return of the wizards to power in Mortaz.”

  “Do not create stories about events that have not happened and you do not know how they will come out in the end. It brings hope, and in the end, if your story is false, it brings desperation and heart break,” Festor warned.

  “One always filled with logic,” Erelon stated, “That is why you must be here to guide the next generation at their start.”

  Grism entered next. The old brawler nodded toward Erelon, his face also covered in scars from multiple battles. Grism’s lips were set firmly as he prepared to face the oncoming instructions that would lead to the greatest battle he had ever had the privilege to fight in. Quickly Yalen slipped in with Grism, bringing a cool breeze with him that carried on it the music of the twilight world of the elves, a world that slowly darkened in Erelon’s mind. Auri and Easton were not far behind. Erelon assumed that Easton was telling some of his adventures to Auri, explaining what had happened after they had left Easton to travel alone across the desert.

  Hendle came in alone, limping on his stump. Erelon did not say a word. The master wizard kept silent and still, waiting on the last member of his closest friends. The others began whispering among themselves but grew quiet as Bahsal entered.

  “Good, that is all of us,” Erelon said.

  The master wizard twitched his arm, and all of the doors and windows, every balcony, was closed and locked. An uneasy feeling filled the men as they remembered the stories of how irrational Erelon could become. How he could lose his mind and destroy everything.

  “I have brought you all together for several reasons. The first is to tell you what happened to me after I left. I did not want to have to repeat this story to each of you at different times, so I have instead waited until now. Secondly, I want to outline the part of the plan for battle that no one except myself and possibly Easton knows, that is if he has guessed. Third, I want to set my affairs, and those of the Suragenna, Mortaz, and my predecessor, properly in case of an unfortunate death.”

  Erelon paused, looking for any premature questions, but was met with blank faces, all waiting for what Erelon had to say. So Erelon began telling of what happened that day he had left. Erelon emphasized his investigation at the Keep, the finding of Chaucer’s sword, the stone, and how the enemy had tried to steal it. Erelon left out his visit to the corner of the world, a secret that he would keep even as he was buried in his grave.

  “That's what you get for not wearing the dragon-scale cloak,” Bahsal said with contempt after Erelon had finished.

  “The sword, can I see it?” Festor asked in awe, eager to see the weapon in which his deceased friend had entrapped his spirit.

  Erelon pulled Rivurandis free of its sheath and set it onto the table.

  As Festor drew his fingers across the blade, Grism asked, “Can we see the stone?”

  “No,” Erelon said, resting his hand on the bundle, “I have not seen it and do not wish to uncover it until it is time to use it. Easton has advised against it. I respect the man who faced the world of the Humbas to retrieve it.”

  Erelon picked Rivurandis up and slipped the long blade back into its sheath.

  “Some of you may not agree with my plan for battle. But it will help explain my plans for taking care of my affairs. I will not be going with you to the fight at Mortaz.” Erelon stopped to allow his friends to understand wha
t he had just unveiled.

  “I am taking the stone and going to King's Time. I will fight the wraiths there. Easton will go with me to King's Time, to watch my back while I fight.”

  “Then why are we fighting at Mortaz at all?” Festor asked, acting as the voice of reason and logic.

  “Besides pride,” Erelon replied, “and to take back what is ours? A mass of goblins and trolls that size is still dangerous. It is still a building of learning, of knowledge. It was built on the blood of men enslaved by magic. But it can still be used for what it was meant for. It is a symbol. You cannot just replace an object like that. But most importantly, I need you at Mortaz to force the enemy to stay there. I cannot fight off every goblin, troll, and anything else that they can throw at me. You have to keep their attention so that I can focus on the main threat, the key, the warlocks trapped within King’s Time.”

  All sat silently, understanding that the wraiths would crush Erelon in the openness of the prairie. Each understood the importance of their task.

  “Oh, some advice, burn the bodies of your dead enemies and set them to a strong east wind so that they spread out and do not get blocked by the mountain. You do not want to send the ashes back to the wraiths, and you do not want the bodies rising again below you as you sleep,” Erelon warned.

  “Some of the soldiers are not going to like that you are not fighting with us,” Auri said.

  “I know,” Erelon stated, “That is why I did not tell them. They would never understand, it would have been too hard to explain.”

  There was a round of mumbles of understanding.

  “Hendle is to succeed me as leader of the wizards if I do not come back,” Erelon stated, “Festor will aid him. But Hendle will lead both Suragenna and Mortaz. I will leave it to him and the others of sound logic to make decisions as far as political policies for the different fortresses.”

  Erelon stopped as Hendle objected, “Why me? Why not Easton? He’s the one who got the stone. He’s the stronger.”