River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Suddenly, little white tents, no more than cheap cloth on supporting poles, covered an area just cleared. The old trees had been torn and cut down, their giant trunks used either for firewood or just left on the ground to rot. For a moment, the wizard stalled on the parameter, observing the area. A crackling noise, the popping of rapidly heating wood and crackling as ember-weakened timbers would break and snap, attested to the fact that somewhere a huge campfire could be found. Erelon assumed around the main fire would be the majority of the goblins.

  Goblins could be seen across the clearing into the far parameters of the camp. Elvish arrows flew, and the goblins fell to the ground. Finally, deciding that none were left watching the outlying parameters of the camp, Erelon left the brush that had hidden him. Sheathing his dagger, he walked with both his long knives. Into the first tent he cut a slit and aggressively pushed his way in.

  A goblin looked at him with confusion. Quickly, recognition of the danger he faced entered his mind, and the goblin reached for a blade while getting ready to yell. His moment of confusion made his reaction too late. Both of Erelon’s blades quickly went into the goblin’s throat, opening a hole and allowing blood to drain down his chest. Erelon had already cut an exit before his victim ever fell to the floor.

  Erelon watched as the other elves entered and exited tents, swiftly, quietly, efficiently, invading one tent and then another. Only those eight chosen for their skill with the bow did not enter tents. Instead, they circled the camp grounds, disposing of those goblins that strayed into view, those that could give signal of the invasion.

  The roar of a huge fire grew louder as Erelon worked his way toward the center. A low murmur of voices floated through the tents. The leaves on the camp paths had been trampled into powder. Now only bare, hard dirt showed. An occasional blade of grass, unhealthy, more yellow of hue than green, would pierce the hard dirt.

  Erelon peered around one of the tents, observing that half of the camp surrounded huge fires. Mutton was being served. Where the goblins had found the deer, the wizard did not know, as he had seen no sign of any living creature besides the goblins. They would reach into the fire with long crude metal utensils that would tear at the meat. Some of it was raw, some well cooked. The goblins ate it either way.

  Blood dripped from the torn part of the carcass that the goblins devoured. Erelon hid behind the tent. The elves also stopped, watching the wizard. The elves nervously shifted as they did not know when they would be discovered, and they were still easily outnumbered. Erelon ran the possibilities through his mind. Suddenly Yalen appeared next to the wizard.

  “So, what’s next?” the elf asked, wanting to finish the hunt. He wanted to end the gruesome task so that he could find something else less destructive to occupy his time. Yalen did not enjoy causing death; it was something he did only when necessary.

  “Send your archers around back of the camp. What I am about to do is going to cause some attention. When the rest of the elves, including those keeping watch in the trees, come into camp, your archers are to cover them. But they are not to go on the offensive until the goblins go into retreat, and trust me, they will retreat. Until then your archers are only to protect the elves, only killing the goblins who are an immediate threat to one of your own. I want them to save their arrows for when the goblins retreat, your archers are to cut them down. By then we should have thinned their numbers down so that your archers can handle those left. I do not want any goblins to escape. The longer we can keep the wraiths in darkness as to what happens here today, the longer we will have peace.”

  Yalen gave a nod and disappeared. The sun had by now long ascended into the sky. Everything was visible. A jar made of clay and filled with water sat beside Erelon, behind the tent. Quickly the wizard kicked a hole in its base. The water flowed to the ground, causing a puddle of mud. Grabbing some of the all-purpose magical dust from a leather bag hanging from his belt, the wizard sprinkled it into the mud, mixing it together with his dagger. Grabbing a stone that was the size of a child’s fist, Erelon coated it with the mud. Then he breathed on it, causing the mud to dry. The very breath of the wizard was as hot as a desert, causing the air to waver.

  Slipping back around the tent, Erelon looked over towards Yalen, who gave a nod signaling that the elves were ready. Erelon lobbed the stone into the flames and dived to the ground. The huge explosion emanated from the fire. A shower of goblin anatomy flew through the air. Everything seemed to be engulfed in flames, the entire camp. The tent before Erelon whipped back and forth as a burning projectile hurled through it. Burning victims raced around, spreading the flames. Quickly, both of Erelon’s knives were dancing, cutting down the frantic goblins, all that was left of the band. Easily he walked through the main aisle of the camp, his knives slipping out to tag the goblins, dropping them.

  Through the camp, other goblins raced to the aid of their comrades. Yet they were few. They leapt into the fight using their crude but dangerous blades made from scraps of metal, but quickly fell. No longer did they greatly outnumber the elven party. The elves, being better trained, easily cut the incoming goblins down.

  At first the hunters used bows. Even Erelon shoved both knives into the ground and pulled his. The string went taunt, his muscles quivered along with the string, and then the arrow disappeared. The air tickled its feathers, and the music ended only as it thudded into the gray throat of the enemy. Again and again Erelon pulled on his bow string with the same effect, a goblin falling to the earth dead.

  As the goblins closed in, Erelon pulled his sword. He swung it upwards into his first victim, splitting goblin from its lower abdomen completely into its chest cavity. No The wizard pulled his blade from where it had become lodged in the ribs of his last victim, and brought it down on another, cleaving the skull. Turning, Erelon thrust the sword into another, where it became jammed within the goblin’s ribs. The goblin grabbed at the blade, but it was evident that the goblin was going to die and did not have the power to pull the steel free. Erelon dropped the elven blade and reached for his dagger. He did not want to be tugging on his lodged blade if another goblin was creeping on him. As he turned, Erelon saw that the goblin band was a scattered bundle of no more than a dozen.

  Erelon turned in a circle, taking in the entire scene, evaluating his own performance as well as that of the elves. Embers still burned. Several of the tents were no more than charred rubble, and pieces of cloth floated in the breeze. The elves from outside the camp's parameter were shooting down the remnants as the last few goblins tried to rush into the forest.

  A huge fire blazed in the center of the clearing where the goblin band had camped. What was left of their camp had been looked through for what might be salvageable. The bodies and remains of the camp and supplies were being burnt. Ashes floated through the air, at first still glowing red, but quickly cooling and dying.

  The fire roared and crackled. The elves stood far from the blaze as the heat grew unbearable, many of the nearby trees wilting. The fire soared several times the height of a man. But quickly it died, the dry cloth and oil they had poured on helping the fire to race through the pile of rubble. The pile fell until it was no more than a large pile of ash.

  The wizard looked around at the forest. He did not wish to see it burned to the earth’s floor. From within his cloak, Erelon pulled a leaf and brushed it before the sky. In the distance, where the leaf had crossed, clouds formed. As they left the battle grounds, huge clouds rolled in. They tumbled and fell only to grow again, only to larger heights and a darker, more angry hue. A dark curtain rolled across the horizon, across the prairie, and through the forest. All embers left were doused with an angered hiss that left steam to rise. The rain pounded the earth, scattering the ashes at first and then forcing them to bleed into the earth’s floor.

  It was early in the morning, and Erelon lay in his bed suddenly awake. He did not move. His muscles did not even twitch as he held them under throttling control. It was so early that light had not yet filter
ed into his room from an open window. The ceremonial dagger given to him at the celebration for his return lay on a table beside his bed. A handle, which was molded by an expert artisan into the form of a snake entwining itself about a branch, held the blade which came from its opened mouth, the edge of the blade splitting the fangs. The blade was said to be cursed. For that reason it was a ceremonial blade, it was a knife never to be used. Erelon had never taken such threats seriously.

  Chaucer had tried to change Erelon as a young man. Yet Erelon had always known that he was powerful and had not heeded such warnings of his mentor. Erelon had thought Chaucer was old and too cautious and conservative with his powers. The curse on such a blade was that the blood of one slain on such a knife would haunt the one who had wielded the blade for the rest of his life. The slain might even haunt the murderer on into the world after.

  Erelon’s hand slowly gripped the knife’s handle. He felt a presence within the room. The snake unwrapped itself from the handle and coiled on Erelon’s arm. The harder the wizard’s grip upon the handle, the stronger the snake wrapped itself about the arm of the wizard.

  The presence eased through the wizard’s bedroom, and slowly it bent over Erelon. Slightly it placed its hand on the wizard. The presence was slight of frame, yet Erelon took no chances. Quickly he squeezed the body in his left arm, his right coming up with the blade and lying it across the neck of the man hovering over him. The snake hissed with delight at the thought of drinking blood.

  Yet, the blade did not cut, as Erelon stopped himself at the squealing voice of a young boy crying, “But you said to come early on the second morning!”

  With a grunt and then a sigh, Erelon’s nerves eased, his muscles relaxed, and he released the boy to the floor and replaced his knife on its stand.

  “Wait for me outside,” Erelon’s command sent the boy scurrying for the door.

  Erelon emerged from his room a few moments later, dressed in a huge coat made of some wild beast’s hide. It made him look twice as burly. Below the robe was more thick clothing.

  Handing the young boy a cloak and a pack, Erelon commanded, “Hurry now. Put those on.”

  Quietly both slipped from the castle, but not by the front door. Silently they ascended stairs, crossed great pits, and passed by store rooms and halls where men, women, and children now lived. Finally they started up on paths that were not finished with embellishments and geometric designs. A smooth floor guided by roughly cut walls chauffeured the wizard and the boy through unknown, unmapped regions of the castle. All the time, they continued upwards.

  It was winter. The young lad had begged Erelon to allow him to assist the wizard however he could. Now Erelon was trying to find a hobby that would free his mind. The shadow had yet to attack, he had not called the wizards to a council for months, and he had increasingly begun to worry for the young wizard, Easton, who braved the magical world of the Humbas.

  The young boy behind gasped as he tried to regain his breath. The higher they climbed, the less oxygen there was and the colder the world became. For a long time already Erelon had awaited this moment. Festor had told him of this relatively unexplored area and what a legend claimed that it contained. Yet, for the right temperature, the right time of the year, Erelon had to wait.

  The trail continued, but it grew rough. It was cut into by deep crevices, and the craftsmanship of the carving declined. Chunks of rock began to impede the progress over the trail, and then the path left the interior of the mountain altogether. The two adventurers were outside on the mountain’s wall. Snow monsters could be heard higher up the mountain, throwing chunks of ice as the pieces bounced, rumbled higher, and then fell into the depths. Huge boulders of ice fell, slamming into the mountain wall, chipping it, and taking more pieces of stone with them in a rush of snow.

  Erelon shook his head and, looking up, muttered cautiously, “Ought to get a gate placed in that door. Some little kid is likely to wander out here and get hurt.”

  The maze led them between two chunks of frozen rock and then across a thin rock ledge coated with ice and snow. The nails of their boots sunk down and completely disappeared. The path at first led warily upwards, observable for several moments, before disappearing over a bump.

  The trail barely bobbed back and forth and was easy to follow. As Erelon and the young boy ascended to the top of the hill, the path became noticeably worse. Sometimes it became so steep that the path threatened to let them slide back. At times, they indeed lost their footing, falling to the ground. The two travelers felt as if they had become brittle, that if they were to drop against the floor of the earth far below, they would shatter to pieces as if they were crystals of ice.

  The path led into the mountains, leaving behind the narrow ledge. Now the greatest threat became avalanches of white powder tumbling down, burying them alive, not to be found until the thawing of spring. Several passes forced them to squeeze by, and at other places, the mountain peaks spread out, creating valleys. As Erelon passed through several such valleys, he could hear ice popping underfoot as they passed across frozen ponds.

  As the hostile wind and crystals of ice made speech with the lad impractical, Erelon began to think to himself. Erelon could almost imagine how these mountain valleys would make great areas in which to store a herd of beef.

  The wizard had been importing essential stores of food for some time now for a siege he expected soon. Erelon deducted the wraiths would come down on them with vengeance. The siege of Kintex had not gone well for the wraith’s army. Though Kintex was all that was left of the kingdom of Westeron, they had not been able to take it. Now the wraiths were splitting their forces further to attack the home of the wizards.

  The wraiths were not completely content with the outcome of events. They were not occurring as the wraith’s had seen in the future they had chosen. By now the wraiths had wished to occupy the country of Sirus, but instead they had yet to destroy the wizards, their greatest enemy, or completely finish Westeron.

  Yet, with the advent of a siege, Erelon wanted to have fresh supplies that they could easily replenish without importing. In these valleys, grain could be grown and cattle fed. Early summer Erelon would have the dwarves cutting safer paths and farmers planting the ground. Yet this was not what the wizard had come for. Erelon had come in search of a hidden cave in the crest of the mountains.

  It was said in this cave were created, during the winter months, the greatest ice crystals—crystals that contained the very essence of winter. The legend told of crystals perfectly tuned by a winter breeze that blew through the caverns. They made music, they sang songs, ballads of winter. Erelon searched for one crystal, one that had a mischievous spirit within it, one that had entrapped the demon of winter within its transparent walls. It was the dissonance within the ballad. It was this crystal the wizard looked for.

  They stepped into another valley, yet no apparent opening led out. Erelon looked around, gazing in all directions. Every shadow, every movement of snow that seemed out of place, he studied for many moments. It was a dead end, the last valley in the mountains along this path. In here was the cave he needed to find.

  The wizard took a couple steps, and a high pitched crack pierced the air and rang down the canals of his ears.

  Erelon turned to look at the lad behind and said, “Slow and easy.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. To drop through the surface of the table of ice at this height, with the warmth and protection of the wizard’s residence far behind, would mean certain death. Slowly the two moved, the floor below them popping and cackling. Wind swept the snow from where it had covered the smooth surface of the lake, casting the snow into piles. Erelon’s feet sank deep, and as he stepped, dead grass could be seen crushed. He breathed deeply, relieved that they were once again standing on firm ground

  They went on, leaving deep holes in the snow where they had passed. The canyon took a bend, and a wind greeted them with a cloud of cold white powder. For a moment, they were both blin
ded as the ice burned into their faces, yet the world cleared and both men could see. It was not a hospitable sight. The world had not changed; it was still no more than cold gray rock tortured by snow, except for one tree, blooming with pink flowers. At the tree’s base was a narrow trail leading again upwards against the mountain’s surface.

  “We have to climb that?” the lad whined.

  “No,” came a calm response from the wizard.

  He was admiring the tree that braved and stood firm in the winter weather that killed everything else.

  The wizard, after a few minutes of silence, explained, “That narrow trail leads up and around the peak into more valleys that are almost impossible to reach. If one continued on they would come to the ocean. If events get bad, we can hide in there and protect it effectively for at least a few years. The paths in are narrow and dangerous.”

  The wizard standing at the base of the inclined path counted out ten steps past it. Grabbing a small shovel from the lad’s pack, he began to sweep the snow from his path. As he uncovered a large red stone, smooth and shaped like an egg, Erelon wielded the shovel faster as he gained excitement. A few moments later, he uncovered a hole in the rock wall. It was so small that it forced Erelon to crouch. Once inside, the wind stopped, giving them some relief.

  “Should we light a torch?” came a question from behind the wizard.

  “No,” came a vehement response from Erelon.

  Reaching into the lad’s pack, he pulled out two sticks, smoothed until perfectly cylindrical and at a size that easily fit in a man’s fist. The wizard dipped the top of each into a jar of jelly-textured goo. Casting his hand over the sticks, Erelon said a few elvish words and then breathed on them. Where the jell had touched, a low red glow lit the stick, yet they did not produce any heat or fire.