River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  The brass doors disappeared like the illusion they really were and through came a rushing river of gray bodies, like water released from a dam. Planning to overpower the wizard, the mob rushed down the corridors from three directions. The wizard stepped backwards until the warmth of the stone wall could be felt seeping through the back of his cloak.

  One spell came to the wizard’s mind. He had avoided using it since its targets could not be chosen. The wizard did not want to destroy his allies along with his enemies. But here there were no allies.

  The wizard’s body went completely rigid, arms stiff and straight. Erelon never flinched as the horde flowed forward; the mob never contemplated stopping to flee. Those in the back were just as eager to tear into this hated wizard as those in front. All were pushing and surging forward with great momentum that could never have been stopped. Even if the entire mob had thought about the future possibilities and had come to the conclusion that attacking a wizard with such supreme command over magic was not a good idea, they could not have stopped the flow.

  The body of the wizard rippled from the center out. A wave that caused the atmosphere to waver, like water after a stone is thrown into it, raced from Erelon’s body. It slammed into the foes racing towards him. The tide of enemies was thrown back, and as the wave ripped through it, the bodies of the wizard’s enemies were torn apart. Slowly at first, the fibers unraveled, waving in the ripple of energy. And then the disintegration picked up momentum. The skin was torn away, exposing muscle. Then the muscle would disappear and bone would show through only to be shattered into small fragments. The wave pushed the pieces down the hall. As the tissues and fibers floated along with the wave, they churned and ground, growing smaller with every moment.

  The blood and flesh turned to a fine mist which coated the walls in a fine sheet of liquid. Pieces of bone lay on the floor, only splinters. The spell was that of the elves. It was not one they were proud of. It was not used often. Only a few knew it, and to only a few special people would they teach it. They feared the damage it would cause if the wrong people learned of the technique and could amplify and apply the spell to a large monumental area. Whole cities and armies could be destroyed in one cold rush of air.

  Gingerly, Erelon stepped through the pools of blood and flesh. He was out of breath from using the spell. His mind urged him to lie down and sleep, even among the remains of his enemies. But his will pushed him forward. His cloak trailed through the mess, drinking it in like an elixir to give a longer, more powerful life. The blood did not dry and adhere to the walls. Slowly it flowed down, gravity pulling it. It collected in small balls like mercury and began to roll around the stone floor. Not until he was half the distance down the hallway did Erelon become aware of what was happening around him. The other end, the exit, was only a small bright square before him.

  Erelon stood in the center of a reassembling army. Skin pulled together and began to fold itself over muscle fibers that one by one reunited, building upon each other, interweaving in a delicate mesh. Bones began to rebuild using the shards left. When the army would stand, Erelon realized that he would be in the very center of the mob without a chance to use the spell again. Erelon ignored the body pieces on the floor, the reassembling limbs and the blood that splattered in huge drops as his heavy feet landed in puddles.

  Erelon felt a tug and then heard fibers within his cloak rip. He did not look back. The exit did not seem to grow larger as he neared. It felt as if he had almost run a mile and yet was no closer. His lungs burned, his heart pounded against his ribs and the exertion of his running forced slime to his throat. He wanted to stop, to breathe. His sides began to ache, pain screaming up and down his muscles. His chest felt like his rib cage was trying to pull apart, each bone in an opposite direction. His head pounded, and his eyes grew clouded with sweat and the blood that spattered from each heavy step. He heard the scraping of bone on stone. His mind wanted to push him faster, harder, but his legs refused to respond. Erelon's mind screamed at him, but he had no more.

  Goblins began to stand. Only a few were completely reassembled. Most still were missing layers. Muscle, skin, and bone were all present, all three visible. In the distance, behind the wizard and down the corridor, a troll roared and stormed towards him.

  Erelon raced onward, oblivious to what was under his feet. Several times he almost tripped. Finally his body tumbled forward, slamming into the rock floor, shoving the air in his lungs out every pore. Something had grabbed his leg, its talons biting deep.

  Erelon rolled over to find out what had caused him to trip, yet what greeted his eyes was a troll swinging a mallet. Another roll saved the wizard from being completely crushed; blood splattered over half of the wizard's face. A sharp sense of pain sprang up from his left hand, paralyzing and deadening all feeling through his entire left arm. There was no time to find out what had afflicted his left side. Pulling his sword free, Erelon severed the arms from the body of the goblin that had tripped him. Its legs had yet to form, but its hands had still been able to claw at the wizard, pulling itself along, trying to tear into the man's body.

  Erelon went to roll to his feet when he felt the tissues and fibers in his face tear and shred, fibers popping as they were torn. One eye went completely dark, all sight gone within it as the talons of a goblin ripped gullies. Erelon plunged between the legs of the troll, swinging at the tendon of the heel. As the great beast plunged downward, Erelon thrust his sword through its groin and into the abdominal cavity.

  Limping, Erelon raced for the exit, unconsciously forgetting about the left arm that hung limply at his side and the darkened eye. To live was most important at the moment. More goblins reached out for the wizard like damned souls in hell grasping for any chance of escape. They were partially formed, missing feet or arms, some even missing their skulls, or their skulls having empty sockets where the eyes would still form. Erelon only looked down at them with contempt, hatred filling the eye that could still see.

  The wizard entered a better lit corridor. Light streamed in through openings in the ceiling. The sun’s rays were broken and so came in segmented. Nothing impeded the wizard’s path, yet he knew that the battle was not over. He had turned the offer down; he had insulted the enemy; and they would not repay him with kindness.

  Erelon stopped for a moment. Several fingers on the wizard’s left hand had been badly mangled, yet as he gripped a knife, he confirmed that it would still work in a fight. He wrapped them, hoping to stop the blood, and sprinkled a white powder in the bandages. The powder was made by drying herbs and grinding them in a bowl. It was designed to numb pain. He did the same for the side of his face. The one eye, Erelon had already assumed, he would never see out of again. He had looked it over as well as he could in the reflection of his bloodied sword.

  Carefully Erelon chose his path. He knew all the ways in which to reach the front doors, yet he wanted to avoid those best suited for ambush. Yet he was not truly ready to face any of the paths, so each one he felt carefully with his mind. Each felt like a black hole. He trusted none of the paths, and so finally he simply chose one. He had thought about using one of the secret passages. However Erelon was no longer sure of how secret they all remained and that also meant possibly leaving Draos behind.

  A rustling and silent patter of feet behind the wizard alerted him that he was no longer alone, and his mind alerted him to what awaited before him. The force behind was not near as great as the one that waited, but to go back meant to retrace his steps and have to fight through a different path later. Might as well fight to the exit now, was the thought that ran through Erelon’s mind.

  Pulling two knives, Erelon rushed into the passage before him. It was extremely wide, a main avenue within the Keep. Pillars were lined up on both sides, holding up a balcony. Behind the pillars, on the balcony, and covering the walls were goblins. Like an infestation of spiders, they turned the walls dark with their clustered bodies. The moment Erelon appeared; they rushed in, eager for the kill.
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  Erelon brought one blade through the throat of one victim and left it buried in the temple of another. The other knife, held low, slipped through the abdominal muscles without a sound. Quickly Erelon used the short stabbing and throwing blades, leaving them embedded in the body of his enemies when it was easier to simply grab another knife from one of his belts.

  Something struck the wizard in the side of his body. The shaft of an arrow glared at him. Looking up, Erelon observed archers taking positions along the balcony and releasing the missiles most likely laced with poison.

  Quickly Erelon emptied his sheaths, his blades flying like missiles through the air. His muscles tensed as each blade was clutched and flung. Bright shining streaks of silver, he looked like the human form of Samos’s weapon they called The Porcupine. He shoved one blade through the temple of a goblin and then pitched it. He did not even wait to see if it struck the goblin he had aimed for. He twisted around and dodged two goblins, knowing he did not have enough blades to kill every goblin in the room. He had to get out, Erelon’s mind began to yell at him. Leave Mortaz to the goblins. This fight is over, his subconscious continued to scold.

  He brought one knife down, popping a hole in the skull of one enemy with the butt of the handle and then brought the same blade up and jammed it into the throat of another goblin. Spinning, Erelon finally released the knife into the air, gently turning and twisting like it was dancing until it stopped, imbedded in an archer, dropping the enemy into a pile.

  Erelon whipped out a couple of hatchets and started chopping at those that got too close. They were not beautiful weapons of finesse. They were meant to destroy. They did not fly with grace, but instead whipped around and stumbled. They did not enter the enemy without sound; instead, a dull splattering thud accompanied each attack. The hatchets were not the weapons of one who crept through the night looking to assassinate a powerful target. When they hit, all knew it as bones cracked and split, the sound of death piercing the air. At moments they would catch in the body, hooking bone and tissue.

  The wizard slammed a hatchet into the throat of one goblin, the other chopping down into the skull of another. He twisted, bringing both completely through, pieces of goblin spiraling through the air. Using his momentum, Erelon brought the hatchets through several more bodies. He lurched forward, embedding one in the hip of another enemy, severing its leg before slamming the head of the other hatchet into the bowels of another goblin. Erelon left the hatchets behind, one buried in the ribs of a goblin, the other flying through the air as it reached into the balcony for an archer.

  Erelon kept reaching for knives in his belt. Finally his hand felt no more of the small knives and daggers. The last hatchet left his hand as he threw it horizontally. The wizard’s hands touched nothing. His eyes dilated, and sweat poured down his face even though his body went ice cold. Beads ran down his face, dripping off his beard and seeming to hiss as they dropped to the hot stone.

  The goblins wasted no time charging. Erelon’s arm quickly reached for his sword, yet before it was half free, he was submerged below a wave of gray bodies. Each blade wished to pierce the wizard’s flesh, as if it was for this moment alone they had been forged.

  The wizard felt the heat of his enemies’ bodies, their sweat as they worked to destroy him. The moist heat of their breath held the hint of something dead and rotting as each panted eagerly and with the effort of the fight.

  As blades began to sink into Erelon’s body, each felt like it had been held into the fire until glowing. Each blade felt as if not only did it cut his flesh apart, but also branded it so that it shriveled from the pain.

  Their bodies weighed down Erelon’s arms and legs. He could not move. The weight crushed his lungs so that he could not breathe. His fingers barely touched the leather handle of his sword. It was barely out of reach, though it was partly free from its sheath.

  Hope soared through his body as he felt the heat of his magical weapon. A contracting in his stomach that reached into the wizard’s throat assailed his body every time his fingers could no longer feel even the cold metal pommel. Erelon was saved from being torn into pieces to be distributed across the Keep by the goblins' own eagerness to destroy him. Very few of their blades could bite into Erelon's body as their weapons were pressed against each other and against the floor. The goblins tore into each other more than the wizard. They swung their weapons with disregard for their friends around them. Erelon grabbed a goblin's knife pinned between him and the goblin's body and turned it around, shoving it into the beast's neck. He grabbed a chain hanging from the goblin's neck and pulled its body close, using it for a shield as his other hand reached back for his sword.

  Suddenly, Erelon’s free swinging hand firmly grasped the handle of his elvish weapon. The heat was of a greater intensity than the wizard had ever felt before. It seemed to become part of his hand, fusing to it. An intense pain screamed through the wizard’s hand as it was burned by the elvish fire. As the sword finally came free of its sheath, white flames licked at its edges. Never had it blazed white. Erelon did not know if Arlum knew that such power lived within the blade.

  Erelon brought the blade across himself, swinging it wildly and completely cleaving those on him in half. Where the blade touched the flesh, it was completely incinerated. Erelon’s attack with the sword of Arlum looked like a large flash below the pile of goblin bodies. Goblins or pieces of them went madly flying through the room as if a small explosion had occurred at the center of the pile.

  From it, the wizard rose, his sword gripped firmly. His whole body seemed to be blazing, yet he did not burn. The flames whipped around his body. No goblins approached him, none wanted to.

  The wizard stumbled from the room. The sword gently dropped downward as the magic started to go dormant. Erelon’s adrenaline was starting to die, and he could feel the extent of the wounds he had suffered.

  Everywhere, it seemed, blood drained from his body, completely soaking his clothes. He was not sure that he had much more to spare. The Keep’s walls moved in and out, distorting, pulling and pushing. Erelon stumbled over his own boots and plunged down the passage awkwardly, almost dropping several times as the world began to turn black as he saw spots flying towards him, filling his vision.

  Only by unconscious will was he able to continue forward. Below crossing stairs, the wizard staggered into a large half circle area filled with staircases that crossed several times in their effort to reach their destination. Light for a moment completely blurred the wizard’s vision and sent screaming sensations into the front of his skull. His mind pounded until he dropped to his knees groaning in agony, sweat pouring from his body, which was quickly dehydrating as his fluids poured out. His entire body felt as if it had been made of some heavy material.

  Slowly Erelon’s vision adjusted as he peered from below squinted lids. The Keep still seemed to twist and turn, falling and rising. Rocks spilled over, but the walls never cracked or broke, as if they had become elastic. As Erelon had gone down, his heavy body falling quickly, he felt as he would never again arise. Gravity’s power was too strong for him to overcome. He felt his body bounce once and then rest against the hard stone floor.

  Setting his feet below his body, Erelon forced himself up. The stairs seemed to twist and turn before his wavering vision, daring him to try to pick out a path among them. He turned towards a huge door with glass windows framing it, the exit. It was the main entryway and exit. Years ago it had stood open, inviting many visitors to enter. No one had dared to attack a Keep filled with wizards, the greatest of the heroes, soldiers, and nobles of all countries who brought armed guards with them. But now the door stood shut.

  It was made of brass panels that had been cast with scenes of the greatest stories of wizards and the deeds they had done to become immortal. Their names lived on down through the ages of history.

  Erelon stumbled over to them, placing a hand on each and pushing. Neither budged. Erelon’s mind, working slowly, left him staring up at the
m dumbfounded. His eyes were wide, as if asking why they worked against him. Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, Erelon placed both hands against the door and tried pushing, yet again they did not move. It was as if they had become part of the wall, immovable unless taken apart. Erelon allowed his body to fall against the door in a pathetic attempt to make it budge under his weight.

  His confused and tired mind retreated to the emotion it knew best, anger. These were his doors, and someone who did not have the authority had locked them from the other side. A magical or physical lock, Erelon did not know, but they did not have his permission.

  Standing back, Erelon stared at the door and then struck the palm of his open hand towards its base. An explosion filled the air with splinters of rock and turned it into a foggy, murky atmosphere as dust billowed through the room. A hole appeared in the floor where both doors had stood. Now the doors were freed and gliding through the air as paper in the wind. Finally they crashed to the earth, the heavy metal causing a puff of dust to come shooting from under each.

  Erelon stumbled through the hole he had made and under the circular awning. The rock floor below was cut into blocks that continued out well beyond the awning, turning into a patio where, in better days, esteemed visitors could have descended from their ride on a firm stone path, avoiding the possibility of getting their clothing soiled.

  Down a pair of stairs Erelon stumbled and almost fell as the heat of the sun and its blinding rays seemed to race into the wizard’s wounds and attack his mind as the wizard left the protection of the building’s shadows. In great pain, Erelon swayed back and forth before the great Keep until his eyes adjusted.

  Erelon turned to say a final good-bye to the Keep. An oath that the wraiths would not long abide in the residence of the wizards stumbled through Erelon's mind in broken thoughts. As Erelon looked up, towards the mountains that crowned the castle, his eyes came in contact with the leering giant busts of goblin heroes on the mountain’s face. Casting his hand before them, the memorial turned to rubble. With the sound of quickly moving sand, it came rushing down to disappear from sight at the mountain’s foot.