by Paul Drewitz
“Hello, Erelon. I knew you would have to drop in for a visit,” as the witch spoke, Erelon could feel her casting a spell, weaving a web of illusions and lies, “So why didn’t you follow my escort? I sent the trees to guide you here.”
“Do you really think you can challenge me?” the contempt was strong within the wizard’s voice.
The witch froze for a moment and passed back into the void from which she had appeared. The dungeons, hallways, doors all passed backward from the wizard’s gaze. His mind passed back through the gate and into a burst of fresh light and air.
“I’m sorry, but your uncle is dead,” Erelon stated.
“Tat’s wat I . . . We feared. But I don’t know wat to do,” the troll said.
“Don’t worry about the witch. Her power will fade when the reign of the wraiths ends,” Erelon explained.
“This is where I leave you,” the troll sighed.
“Before you go, take this,” Erelon said, pulling a green pendant from within his cloak, “From now on, you and your descendents and family, they are friends of the wizard Erelon.”
The troll took the pendant, looking small as it sat in his huge hand. He clutched it for a moment, thanking the wizard through a few tears and then turned into the forest. The troll lumbered along at a slow pace, but his huge stride took him far. The trees parted where he made a path, their tops still visibly shaking even after his physical presence could no longer be seen.
The troll would not be safe again until he reached the mountains. Fresmir and the wizard watched long after the troll had vanished.
Chapter 12
AT a quick trot, both men traveled the stone path. Fresmir had thought about goading his horse into a race. One look at the elvish horse, though, and Fresmir put the thought from his mind.
The flying city slowly grew bigger. The vines which hung to the ground seemed to rise until their tips were far above the reach of a giant. A small log shack and stables were built into the side of a hill and in the shadow of the flying city. A short old man, with long, wild, wiry, white hair surrounding a bald top, sat in a rocking chair smoking a pipe and cackling to himself.
“Hello, Gaz,” Fresmir called.
“Why, if it isn’t Lord Fresmir. How has the world been treating you?” the old man called back as he watched Fresmir and a stranger ride up next to him.
“The world treats me much like it does the other citizens of this city,” Fresmir replied shortly, “I was wondering if we could, me and my friend that is,” Fresmir said pointing to Erelon, “could get a ride to the top?”
“Of course, of course,” Gaz said.
The old man produced a tiny silver flute from within his leather vest and lightly began to blow into it while his fingers danced across it. A song of springtime filled the air, the scent of wild roses and fresh air, air that had never been breathed by another animal, straight from the trees in the mountains. It gave life to the hanging vines which began to dance and weave together.
The vines dropped down and lay flat along the ground as they weaved in and out of each other, creating at first a sturdy base. Then sides exploded up, made by flowing designs of spirals and arches. As the vines grew and wrapped around each other, flowers popped out. This box, this crate kept growing. The sides rose and then the vines pulled back together across the top until they weaved and wrapped into a long tight rope leading up into the city above. The living box began to shine gold and silver. The vines that made up a two-sided gate opened, and without any hesitation, Fresmir stepped into it with his horse. Erelon followed leading Draos, who nervously stepped onto the vines.
Slowly the box began to rise, the vines pulling it upward. The small man quickly disappeared, but he could still be heard calling, “Don’t forget to come and visit!”
The shack, grass, rocks, the stone road, all shrank from the height to which they climbed. The road became a small gray worm winding a slow path toward the prairie. The grass blended together so that it was only softly changing greens.
“This is the only way in or out of the city unless you have means of your own to fly in,” Fresmir bragged.
A trap door opened above them, and their box of vines raised itself through the door. The gate swung open. The moment both men stepped from the box, the vines unraveled and disappeared, and the trap door slammed shut. They were in a small building, empty, well lit with all the white-painted walls reflecting the light. The paint had been peeling for quite some time, and old dried wood showed through.
Fresmir reached for the only door and pushed it open with his palm. It opened onto a city brightly lit and colored. The buildings all displayed a variety of colors not noticeable from the ground, shielded by the gray stone of the walls. Blue and green windows decorated the houses, catching the light of the sun and spraying it in a multitude of colors in all directions. The city rose straight into the air, forcing Erelon to tip his head backward to see the summit. Trees, shrubs, and flowers grew everywhere, anywhere soil could be found. Even the stones of the roads were multicolored. None of the creatures that they passed were of the same race. There were mixed creatures and many more that Erelon had never seen. Animals talked, and creatures could morph into any form they chose.
“Here is the true city of Brotherhood,” Fresmir boasted.
Erelon looked down at a small man in a rocking chair with a pipe. Erelon almost cried out “Gaz!” in confusion and bewilderment, but Fresmir’s voice cut him off, “Hey, Diz. How’s the city?”
“Same as you left it,” came the reply.
Erelon almost lost himself in the midst of the people as they stepped out onto the road. All the different personalities, thoughts, talents, chemistry, flowing together congested Erelon’s mental processes.
“How am I supposed to find Easton in all of this?” Erelon cried in humor and dismay.
“Don’t worry, I’ll send some of my own boys to look for him. And until he is found, allow me to show you around my fine city,” Fresmir stated.
A man on a high wheel bicycle, went rolling by, followed by several flying carpets, laughing children, and a multitude of people all mixing and churning as they passed on and off of the road, passing onto other paths as if sorting themselves.
Fresmir led, making a path with his wide frame. Erelon followed closely behind, not wishing to become lost in the mix. Slowly the road began to rise. To continue to follow the road would have led in a complete circle, a tour of the bottom tier, the bottom level of the flying city. But before they had made it even halfway around the flying rock, they passed below an arch and onto another road that led in a circle around the next level.
“Fresmir,” came a low guttural growl from the street.
Erelon looked down to see a lanky white leopard trotting along beside them. It was a little larger than those that Erelon had seen hunted in the mountains of Sirus. The men and leopard continued to walk as they spoke.
“Didn’t know you had gotten back. It’s been a while,” the leopard said.
“Hello, Tanton,” Fresmir replied with enthusiasm at meeting friends from home. “Just got back in today.”
“So how was the trip south?” the leopard asked, “It took you almost two years.”
“The trip was slow, the world is falling apart much like up here, but that’s soon to all change,” Fresmir stated, looking expectantly at Erelon.
“Tanton, you know everyone in this city, maybe you can help my friend here,” Fresmir suggested, motioning toward the wizard.
“This is Erelon. He’s looking for a friend of his, from the South. This friend is also a wizard and goes by the name. . . .”
“Easton,” Erelon stated.
Tanton purred as he replied, “I’ll see what I can find out. Where will you be so that I can find you?”
“Oh you know,” Fresmir said with a deep laugh, “Seeing the city, visiting a few favorite bars. We won’t be too hard to find.”
Tanton slithered off into the crowd, easily his lithe body gliding through
small cracks in the wall of bodies.
“Tanton,” Fresmir said, “The official enforcer of the law, and at the same moment, friends with everybody. He knows everyone, especially those who come in but don’t live here. Has to keep an eye on strangers so they don’t start trouble.”
Fresmir continued to amble on, yelling at different people here and there, pedestrians, merchants, tourists. Different flags flew above the different buildings, mostly representing families and races, or occupations. Few represented countries. Erelon guessed that there were over a dozen languages used in the city by observing signs and listening to the chatter. A few of them he understood, but most were strange, exotic. None of the training he had received from the gnomes, Chaucer, or the wizards had prepared Erelon for this city, so diverse and rich in cultures, ethnicity, languages, and customs. Those who had lived in the area for years still felt like visitors, and to be able to truly call this city home meant being one of a kind.
Fresmir led Erelon into old stables, still colorful as the rest of the city. The insides were dry, aired out. It did not smell of stale stock, mildew, and rotting hay with feces as most stables Erelon had frequented. Heavy beams held up a roof made of wooden squares of tree bark.
Fresmir took his saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder and called to the manager, “Can you look after my horse and the horse of my friend?”
“No problem,” came a call from a back office.
Fresmir led out of the stables and immediately off the street to their right and up a flight of steep, narrow stone steps that passed between a couple buildings. They were so shallow that half of Erelon’s boot could not rest. Thin doors appeared to their left and right on shallow stoops. Vines drooped down, playing with the wizard’s hair. They met very few locals going down the stairs, mostly single individuals, a few in pairs, and no groups over three. Now and then the flight would angle sharply, left or right, and a few times the path led through gardens.
Fresmir stopped in a garden and stepped off the stairs, meandered through a maze of wild rose bushes, and stopped by a wooden door with a knocker that was a sculpted brass goat's skull. Keys clanked together as Fresmir pulled a ring from his duster. Inserting one key, he turned it. Tumblers fell and the door squeaked inward.
“You’ll have to find patience. It may take Tanton a while to find your friend. Maybe many days. There are many that claim the title of wizard who come to this city. It has almost become a pilgrimage. The problem is that this is a city of unusual and many magical people. Finding one wizard in a city of magic may not be easy.”
A triangle of light fell on the floor through the door. Erelon stood in the door’s frame, his eyes adjusting to the dim room while Fresmir stumbled within. There was a wooden groan, and the shutters of a window crashed open, and more light poured into the room. The light caught dust particles which filled the room, disturbed by the Brect.
Erelon stepped in. Immediately his hair was covered in cobwebs, and instantly he swallowed a lung full of dust. While coughing, Erelon swung his arms around, trying to scare the cobwebs into the corners. A large black, furry spider streaked across the floor, fleeing for a shadow. Erelon’s boot came down quickly, the spider’s exoskeleton sounding like a tin can as it was crushed. Erelon’s boot slammed into the floor, echoing throughout the house.
Fresmir’s head jerked up and he looked silently at Erelon for a few moments with a questioning look on his face before pushing another window open. Grabbing a broom, Fresmir chased dust from the house and tore the webs from the corners and, coming out the door, looked up toward the sky.
“It’s going on five. The bars will be opened and going fast. My friends will be out,” Fresmir said.
Picking up both Erelon’s and his packs, Fresmir slung them into the room, and as Erelon stepped out, the Brect locked the door behind them. Fresmir’s boots flew down the stairs, Erelon following quickly, but trying to avoid missing a few and tumbling down the rest. The street was still bustling with life. The city seemed untouched by the evil that lay in the fortress on the mountain wall overlooking the city and prairie.
“Come,” the Brect ordered with excitement.
“So do you live with family in that house?” Erelon questioned.
“The Brect’s body stiffened at the mention of family and replied, “A Brect’s life is not that simple. Once old enough and taught how to fight and hunt, we are basically sent off into the world on our own. Years it takes to find a mate, to make a family. We do not live in clans or cities much like the other races of the world. We mix with the world, we do not isolate ourselves from it. To find more than five Brects in a country is unusual. We explore the world, taking our talents with us and using them to make our living.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, Fresmir finally added as a condolence for his outburst, “In the last fifteen years I’ve seen my parents twice, my older brother and sister each once, and I’ve never seen my two youngest brothers. I have never found another female with which to make a family.”
Without any more questions, they went down the street, entering a tavern with a hawk’s eye above it.
The bar was filled to capacity so that many were standing, but as Fresmir entered, a path cleared for him and his visitor, leading him to a table that several were deserting in respect for Fresmir. Many signaled their recognition through a nod; a few even shouted Fresmir’s name. The Brect set his heavy frame into a chair which creaked. Erelon took a seat for himself, and then others began to fill the empty seats or grabbed random buckets and barrels to engage the Brect in conversation.
A gnarled man whose hands resembled the roots of trees ground out, “So, you’ve been gone a while. Tell us of the world beyond these mountains and the prairie.”
An albino stuck his oval head, attached to a long scrawny neck, across the table and said, “Yes, yes, do tell us of your adventures. You have a few additional scars. They speak of stories.”
A roar of approval went up among those around the Brect.
“Okay, okay. But only one. I’ve had a long journey and wish for only my ale and to hear of my home city.”
Fresmir proceeded to entrance the entire group with an adventure. The Brect’s ability with language was as smooth as his skills in fighting were aggressive and destructive. Fresmir told those who piled around the story of a great bear who terrorized a village.
"Any who wandered outside their home at night were only found as pieces the next morning," the Brect insisted. "As the village grew wiser to the situation and no longer left their homes at night, the bear began to enter the village, choosing the weakest buildings, tearing into them, destroying the building, and devouring everything edible within it."
Erelon looked around at the men. They were entranced. In this city, Erelon thought that everyone would have their own adventures, their own stories. Yet here they sat, absorbing every word this Brect uttered.
"One day as I wandered into the town," Fresmir continued, "and as the locals learned I was a mercenary, they hired me to destroy the bear. They emptied their treasury to buy my assistance. That night, I stayed awake, sitting next to what I had chosen to be the bear’s next target. Not long later, the bear came into view, two times the size of ordinary bears of the mountains. I raced across the ground on all legs, propelling myself toward the bear named Distmos, engaging it without any weapons besides my own hands."
Erelon watched as the Brect told his over-exaggerated tale, as he dramatically stood and began to reenact the fight to give his story greater drama. Neither the mug of the wizard nor the Brect grew empty as the tale was told. At any time they grew low, a waitress brought new mugs. Fresmir was good for business, and the one who owned the tavern wanted to encourage regular visits from the Brect.
"To fight the bear with anything but my bare hands would not have been honorable, it would not have been a fair fight. The bear had claws and size, but I have strength, mobility. I was able to get behind it and grabbed its massive head, the size of a troll
's head, and turned it, breaking it off," the Brect roared.
As Fresmir’s story closed, a few moved off, giving Erelon more room to breathe.
“Margareth,” Fresmir bellowed toward a stocky woman who looked as if she had just eaten a lime.
At the sound of the Brect’s voice calling her name, her face was broken by a smile, “What can I do for you?” she asked Fresmir in a flirtatious manner.
“Bring me and my friend some of your best Malladian rum.”
“Of course,” the waitress answered and pushed a path through the mob toward the back of the tavern.
“Wait until you taste some of this rum,” Fresmir told Erelon, “From the Malladian nation to the far east. None make it better. But be careful. I’ve seen it knock the most jaded of drinkers on their ass.”
The waitress approached again, only this time with a bottle with a long green neck that grew wider at the top. The jar had a bulb bottom which was wrapped in some kind of rope netting. A language that Erelon did not recognize was written around the lip with silver foil.
The waitress sat the bottle down, plopped two glasses beside it, popped the cork, and left only after giving a wink to Fresmir.
Fresmir poured himself a glass and began sipping on it. Erelon was listening to all the voices around him, trying to catch local traditions and subjects.
Erelon poured himself a shot. The wizard slowly sniffed the glass. The sweet scent of rum lifted. A sip warmed the wizard’s belly, but did little more, so Erelon downed the shot. A couple of people watching chuckled, and Fresmir simply grinned and turned back to a man with webbed hands and vertical eyelids.
