River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  "Barku," the dwarve growled as he shoved his axe into the form. It dissipated and blew away. More than one way to fight the wraiths. Detour their path so someone else would have to face them, he thought grimly.

  Auri threw his shoulder into Iriote. The weapons master had seen his nemesis wading through the wizard’s army, his scimitar slicing in large, fast arcs. The assassin flew backward from the impact. Auri was wielding his grimdget. The heavy blade crashed into the ground, missing the assassin as he rolled. Auri easily spun the blade around, using every inch of it. Auri brought the blade through the skull of one goblin and slammed the back of the weapon into another, stunning it, and then brought the pointed end down into another.

  Iriote attacked, and Auri easily blocked the scimitar, bringing his own weapon through a full swing. The grimdget was fast in the hands of Auri. Iriote continued to back off, waiting for his chance to make his own strike. Auri brought the blade around under hand, over his head and then swung wide in front, so quickly that the assassin had no chance to make a thrust of his own as he arched his head back to avoid being severed at the neck and then had to suck in his stomach to avoid being gutted.

  The long handle of Auri's weapon exchanged hands as he passed it back and forth from one to the other as it spun around on all sides. He blocked the lunge of a goblin and then with a downward stroke severed another from neck to navel. Always advancing on the assassin. Auri's gaze never seemed to leave his rival even as he dispatched the lives of the goblin's around him. Iriote backed away tripping over a stone, falling backwards. Iriote’s face turned white as the blade cut through his arm.

  “Not yet,” Iriote hissed and then backed into a swarm of goblins, clawing away on the ground. The goblins charged Auri, swarming as they tried to protect their general.

  Grism tried to take a troll, alone. None were there to help, and the troll was a menace, scattering Grism’s allies with a giant mace. He was not accustomed to evading and then striking in planned attacks. Grism always waded in swinging. But here, the old fighter had to avoid the massive club, attacking only when the troll appeared open to an attack.

  The club slammed close to Grism, sending his body sprawling through the air like an empty bottle in a bar. As Grism rolled over and looked back up, the club was raised high above the troll’s head. Grism barely had time to move before the club again crashed into the earth, again sending his body airborne. Grism lost his hearing as the explosive impact left his ears ringing. Grism looked up into the eyes of the stubborn troll as his body floated. Grism could count the blood vessels in the troll's eyes, the beads of sweat dripping around the contours of his muscles, watched as the troll's eyes went from hateful to concentrative as it aimed to mash his much smaller opponent. The breeze is quite comfortable, Grism thought to himself and was immediately unsure why that thought would go through his mind. The mace again raised in this last effort to kill Grism.

  Auri’s body blew over Grism. The weapons master rolled and came up with the grimdget, smashing it into both shins. He slammed it first into one and then twisted, burying it in the other. The troll let out a roar of pain. A giant’s stray rock from a sling smashed into the troll’s knee, disintegrating the joint. As the troll crashed to the earth, Auri rushed toward it, his grimdget crashing down against the helm, the handle shattering in his hands.

  Auri grumbled curses as he rolled out of the path of the troll’s hands, which were swiping at the foreign prince. The weapons master’s hands came in contact with a goblin lance, and he charged, forcing it through the troll’s skull. The troll's eyes went immediately blank; his head snapped back; and drool formed in the corner of his lips.

  Auri stepped over to Grism and helped the old brawler to his feet. “Should stay close,” Auri warned.

  Grism walked right behind the southerner as they marched back toward the main battle. Stay close, Grism thought to himself. This was a battle, not a game in a pub. What did the southern prince expect?

  "Maybe I'll give you a leash," Grism grumbled.

  "I'm sure someone has some rope," Auri bit back.

  As they joined the other southerners, a mob of goblins rushed. They slammed into the defensive line. Grism found himself ducking below the legs of a particularly tall goblin, and as he stood back up, Auri was gone. Only a few men were left close to the old brawler. They were trying to keep a circle of goblins from rushing over them.

  The mayor was leading his small band of centaurs. Their huge frames burst through the lines of the wraith’s army. They were massive, wielding huge swords and shaolin spades. They crushed the enemy, trying to force the enemy into breaking apart, trying to divide them, push them into a retreating frenzy. But the wraiths held their army together simply with their presence, as any goblin who broke away in an attempt to flee was immediately torn apart by the force of a spell by the wraiths. So the wraiths' army drove the wizards' army against the walls.

  Fresmir fought where he wished; the wraiths left him alone. The Brect seemed to be the only warrior on the battlefield that the wraiths feared. The Brect would leap over huge piles of goblins to land on a troll, tearing the jugular out of the massive creature with his fangs. The short sword in his hands darted in and out of enemies leaving huge holes, but he would pick up massive weapons, huge maces, axes, and swords, and then leap into the battle striking out, clearing huge paths. The strength of the Brect had been unknown; both armies watched as he dragged trolls to the ground, and the wraiths would not approach him. The Brect did not seem to control any powerful magic. Yet, there was something within the creature that made even those of the wizards' army uneasy in his presence. The absence of his lower body made many question his relationship to the warlocks. He had been given no orders. Hendle even avoided him, wondering what had happened between Fresmir and Erelon to instill this kind of loyalty.

  The dragbas continued to harass the wizards' army, lifting off soldiers while pieces of armor and bones rained to the ground covered in blood. They had been a feared nemesis two decades earlier, and still the wizards had found no efficient way of destroying them. The dragbas were impossible to target with a bow or any other weapon, and there were hundreds of them. The best method seemed to be the giants, who swatted at them like flies, using their huge shields and mallets.

  One wizard stepped beside Hendle, "Let me give it a try."

  A fiery explosion sounded from inside the dragba cloud. At first a ball of white light quickly spread, engulfing the winged creatures, and as it died, it slowly turned to black as if all the light had been sucked into a hole. Pieces of rubbery wing or falling bone rained down, but the main mass seemed to feel the attack before it had happened and had scattered like frightened birds. The impact of the explosion, the frantic increase and decrease of light, the repercussion against the walls and the mountains shook the ground, and a few stones fell out of the walls. Hendle caught the wizard as he blacked out.

  "Take him," Hendle ordered. Two soldiers rushed over and carried the wizard away.

  Hendle saw a wispy shadow reform across the ground. He looked up as the sky returned to a pale grey blue, a buzzing cloud of dragbas reforming again like gnats. There seemed to be a never-ending supply. The general shook his head. He did not have enough wizards to do that again.

  Other warlocks took form from the darkness that was the wall of the containing bubble. Their bodies formed as the Stone of Combining reached far into the depths of time, both past and future, and pulled the warlocks back together. The warlocks attacked Erelon at once, together with a unified front. Magical spells blasted toward Erelon, looking like a swirling wall of fire and ice.

  The master wizard simply threw up a magical shield, deflecting and absorbing the magic. Then Erelon charged with both huge swords held ready to strike. He crossed them once before him and then allowed them to drift behind his body. The wizard leapt into the mob, bringing himself down along with his enemies. Erelon did not count the number of warlocks; he only knew that more were continually forming, more than h
e had thought actually existed, and his plan was to destroy them as fast as possible so that they could not all attack him at once.

  Erelon’s swords smashed through the knife and shield of one warlock, cutting into the enemy. Erelon, turning, brought Rivurandis through the throat of one and on into the chest of yet another. Erelon parried the attack of one warlock, turned around, cut the legs from below the one behind, and thrust his sword as he again turned into the man he had just parried.

  “You could have joined us!” a voice screamed at Erelon

  The master wizard turned to see a female warlock cursing him. Her hands came forward, and a blast of magical energy, a mix of electricity, fire, and ice, blazed through the air. Erelon instantly brought Rivurandis up to parry the magic. A current raced between the sword and the woman, and for a moment, both were paralyzed. The sword released a surge of power through the current that connected it to the woman, blowing her backward, her innards completely fried.

  A cackle sounded, coming from Rivurandis, the spirit of Chaucer finally achieving his revenge. These wizards had chased him from Mortaz, making him a fugitive from the very world he had helped to develop. Finally with the power of Erelon, they together made Chaucer's adversaries run terrified, much like how Chaucer had fled the halls of Mortaz.

  A younger warlock turned as if trying to flee. Erelon threw the elf blade. It spun in the air, covered in white flames, and went through the warlock, throwing the enemy to the ground and pinning him there as he went through his final convulsions before death finally set in.

  Fire and electricity filled the dome. Smoke began to rise, the stone burned. Erelon brought Rivurandis slashing down through a male warlock, plunged it into the chest of a woman, and pulling the elf blade from the ground, turned and thrust both swords into the chest of another man.

  A warlock reached out with his hand, reaching into the memories of the wizard and then, finding the right one, squeezed his hand into a fist. Pain ripped through Erelon’s torn eye as the warlock forced him to relive the memory of the goblin's claws ripping through his face. The master wizard was almost blinded as his vision was filled with bright lights and colors flashing and continually changing, a multitude of visual stimuli that caused his brain to scream in pain.

  Blades began to bite into Erelon’s body as warlocks tried to take advantage of the wizard’s painful situation. Erelon swept Rivurandis in a circle, slicing through those close and then down through the warlock’s hand that was causing the pain. The pain immediately gone, Erelon looked into the warlock’s eyes, reached into the wizard's own mind, and found a memory, one where the blood of the warlock's own mother ran down his arms from where his own knife had cut a hole. In her bed was another man whose flesh was burning, a sack of gold laying on the floor.

  Erelon smiled at the emotional pain he caused the man at finding this hidden memory. The warlock, never having forgiven himself for killing his own mother, had locked away the memory. The warlock's eyes filled with tears, and his lips bubbled as he cried for his mother. The warlock's heart began to pump quickly, and pain echoed from his chest down through his stomach and reverberated back through his mind as he tried to cope with the memory of destroying his own mother.

  "IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! AN ACCIDENT!" The warlock screamed over and over again.

  Then Erelon plunged the elvish blade between his eyes, ending the memory.

  Erelon felt his own warm blood pour down his side. Now that his body had sustained injuries, he could not last as long. This fight would end soon. Erelon ducked below an axe and spun with both swords, clearing a space to escape the enclosing death as many other wizards had charged into close proximity when Erelon had been down. Erelon turned around. There were no more warlocks appearing from the bubble’s walls. Only a handful remained, and they were charging.

  The wraiths had disappeared from the battlefield, though those fighting did not understand why. Most did not even notice as the goblins still pressed forward, their master’s presence still in the air, though not visible. Grism was swarmed by the enemy, cut off from the main army and surrounded. The veteran had gone to a pair of short blades. At first, the enemy had been far enough away that Grism had easily brought down the few that strayed too far from the main army.

  Grism organized the few with him so that none had a back to the enemy. Grism knew they had to make it to the wall. He knew this plan, to back up to the wall, would mean they would be pinned against it. This meant their only way out would be forward through the goblin mass. However he understood that their only chance of survival was waiting for rescue, not in fighting through the goblins. They could not survive fighting a complete circle of the enemy around them. With their backs to the wall, they would only have to fight those before them, everyone facing the same direction.

  His boot came in contact with the stone of the wall. Grism stopped. He could make his stand. Surely Auri would come back for his men. The warrior's head slowly turned in a circle looking for the southerner, but he was gone.

  In the distance, to the left, Grism could observe where a circle of goblins were falling. He assumed that to be where his closest allies were. Must be where Bahsal is leading the dwarves, Grism thought. Too far away to be much help to himself and the men with him. Grism looked right; one man fell as a scimitar split his belly.

  "Closer men," Grism growled as he jumped forward.

  He pushed to the front of his small band, pushing the goblins backward while trying not to push too far ahead and allow goblins behind, between him and the wall. A sword bit through his arm. He turned and glared, shoving his sword through a goblin's throat. He stretched his neck as high as he could to try to look above and beyond the goblins; he could see none of the southerners. His head turned right, the direction in which Auri had disappeared, and his gaze only met the angry eyes of goblins.

  Both swords started to swing wildly as he quickly backed toward the wall. The goblins were patient, their eyes gloating. There was no rush to kill this man, he was theirs at any time they wanted to kill him. He was alone.

  The main force of goblins soon pushed in close, forcing Grism further against the wall. There was no escape, only a hundred foot drop. There were no ladders, siege towers, or ropes. Grism stood alone, a short blade in each hand, parrying and blocking with one while forcing the other into the body of an enemy.

  Bahsal watched as the enemy began to surround Grism.

  “To Grism!” Bahsal bellowed to his troops.

  Bahsal and several of the dwarves closest to him began trying to punch a hole in the huge mass of goblins before them. With the wraiths gone, the wizards' army began to hold their ground well. Yet they had much to recover.

  A rock from the giant’s sling whistled above Bahsal’s head to slam into the earth, sending a shower of dirt and goblin bodies into the air. A skeleton warrior was looking the dwarve in the face. One moment it was only goblins; next, Bahsal faced the undead warriors. Bahsal’s axe came up, scattering the dry bones. One after another, Bahsal sent the undead flying, but they began to reform the moment they broke apart.

  Powder flew from their bones that splintered below the impact of the axes. It was slow work, and tears began to form in Bahsal’s eyes from desperation and aggravation as he knew he would be too late to save the old veteran. Grism would have to save himself. Still, Bahsal pushed forward.

  As Bahsal’s army of dwarves saw that their leader had turned a new course, they also changed their direction. A huge mass of dwarves, changing the flow of their current, charged into the side of the enemy, pushing them sideways.

  Bahsal raced up beside Grism. The old veteran was propped on the ground, his body filled with holes. Around the old veteran, bodies were piled. Grism had fought well, he had done himself and the wizards' army proud.

  “I guess that this will be for nothing come tomorrow,” Grism said with a hoarse laugh, “They’ll be alive in the mornin’.”

  Grism gasped, choking on blood as the dwarve army began to gather around
him. Then a breeze picked up, caressing Grism’s face and tugging at the beards of the dwarves.

  “Then again, maybe not,” Grism whispered.

  As Erelon turned, he struck his hand toward the ground. Warlocks went flying as energy exploded below them. Only one continued rushing in, and Erelon plunged his sword into the abdomen of that warlock, never looking into his enemy’s eyes as the warlock slid from the blade.

  The other warlocks tried to converge on the wizard. Quickly, Erelon brought the swords around. The blades seemed to disappear as they glided through the air, so fast that they could not be seen, they could not be blocked. There was no second chance for these warlocks. Erelon, without remorse, destroyed them as a child kills roaches. These warlocks had killed many of Erelon’s own good friends. They had hunted Erelon, trying to destroy him, and these warlocks were killing the world. The warlocks had destroyed countries they had never visited just because they could.

  Erelon smoothly turned one sword, going through an abdomen of one, coming up across the throat of another. Twisting with great energy, Erelon forced both blades through a third enemy. One more turn and Erelon brought both blades down through a fourth warlock.

  Erelon turned toward the last warlock, a younger man with fair hair and an almost white complexion. Whether the warlock was white because of his natural skin color or because of fear, Erelon did not know. The warlock’s eyes kept dancing around nervously as the knowledge that he was last broke into his mind.

  In an attempt of desperation, the warlock charged at Erelon, screaming like a man who had lost his mind. The warlock swung two short swords with no motive except desperately hoping they would strike something, maybe accidentally mortally wounding the wizard.

  Erelon easily parried the madman’s attacks multiple times with the same sword. Erelon brought his free arm around, smashing an elbow into the warlock’s face, crushing his nose. Blood splattered, feeding the hungry dry stone. The warlock stumbled back a few steps. The pain brought the warlock back to reality. The warlock knew he was going to die.