River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Trees thinned, and for a moment, Erelon thought that the forest was going to come to an end. Instead it dipped downward into a clearing that was spotted with a scattering of huts made of grass, sticks, mud and large chunks of bark. In the center was a community fire with a large black pot sitting on top. Just beyond the last hut, the forest again started. Erelon looked into the small settlement, simply looking, wondering what kind of people could live in such an isolated area. Of course goblins did not often come down from the mountains, though on occasion, the trolls would come from the Iron Mountains. Erelon allowed his horse to wander down into the bowl. The leather from the saddle creaked impatiently as the horse walked slowly.

  A slight young laugh came from a dark doorway, and then a voice asked, “Tell you your future?”

  Erelon did not see the body the voice belonged to, but replied, “No, I could probably tell you more about yours than you could mine.”

  A couple children in rags raced from a shadow and into a hut. A short old woman, with dry gray hair dragging the earth, ran from a hut cackling and scuttling by Draos towards the pot on the fire.

  Erelon called out, “Hey there! Is there a place where a tired traveler can take rest?”

  A cackle erupted from the old woman, “Choose any abandoned building.”

  Erelon looked up. All the buildings looked abandoned. The settlement looked as if nothing had lived there in years.

  “Food is in the pot. Good food, good food,” the woman trailed off into a hum before picking up general conversation at first with herself and then trying to pull Erelon in.

  “Yes, yes, you are the second visitor we’ve had today. Normally we see nobody, and in one day, two visitors. Yes, yes, two visitors. Are they here to train? Nobody comes here to train.”

  She walked up to the pot and stirred the murky liquid within it.

  Another visitor at this forsaken and cursed place, on the same day as his own arrival? Coincidence? Erelon asked himself.

  “He’s what they call a Brect. Half wraith, half animal. He’s an assassin,” the old woman hissed as she scampered away.

  Erelon looked up, his eyes meeting those of the creature he assumed to be the other visitor. The Brect had a squared goat-like face with stubbed horns that were growing back from the last time they had been cut. He wore a long brown overcoat. A large crossbow hung from his back, and a wide, short sword hung from his belt. Below the coat there was no physical body visible; it was as if his large boots were filled with air, as if the lower half of his body were invisible. The creature stepped on the ground, the dried grass flattened slightly as it gave below the pressure applied by his enormous frame.

  “You’re a wizard,” the Brect said without hesitation.

  “What brings you to that assumption?” Erelon questioned curiously.

  “Not an assumption; I know. I’ve some psychic abilities,” the Brect finished mischievously.

  Erelon only grunted, not enjoying the idea that the Brect might be able to know more about him than Erelon wished.

  “So where are you headed?” the Brect asked sincerely.

  “North,” came the short answer from Erelon, unwilling to give up too much information freely.

  “Me too. Maybe we should travel together,” the Brect suggested in a gesture of friendship.

  Erelon looked into the pot as it boiled and the bubbles popped. Then he looked towards the Brect, “I travel alone.”

  “Come with me, and maybe you’ll learn something. I know wizards have a love of knowledge,” the Brect enticed.

  Chapter 11

  ERELON had chosen a small, dirty hut at the rear of the settlement. A few rats both dead and alive were all that inhabited the shelter. A draft blew through unimpeded, and the shack swayed back and forth in the slightest breeze. Where the Brect stayed, Erelon did not know.

  Though the next morning the Brect accompanied him along the trail. The Brect’s horse was a huge, shaggy brown beast. Erelon doubted that it could move quickly, but it could hold up the creature’s large frame. Erelon had loosened all of his blades, removing thongs and resetting the knives for ease of use. The wizard did not trust the Brect; he did not trust many strangers now. In an attempt to facilitate a friendship, the Brect started talking, speaking to no one particularly, but Erelon was the only one besides the horses.

  “My name’s Fresmir,” the Brect started, “and the town we just left is called Himlet. Well over a century ago it was where those who wanted to be great warriors came to train. There were training grounds hidden by magic. They’re abandoned now, but if you know where to find them, they are still there. It once was a thriving little town, but has now died. Only a few still stay. They’ve got nowhere else to go, no way of getting anywhere. They’ve got little money now. Though, occasionally a great hero or warrior comes from the town, almost as if those training grounds, the ones hidden by magic, mutate the natives.”

  Fresmir kept talking of the little town, almost with a hint of sadness, as if he had known the town when it thrived, as if he had trained among the great heroes and warriors and wished for those days to return.

  Erelon and Fresmir climbed a hill that led from the little village. The forest went from being clear and smooth to an immediate wilderness. At first it was only a few shallow gorges the two had to climb through, at times even having to remove dead falls and fight through brush, a task the Brect and his big beast of burden excelled at. The Brect would take hold of the large timber and easily throw it aside. Or Fresmir would wrap a rope to it, and the horse would easily pull it away, the log tearing through the brush, the large beast never even stuttering or hesitating as each muscle tightened and pulled. Soon the landscape was crossed by large ditches, their steep walls, sometimes even concave walls, were held up by the massive roots of trees. The floor of the shallow gorges was often wet, the horses sinking with each step, and at times a creek would run through its center.

  This continued for half the day before the hills leveled and the gorges ceased. The Gronge Mountains virtually were invisible. They emerged from the forest into a little circle that looked out onto the prairie. Fresmir had stacked a pile of dried wood onto the back of his horse, knowing that once on the prairie, nothing but grass would be out there to burn.

  “Ugh,” Erelon grunted with disgust, “I hate this prairie. It goes on forever. You think you are wandering in circles until you almost go insane thinking that nothing else exists except for a solid blue plane meeting a green one.”

  “I like the stillness, the nothingness. Almost as if the soul of the earth lives in this prairie, a place where there is nothing else but time to look inside yourself,” the Brect replied.

  As their horses passed through the grass, Erelon leaned over and stretched out his arm, allowing the grass seed to pass between his fingers like sand. There, nothing else stirred except the two men, the grass, and the sun that arced through the air. At the least, Erelon had a companion. He did not have to talk to the horse or his shadow.

  As night came from the East, the Brect led his horse in a circle, smashing the grass, and then cleared the grass away before starting a fire using the timber packed on the back of his horse. Each ate from their own pack, heating some of the food, but mostly eating it cold and dry. The gurgling of their throats along with saliva mixing was all that was heard excepting a horse tearing at grass or stomping a hoof.

  Finally Fresmir decided to break the silence, “I’m headed north, going home, to the flying city.”

  Erelon's mind jumped for a moment, and he looked up with distrust settling in his eyes.

  “You too?” the Brect asked, “What for?”

  “To see a friend. What took you south?” Erelon tried to force the conversation to focus on the Brect rather than his own mission.

  “Some of it was family and friends. Some just an urge to see the world, and also a little business.”

  Erelon offered no reply, remembering what the old woman had said about the Brect’s occupation.


  As the two men traveled, Erelon slowly began to turn his horse toward the East, knowing eventually that they would be turning in that direction. After a few hours of an easy gait, a soothing up and down, up and down, the wizard’s head bobbed with the easy rhythm of his horse. His eyes half closed. Erelon felt comfortable enough around the Brect to let down some of his mental and physical guard. The wizard felt no evil within the creature, no ill will toward himself, and Erelon needed to rest. The trail behind had been a long one, and though the trail before him drew closer to the end, it was still far from over.

  Sweat trickled down his arm as it rolled over scars. Very few bugs bothered, but as one flew around the wizard’s head, he swatted into the air, trying to chase it away before he finally gave up, allowing it to land on him, buzzing in his ear and tickling his nose. The Brect stopped moving, and Erelon’s horse also came to a halt after a few more steps.

  Erelon’s head slowly came up, and looking at the Brect from below his hood, he asked, “What’s happening? Why have we stopped?”

  “I want to go straight north from here. You have been leading to the East,” came the answer.

  “But I thought the sky city was east of here,” Erelon said with confusion, disoriented.

  “It is, but I have another place I want to visit first,” the Brect explained.

  “So I guess this is where we part,” Erelon questioned, looking across the empty prairie.

  “Come with me. You may yet learn something,” the Brect enticed, a smile forming.

  The fight that was to come, Erelon’s waiting friend, the evil that needed to be destroyed, all these thoughts filed through the wizard’s head. But curiosity filled him, along with the desire not to travel alone. There was also the wish to see some more of the world, as the future was constantly uncertain.

  The Brect looked at the wizard with eyes that pleaded. They were both lone wolves, traveling through the world in solitude. They were dangerous to those who crossed their path with ill intentions, but even lone wolves join a pack occasionally for camaraderie.

  “Sure,” Erelon said, not quite sure he was making the right choice, but knowing that it was the decision he wanted.

  With a grunt and a nod of satisfaction, Fresmir sent his horse into the lead, going straight north. Fresmir led off at an eager pace, almost as if he could smell or sense something nearby that he greedily desired. Their pace ate away at the distance as the Brect had some desired location, goal, in mind. He did not disclose what it was to the wizard, and Erelon was content to leave it alone, to be for one of the only moments in his life the one who did not know the reasons for the chosen path.

  As mountains appeared, the terrain which they traveled also began to climb and to flow into hills and valleys. The moment that Erelon saw the first rock jutting from the earth, he knew that he had entered the kingdom of Sirus. A few hours later, Erelon began to see signs of civilization: a few spots in the valleys where cattle were grazing, paths cut by wagon wheels, even smoke rising from the trees.

  Fresmir looked toward Erelon and stated, “Hope you don’t mind avoiding civilization. You might be welcome here, but my kind is feared. You’d be surprised, even in Pendle, which they claim to be the city of brotherhood where all races live in peace. They don’t really live in peace. They tolerate each other. And my kind, since there are so few of us, can’t step into the city for a moment before being asked to leave.”

  The Brect stopped for a moment before continuing with a sigh of longing, “Now my home, the flying city, that is truly a place of peace among the inhabitants. If we make it, you’ll see that none there are the same. All are different, there is no normal.”

  They wove a path around the valleys and their villages. If the two smelled or saw smoke, they made a wide circle around it, making their own path if needed. The two men hid in the brush, living off what they killed, sleeping below the eaves of trees and the stars, even though not ten minutes away, a tavern, a hot evening meal, and a soft bed could all be found for a cheap price.

  “I am finished with this hiding shit,” Erelon exploded as he stopped his horse.

  They had been following a worn path, which now looked into a small village.

  “I want cold ale, to eat something I did not cook, and to sleep in a bed that is softer than the branches of bushes.”

  Erelon’s eyes glowed as he looked at Fresmir.

  The Brect opened his mouth to protest, but Erelon cut him off saying, “No more excuses. They may persecute you, and maybe me, but that is their problem, not ours. There is not an army in this country that wants to face either one of us, let alone both.”

  Erelon’s face was determined. He wanted to hear the voices of different people, to enjoy a few luxuries of life while they were still available. The Brect shrugged his shoulders. They pointed their horses toward the village, Fresmir with regret, Erelon with anticipation.

  The Brect kept his head held low. The duster hung over his legs, and he pulled his head into his collar. Fresmir could pass for a member of the race of man if any quickly glanced in his direction. But halfway through the village, it became obvious that his presence had been noticed as citizens stopped their chores to stare. One little child went crying into a house, others just backed away. The atmosphere grew tense. Erelon could feel it, but did not care.

  The wizard picked one tavern of only two in the town and, dropping the reins, stepped from Draos and surveyed the street. A few more adventurous men had begun to encircle the street. Erelon pulled his cloak back, inconspicuously allowing everyone to see he was well armed. Women and children had disappeared, faces looked out from windows.

  Fresmir also climbed from his beast and growled, “This had better be worth it.”

  The Brect raised his head, showing his face and his horns that glared in the sun's bright light. No reason to hide who he was. Too late for that.

  “Oh, it will be. Or at least we will make it worth it,” Erelon growled back.

  Erelon walked into the tavern first, followed by Fresmir who was watching their back. The moment the two men stepped into the bar, those outside moved towards the tavern quickly. That was the last Fresmir saw as he stepped through the door, but it caused his anxiety to rise. Those in the tavern backed away, and Erelon led the way toward a table in the corner.

  Slowly a bartender came to their table, a towel shaking in his hands. Stuttering, the proprietor explained, “We don’t serve his kind in here.”

  “Please, Erelon, let’s just go,” Fresmir growled in anger, his eyes glowering as he looked at both the bartender and the wizard.

  “Erelon?” the manager squeaked the question that was also his answer.

  The manager turned pale and sucked in air through his teeth. The proprietor looked as if he had swallowed a lead ball which caught for a moment in his throat and then dropped into his stomach.

  “You can stay here,” the keeper stammered, addressing Erelon, “But your friend will have to eat and drink out back.”

  “Out back!” Erelon roared, “This is a village of assholes.”

  Fresmir sat watching as his comrade exploded. Then suddenly Erelon went silent as the sound of horses fighting came through the door. Erelon jumped to his feet, his chair flying and tumbling backward. Three men also stood, and one brought a sword up and tapped Erelon’s chest, saying, “I’d sit back down if I were you.”

  Erelon slapped the blade, sending it thumping to the wall and landing dead on the floor. With his other arm, he smashed the man’s face as he brought his palm up. The other two came with knives. The wizard caught one man by the arm and whipped it, breaking it before jerking the stranger’s body forward into a fist. The last man Erelon simply caught by the throat and dragged his body with him as he stepped to the door. Throwing the body into the street, he looked as men harassed Draos, one of his oldest friends.

  “Damn, all I really wanted was a cold beer,” Erelon muttered.

  “I wondered if I would get to see it. They say it doesn’t happ
en often now days,” Fresmir muttered to no one as he watched the scene from within the tavern with his arms crossed, leaning against the rough wooden door frame.

  The proprietor who had overheard asked, “See what?”

  “The uncontrollable anger of the wizard Erelon. It’s legendary among campfires and in any circles where those who fight for a living come together.”

  A few moments of silence drifted before Fresmir stated, “It’s said that he has gained more control over his anger the older he has gotten. But at one time, Erelon could not control it, and it got him into some trouble. Yes, it is said that whenever the wizard Erelon becomes truly angry, power explodes from his body and everything is destroyed.”

  Erelon’s body twitched, and out of the blue sky, streaks of lightning slammed into the ground, sending the bodies of those men harassing his horse flying. Erelon stepped onto Draos and bellowed, “Fresmir, are you ready to go?”

  The big creature came from inside, packing a large barrel over one shoulder and a couple bags under the other arm. These he threw onto his horse, saying, “I am now,” as he tied down the barrel.

  The Brect looked up into the amused eyes of the wizard. “What?” the Brect quizzed and said with a smile of his own, “I’m making the trip worth the trouble.”

  “Uh huh,” Erelon said sarcastically.

  The barkeeper had followed Fresmir outside, all too happy to see the Brect take a few items if they would simply leave. Erelon looked towards the building and stated, “Just doesn’t seem right that they should hide inside on such a beautiful day.”

  Lightning shook the building’s foundations as it tore through the roof, wood splinters flying in every direction.

  “Please, please,” the manager’s pleas were drowned out by Erelon’s pacing mind. The wizard watched the last few leave the establishment, and then with an upraised fist, he called out in the Humban language the four names for the corners of the earth, "Meltrose! Celeise! Belthane! Nolline!"