by Paul Drewitz
Turning, Erelon’s feet intertwined and the wizard fell face first into the hard dirt ground. Dust filled his nostrils and mixed with the blood that flowed from his wounds, causing it to dry and clot faster, turning to hard dark red and black blotches. His hands, which had sprung forward to unconsciously stop his fall, were torn.
Slowly Erelon pulled himself to his feet. Cautiously at first, and then quicker, his steps came as he fled the Keep’s walls. He did not know where he was going except that he could feel the magical presence of his horse, a bright light among the encroaching darkness.
Stone steps appeared below the wizard’s feet as if a moment before they had not existed. Erelon missed them all. His body was completely off of the ground, suspended in the air for a moment. His feet did not touch solid ground; instead, Erelon felt his body come in contact with it. Again the air was forced from his lungs, leaving him lying there gasping. Panting, his mouth was filled with dust, clogging his throat and filling his lungs. Pain raced through all of his body, from every cut, every broken bone, and then it all went numb. His ears were ringing, and a high pitched squeal pierced his brain until his eyes felt like they would pop from their sockets.
Again the wizard was forced to pick his destroyed body from the earth, each muscle cursing his lack of balance and care. Looking at the ground with a bowed head, the shadows of the two lion statues passed on beyond his own.
The shadows moved. Slightly they adjusted their position, growing larger and slimmer. Stone wings rustled as they shook themselves awake. Erelon barely had time to roll forward before something hard and heavy clipped his shoulder, piling him into the dry earth, filling his lungs with dust. The wizard rolled to his feet as quickly as his beaten body would allow and, at the same moment, coughing up dirt. Empty pedestals guarded the stairs; shadows circled on the ground as if marking a path.
One of the beasts, no longer stone, came at the wizard, lashing with its entire body, wings, feet, tail. Everything became a weapon targeted solely on the wizard. Weakly, the wizard swung his sword. Wherever the blade struck the beast, its steel edge bounced off with a high pitched sound of metal striking something hard. Pieces of the winged lion fell to the ground, flakes and chips of stone.
As the first beast rose towards the sky, gaining altitude and flying from the fight, the second plummeted like a missile for the wizard. Weakly, Erelon swung again, his sword floundering in the air as it nicked and grazed the creature.
A solid blow in the back again sent the wizard flying into the earth. Every bone in his body popped, every wound oozing blood. His head struck the ground and bounced only to strike again. He could hear his horse snort from someplace nearby. His sword again gleamed white. The elven blade lie in his hand, only inches beyond his face; everything beyond was a wavering mirage. Erelon was not sure if it was caused by the heat of the sword or just his screaming mind.
It felt good, just to lie on the hot ground and bake. No longer moving, which seemed to cause every muscle and bone to scream. His body absorbed the warmth. It felt extremely hot at first, yet his body adjusted, and soon it was comfortable. Erelon's eyes wanted to close, to allow the pain his body was experiencing to ease, to be released with the coming death. Yet a spirit within the wizard pushed him to his feet. His head seemed to rise from his body and turn. Erelon dropped to his knees, every abdominal muscle heaving and cramping. The wizard’s mouth gaped open, but nothing came out. Acid coated the walls of his throat, burning it and leaving a sour and bitter taste in his mouth.
Just as the wizard dropped to his knees, a gust brushed past as a dark object flew by, barely missing the wizard. Feathers trailed, dropping to the ground, marking the attacker’s path.
Erelon looked up in time to see one of the beasts again plummeting. It pulled its wings in and, like a missile, an arrow, fell from the sky, becoming a brown blur. The sword dangled loosely from Erelon’s hand. He only stood up. No muscle moved to escape the falling creature.
The winged lion grew bigger, a large ball of fury. Its clawed legs descended, coming from within its wings. Still the wizard stood without a nervous spasm or twitch. A vacant look filled his eyes.
There was no turning back. The beast was too close, too fast. It did not have a chance to change direction. Erelon brought the sword forward, wreathed in white flames, the steel glowing with the light of a brilliant void. The winged lion impaled itself. Without a chance to move, to change its course, it came crashing down on the wizard, its full weight crushing the man. He felt the weight of the creature compact his arm, forcing his forearm into his elbow and the back part of his arm into his shoulder so that it went stiff, ligaments popped, blood vessels burst, and immediately the joints swelled and turned into purple hues.
Erelon rolled backwards below the creature’s weight and kicked the beast’s body over his head, allowing the creature’s momentum to carry it on, releasing itself from the blade. Its body bounced dully a couple times before coming to rest. Its wings relaxed, covering its body. It shivered and went still.
A scream from the air reminded the wizard of the presence of the remaining beast. It circled warily, not free falling to impale itself as its friend had done. Erelon knew he could not take another blow like the last. His arm hung limp, not because he was feigning disability. The arm had gone stiff and numb. Erelon could barely move it. The lion’s weight, the force of the impact, had left it all but useless. The wizard’s mind raced for another conclusion, even as the second beast swung in lower for a fight.
Instinct, or more likely the magical spirit within the wizard, leapt forward.
The dwarvish word “Grambin” escaped as a barely audible whisper from the wizard’s lips.
He cast his hand before him to obscure the creature for a moment, as if to lay a curse upon it. The winged lion’s body grew heavy. The stone it had been made from demanded its life. The creature tumbled from the sky no more than a sculpture to slam into the earth, its body turning to pieces. Huge chunks went flying and bouncing across the landscape. Its wings that had at one time carried it so high into the air, now only spun uncontrollably across the flat ground to come to rest at the wizard’s feet.
At the base of the wall, Draos stood nervously, ready to be off, sensing the danger. At the smell of Erelon’s blood, and the blood of the wizard’s enemies that covered his clothes, the horse shied away. But as Erelon clutched the reins and heaved his body into the saddle, the horse stayed at attention. Erelon’s hot blade swung in its sheath, flames spurting from the sword’s casing, the runes glowing through the leather. It came to rest along the horse’s ribs, a sizzle sounded. The smell of burned hair and flesh filled the air. The horse’s eyes rolled backwards, but he did not jump and bolt.
“Come on boy,” Erelon’s voice said weakly to the horse, urging it onwards.
Slowly the horse started to move, not wanting its rider to fall from his seat. Cackling rang from the highest points of the Keep walls and floated down off the fortress buttresses, the high pitched cackle of goblins. Draos left dust floating in the air in his hurried escape. Cackling arose from the walls as Erelon raced through where gates once stood. A few arrows flew harmlessly by. Erelon’s form bobbed and weaved, unstable in its seat. The horse paid its rider no attention but raced on. Goblins lined up in front of Erelon, between him and the opening in the next wall. His bow came quickly out. Every muscle in his upper body was tight and cramped in pain and protest, yet Erelon loosed a missile. Arrow after arrow he sent flying across the expanse, clearing the path before he arrived. Below the second opening they flew.
A goblin dropped from the wall’s summit, slamming into the wizard’s body, pulling him from his seat. The goblin slipped downwards, its claws tearing across the flanks of the horse. Draos stopped to rear and scream, his own momentum almost carrying him into the earth.
Erelon’s fingers grabbed at the saddle, saving him from spilling into the dirt. He dragged himself back into his seat. Draos barely lurched forward. Erelon turned to see the goblin'
s face looking over the horse's right flank as its claws sank into Draos' flesh, anchoring him to the horse. Erelon's hand went to grab another arrow for a close shot that none could miss. The wizard could imagine the look upon the goblin’s face as the full force of the arrow thudded into its body. Yet his fingers grabbed at air.
His horse stumbled onward while dragging the goblin’s body, bouncing on the ground along with them. Erelon’s hand immediately brought the bow downward in a blur. The end caught the goblin in the forehead, the wood shattering. The goblin gave up its hold. Without thought, Erelon slid the broken bow over his shoulder; barely it fell into the empty quiver.
Having been slowed down by the clinging goblin, two more arrows found their mark, lodging in the wizard’s side, a third making his seat vibrate. With a slight nudge in the horse’s ribs, Draos flew. His body almost disappeared as the magical horse escaped the battle. They passed through each gate, not another enemy to be seen, though the flapping of feet, rustle of bodies, and cackling could be heard echoing across the flat fields.
The horse ran without tiring. It ran to save its own life as well as that of its rider. As the sun came up, it slowed to a walk, its injuries apparent from where the dust had clotted. Dust rose from every step. A clear trail was marked where its body had pushed a path through the tall grass. The wizard on its back was no longer conscious. He had tied his body to the saddle horn. His body sat hunched, but he no longer cared. The heat beat down on his body, the black cloak absorbing every ray and throbbing with the life of the sun.
Flashes of cold took over the wizard only to just as quickly disappear, leaving again only the heat. Erelon’s mind stirred to consciousness a few times. It felt as if they were going in circles, the mountains never getting smaller, the prairie stretching on forever. Dust covered the wizard and his horse in a fine sheet that mixed with the blood and sweat. Slowly they worked their way beyond the Keep.
Their wounds went uncared for, their bodies left to heal on their own. In the back of Erelon’s mind, he could still hear the flap of goblin feet. Occasionally, a cackle seemed so close that he jumped awake, grabbing for his sword and twisting around in panic. He would frantically look for a mass of marauding goblins, only to find, to his relief, an empty prairie.
The horse’s hoof clicked on hard stone. Erelon’s head came up, and with a groan he noticed where they were. At one time he had laughed at the legends that encircled King’s Time. Now he was living within the circle of those legends, plagued by the truth of them. He did not have the energy to fight a magical device, but he had nowhere else to go. He had to rest.
Chapter 8
A dream of the warlocks first opening the power of King's Time left Erelon still without the rest he needed. He had witnessed what he assumed to be the wizards as they awakened the power of King’s Time. He had listened to the spells as they were chanted, was able to look into the faces of his enemies before they had become the wraiths he had faced twice now at Mortaz. Erelon still did not know if he had been transported to the past as he had witnessed these events, or if they had been part of a dream, or if his mind was inventing the scene, assuming that it knew what had happened that evil evening. The wizards slipped away into King's Time, fading away. And Erelon's eyes popped open.
His sleep in the outpost of King’s Time had been constantly broken and restless. A fever consumed his mind so that it filled with a green fog much like what had encased King's Time in his dream. His entire body would burn and then freeze. The stone floor left his muscles and joints cramped and stiff. His food and water rations were gone, and after years of being abandoned, the outpost was as Erelon had expected, without much of anything useful.
The wraiths had yet to give up the chase. They pushed behind the goblins, making them run to keep up with the wizard. The wizard’s heart had jumped into his throat after first seeing the lights of the posse that pursued him. After that initial feeling of terror, it left. Erelon no longer cared. Erelon let his horse go at a quick trot as if he had no concerns.
There was no reason to put stress on either of them. Draos could outrun anything, and they had a head start. Erelon planned to lead the goblins away from the power that drove them, maybe to a walled city, Pendle or one of the towns of Sirus. He would let the soldiers of those establishments destroy the goblins. Yet any such refuge was a long distance away and Erelon worried that he and his horse may need to rest sooner than they could make the trip. Going back south to where the wizards lived was not an option. Erelon had to find Easton to retrieve the stone.
Morning light glanced off the gray dust and sea of grass like pale tarnished silver. No wind stirred the world. Across the prairie, the grass became a solid carpet. Soon the sun came from over the world’s edge, its rays immediately hot, slamming into the wizard and his horse. Erelon had felt better, but now nausea returned. Again he tied a rope around his waist and to the saddle’s horn, anchoring him to the seat.
Days later Erelon’s body was shriveled. The prairie had not changed. King’s Time had long ago disappeared, and there were no landmarks to show any progress. Erelon had learned to hate the monotony of this prairie as a young boy traveling with Chaucer, and his feelings had not changed.
The horse had picked up its pace, feeling the heat of the goblins' breath behind him. The sun still blazed. Erelon was oblivious. He stunk as one dead. The few instances Erelon opened his eye, it was sunk back and completely white.
The horse continued without a stop for rest. To stop meant to die. The horse knew somewhere ahead the world would change. Away from the influence of the wraiths it would cool, water would flow. The horse walked down into a dry creek bed. Flat stones lined the bottom, smoothed from years of wear. Erelon’s burned dry eye peered from between swollen and cracked lids. Gently he pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse. His stiff hands fumbled for a knife, slowly stumbling around his belts, checking first the one across his chest and then the one around his waist. But all the sheaths were empty. The wizard turned to the knot that held him in the saddle, but his fingers could not grip it. Instead they only cracked and bled.
Grabbing for his sword, Erelon brought the giant blade across the rope, severing every fiber as easily as if it had been only thread. He fell from the saddle, no longer caring about his body. Erelon felt nothing except where sharp hard stones mauled muscle and bone. His sword dropped to the rock floor. Slowly Erelon removed the stones that lined the bottom of the old creek until the earth was uncovered. He chipped his fingernails while dirt packed under them. A few stones cut his hands so that fresh blood painted the rock. Then with clumsy fingers, he began to dig. Erelon’s hands and fingers struck more rocks, his nails split and one even tore off. Dirt mixed with blood, clogging broken vessels, and the underside of his nails became black while his fingers became so bruised that they turned purple. The wizard grabbed at his bow, broken and useless, and he dug the end into the ground. His little bowl became a deep hole, and the dirt walls grew moist.
Digging in a pouch behind his back, Erelon pulled out some sparkling sand and, sprinkling some into the hole, said, “Kalmar.”
From the walls of his hole, water began to pour as if the earth’s vessels had been punctured and were draining. Slowly Erelon splashed some on his face and cupped his hands to raise the water to his lips. The water at first burned his lips, but soon they softened as they absorbed the moisture. As an animal, Erelon’s head descended into the hole, sucking as much water as he could before quitting to gasp for air. Then he would go back to drinking. Only here where water had once flowed, where the spirit of the water ran deep into the ground, could Erelon have hoped to tap into the moisture.
Draos nuzzled against the wizard’s shoulder gently, wanting his own turn.
Erelon looked gently into the eyes of his horse and said, “Not yet.”
Stepping to his saddle, Erelon removed several canteens that had been empty a long time ago. Each one he dipped into the water, making sure it was completely filled. Every drop by th
e end may mean the difference between life and death. Yet even as Erelon’s tongue touched water that tasted sweet, he knew that if he did not find something to eat soon, it would not matter how much water he carried. The little jerky he had found in the old post had not been much. Now it was almost devoured.
The hole began to fill with water and it came bubbling to the top, overfilling, pouring down the trail that had once been a fine trickling creek for travelers and adventurers to take refuge beside.
Sitting down on the hot ground, Erelon placed his horse between him and the sun, resting in the shade of his magnificent animal. The horse gently drank at the water, curiously letting it bubble up to tickle its nose, allowing the water to splash on its face, cooling his hide.
Erelon sat without any thoughts drifting through his mind. At the moment there was nothing to think about. Only to live, to finish the mission, to end the threat.
The horse’s head jerked up, and his foot stomped as he slightly jumped. Suddenly Erelon became again aware of his surroundings. He had almost passed out, slowly going unconscious. The entire world had taken on a red hue. It filled the sky and coated the grass. Standing up, Erelon looked into the West. The sky had become the red of fire, twisting and turning as oxygen became flames, the earth obscured by black smoke.
Behind the storm of fire, the goblins would be looking for the remains of the wizard and his horse if any were left after the inferno. If Erelon were to die, the wraiths would know. They would feel the disappearance of a great magical power. The goblins were to locate and destroy the wizard if he were to somehow escape.
