River Of Life (Book 3)

by Paul Drewitz

  Erelon urged his horse on, sadly remembering the depressing revelation he had discovered not long ago. Despite Easton’s efforts, the older wizard would not open up and explain his words. Erelon said nothing else for several days. Instead, he retreated into a silent melancholy state.

  Erelon left Easton to observe the forest, every stone, bird, and bush, how the trail twisted and rose and fell. It was the same as before, yet to Easton it was life. To look through this forest after having been to the Humban world was like cold fresh water after a ride through the desert.

  The world began to grow darker and cooler as the trail led back, higher into the mountains. The clouds began to arrange like pieces of a puzzle. Clouds hung low, their fibers tickling the trees. At first the clouds were just pieces, little irregular-shaped pieces of sheep’s wool dotting the sky. Easton watched them, picking out objects.

  Then they began to push together, growing darker, more angry. Soon the sun quit shining, and it took half the day to warm their bodies after waking. A fine mist filled the air. Streaks of fog passing through the trees barely lifted from the ground, hiding everything above the horses’ knees. The fog haunted the forest, laughing at those who traveled through it, knowing the anxiety it caused as they could not see anyone trying to ambush.

  Traffic picked back up as they passed farmers who traveled to and from Sine. So when Erelon was quiet and would not speak, Easton still got to hear a voice that belonged to another man, even if it was just a passing greeting.

  “I am sure the wizards are starting to cause problems. They will not enjoy having to house and feed all of these warriors coming in for the fight, especially the giants. It’s about time to get back and finish this,” Erelon finally spoke one day.

  “There’s still some bad personalities back home, troublemakers,” Easton agreed.

  “Not happy with the abrupt end of the last regime. There still is some bad blood, and they do not like me,” Erelon said with a grin, “Try to make my job harder than it should be.”

  The wizards looked at Sine from the rise of a hill. Erelon had tried to light his pipe, to smoke while he watched, but not even a dwarvish spell of fire said in hatred could overcome the rain that saturated everything.

  Erelon wanted to make sure that nothing was hiding in the city that he wanted to know of first. Erelon sat bareheaded, allowing the rain to rush through his hair. He was squatted on the ground, one hand pressing into the mud, which oozed over his fingers, the rain rushing down his arm, mixing with the mud. Erelon was trying to bind with the natural elements, to listen to what they had to say. Easton hid below the eaves of the trees glaring from under his hat at the weather that surrounded him.

  “It is safe,” Erelon said, leapt onto his horse, and started Draos down the slope. Easton quickly followed, impatient to be inside a warm, dry room.

  Draos slid down the hill. The horse dug his feet into the mud, trying to slow his descent. The mud only made the horse’s iron shoes wet and slick, and faster the creature slid until the slope ended and Draos came to a halt in a sitting position on the ground, his back flanks caked in a layer of mud.

  Erelon pulled at Draos’s reins so that he stepped up and out of the path of Easton, who slid beside Erelon. Erelon led up the muddy path. The horses sank with each step, their hooves sucking as they came out of the mud and plopping back down into it. As they neared the little town, they saw rocks and straw had been thrown into the road, helping to make a firm surface. The horses were already half covered in mud, their swinging tails scattering it.

  The citizens of Sine rushed around as they conducted their business, wearing boots that rose to their thighs. Most of the year was wet like this, and so they had grown accustomed to working with the climate.

  Erelon wove a path in and out of the citizens, trying to avoid interfering with the daily state of affairs. Erelon walked his horse into the stables they had used before. The older wizard disappeared into another room to pay for three horses while Easton started bedding the horses down. When Erelon came back out, he helped Easton rub the horses down with straw and feed them grain, knowing the younger wizard’s impatience to see the girl he had left behind.

  Erelon had to run to keep up with Easton as the younger wizard bolted from the stables. Mud was flying in all directions. On occasion, Easton’s heavy step caused him to sink into the mud, and when possible, Easton raced across a walkway made of wooden planks. With mud flying and leaving huge piles where his boots landed, Easton raced into the tavern where Kit was waitress.

  “Easton’s eyes scanned the room, and then his lungs bellowed, “Kit! Kit!”

  Easton plunged into the mob. Looking around, he sighed with relief upon seeing the red head.

  “Kit,” the name escaped from Easton’s lips as a whisper.

  But the whisper was easily heard by the girl. She jerked around, her face a mix of surprise, anger, joy, and sadness. Her tray of drinks slipped from her hands and fell to the floor, the glass and pottery turning to pieces. The beer they had contained bounced back up and turned like a ballerina during a dance. The liquid caught the light of the many candles and lamps, almost seemed to smile, and then crashed back to the floor.

  “Ugh!” Kit screamed and raced toward Easton. “I thought you said you were gonna to be right back. You know how old I’m gettin' ta be? I almost give up on you. If I had ta wait any longer! You know it won’t be too many years that I’ll be an old fat woman without any children, running this greasy hell tavern, especially if I have to keep waitin' on ya. And then how much of the world will I get to see? Where will my life have gone?” Kit rambled on and on, accusing and consoling.

  “Well. . . . . I’m not quite back for good,” Easton said, reluctantly breaking her rant.

  “Whatttt!” Kit screeched.

  “I’ve just got to finish something, and then I’ll be back. It won’t take long,” Easton promised, trying to ease her anger.

  “But I’ve already waited a long time, and you said that last time,” Kit complained.

  “It won’t take long, I promise. But it has to be done,” Erelon told the girl firmly.

  “This is your fault!” Kit screeched, leaping into Erelon’s face, “You took him away from me!”

  Erelon looked into the eyes of the red head with no fear, no emotion at all. The older wizard just stared into the fiery eyes filled with hatred. He never flinched. Long ago he had ceased to fear the wrath of the opposite gender. He had faced a dragon, an army of trolls, an army of goblins, the undead, the warlocks themselves. What else did he have to fear? Finally Kit broke into tears and raced into a back room, Easton following quickly.

  The tavern went silent and all eyes turned toward Erelon, almost in an accusing manner. Most of those eating and drinking knew Kit and her family and did not enjoy seeing her upset. Naturally they looked toward the last man she had been screaming at as if he was the source of the agitation.

  Several of the men even began to stand up. A few more were reaching for their blades. Erelon’s eyes got narrow and began to glow. His left hand swept his cloak out of the path to the sword on his hip, while his right reached to pull the sword on his back from the sheath.

  “Do we have a problem?” Erelon growled.

  The patrons looked at the large swords and the slow glow that seemed to enshroud the wizard. Their eyes took in the eye patch and the scars that glared from his face, the mashed hand that seemed to still know how to grip his weapons. Slowly they understood that he had seen more battles than all of them combined, and they realized that they did not know how many would die in the attempt to beat the stranger. Slowly the men eased back into their seats and conversations. They were farmers and poor local merchants, not fighting men, not warriors. The few that had touched a sword had mostly wielded one in play, and even fewer had drawn a sword in battle for the protection of his own life. Unconsciously they all agreed to leave the beaten warrior alone.

  Erelon walked across the muddy floor and stood before a square tab
le at which several men sat. For a moment they all stared at the wizard who also gazed sternly back. Slowly the men, without Erelon uttering a threat, stood and took their ale with them, wandering across the room and into some other corner.

  Erelon dropped into the seat, putting stress on every joint in the old wooden chair. He brushed away the trash and sat his sword on the table. His gaze covered the entire room. Erelon watched the customers and the doors, especially the one through which Easton had raced after Kit.

  A middle aged woman came over to Erelon and, in a flirtatious way, asked the old wizard if she could get him anything as she rubbed her hip against his shoulder.

  “No thanks,” Erelon said quietly while trying to look around the big woman.

  “Come now old timer,” she replied, “Surely you didn’t just come in here to set. Beer, food, information, something?”

  “I came for a friend,” Erelon tried to pacify her.

  “Huh. I don’t see anyone,” she said angrily, “Invisible?”

  “Yes, yes he is,” Erelon replied, his patience wearing thin.

  The waitress threw her head and flounced off, flirting with the men as she danced by. Her fingers would pass along their back or grope low between their legs. Many of the patrons hooted, calling out sexual comments mostly about her rather large bosom that threatened to explode from her thin dress.

  Erelon ignored the local conversation. His mind again focused on the more important events that went unnoticed by most. In the back corner a man who looked like he could be half goblin dropped a couple coins below the table into the hands of a dark bearded man. A man who talked about farming but smelled too much like incense and perfume whispered secretively to another man in a back corner whose clothes, though those of a farmer, had seen much too little use to belong to a common laborer.

  Easton reappeared from a door, slipped up to Erelon, and whispered, “Kit said she could find us a couple empty rooms. Come on.”

  Erelon watched those in the tavern, never turning his back on them as Easton led the wizard to a back door and down a hallway. Easton stopped by a door labeled with the numerical symbol of five, handed Erelon a key, and then turned back down the hallway.

  The older wizard wanted to ask Easton about where he was going, but Erelon smiled as he could guess. Erelon slid the rusted key into the lock and pushed the door open. The door was heavy. The hinges and lock were rusted and old. The lock would keep a normal man out, or at least present a great enough obstacle that the one within the room would be alerted to someone trying to enter. But someone with power who desperately wanted in, the door would never have held out.

  The room was dark. Erelon left the door open long enough to let in light to find candles. He illuminated the room in a dull glow so that he could see what lay around. The room was filled with a dull, pale yellow light, but the room was the dark brown of wet wood.

  Erelon took a chair and, after locking the door, also pushed the chair under the knob. He sat on his bed with a sigh. It was no more than a wooden frame that held a large casing filled with feathers or wool off the floor.

  Erelon pulled his cloak and then shirt off, the wet cloth clinging to his skin, and dumped them into a pile on the floor. The wizard looked down the length of his grubby arms, stood, and walked over to a basin filled with lukewarm water. Erelon rinsed his arms and chest. As he splashed water onto his face and looked into the mirror, he realized that it had been weeks since he had last shaved. His eye wandered over to his saddlebags. His razor was in there. As soon as the thought entered his mind, it also passed on through.

  Erelon sat on the bed, kicked his muddy boots off, pulled off his wet socks, and laid them out on the floor. Erelon proceeded to stretch out all his wet clothes along the furniture and floor. The wizard curled into bed, pulling the thin sheets tightly around his body. Erelon snapped his fingers, and the candles were out. The room began to grow cold, and Erelon shivered. His arm groped around in the dark until it found his saddle blanket which he jerked over the top of his body.

  A line of light came through the seams between the door and its frame. Erelon thought about putting a spell on the door to curse anyone who might come through it before light broke the black sky of night. But before the wizard had a chance to act on this thought, his eyelids pulled downward.

  Erelon’s eyes popped open. Light had begun to fill the room even though the wizard knew that clouds would still fill the sky. It was late in the morning, but it had felt good to sleep late. It would not be long now, and he would be in the home of dwarves, and then finally his own. It would not hurt to take the one morning easy. Besides, he did not know how much sleep Easton had gotten.

  Slowly Erelon got to his feet and walked to the basin, splashing his face with water that was now bitterly cold. A thin film of ice had begun to form on the surface.

  Erelon sat on his bed and pulled a few extra clothes on. He looked at his cloak and his scattering of belongings and, leaving it all lay, went out the door, only taking Rivurandis with him. There would be very few in the tavern at this time of day. Erelon assumed he would not need his entire arsenal of weapons or all his belongings on him. Erelon was not planning for a quick retreat; he would pack his saddlebags after a healthy breakfast.

  Erelon looked down both ways of the hallway before stepping out and locking the door behind him. His boots echoed against the walls. Nothing moved. If anyone was left, they were asleep.

  Erelon entered the main room. Only a few people remained, completely opposite compared to the night scene. The loud voices, irritated farmers, over exaggerated stories told by drunken heroes, were all gone, leaving only a few men with heads that throbbed to a beat that did not belong to their heart and a stomach that hated everything it was fed.

  Erelon gave his order to a waiter whose existence the wizard barely observed. The wizard watched those entering and exiting, expecting Easton to appear at any moment. Minutes passed and Erelon’s food came, a huge mountain on two plates. Slowly Erelon consumed each, wishing to enjoy every moment. This was food he had not prepared, not shot by his bow out in the open world. The mountain of food disappeared, and still there was no sign of the other wizard. Erelon saw nothing of Kit either.

  As Erelon sat at his meal, he became aware of someone in the back corner of the room who had stared at him constantly. It was a dark hooded figure that was not drunk from the night before and who did not groan because of the previous night’s activities. Erelon had almost decided to confront the strange figure when Easton came out of a back room and plunked into a chair in front of Erelon with a plate. Easton’s eyes were bright and filled with an emotion Erelon had never really been given the chance to feel.

  The scrape of the foot of a chair alerted Erelon that the strange dark figure had stood. Erelon turned to watch it move closer, sure of itself, not hesitating. The figure removed its hood to reveal deep blue eyes set within an ivory colored face with blond hair. All the smooth, rounded curves of the body revealed that the foreboding figure was a woman.

  “You are the wizards Erelon and Easton,” the lady said.

  “Sure,” Erelon replied, feeling no hostility or evil coming from her, “But who are you?”

  “I am a friend of Fresmir. He asked that I scout the trail before you.”

  Erelon tried to interrupt her, but she cut him off, “Shhh. Just listen. I leave soon and don’t have much time to tell you.”

  She unrolled a map and tapped Sine with a narrow blade, “Between us and the South, thousands of goblins crawl looking for you, expecting you to flee to the dwarves. They also have many other creatures with them, huge, evil, powerful beasts whose only purpose is to kill. You may be able to push past or punch a hole through, but this is foolish and dangerous. My advice, go back north. Follow the forest; they fear the forest. They feel a power lies in the forest that can bring a death that the wraiths can’t raise them from. Go north, into the bottom of the kingdoms of Westeron and Sirus. Cross the river Fallas there. The wraiths' army i
s preoccupied with Sirus forces that protect better crossings up north. Find the third tributary that flows into Fallas. Close to its source, a strange looking clan runs a ferry service. They will take you across. From there, you are behind the enemy’s main force and can easily slip home. That is my suggestion.”

  The woman’s knife had traced her plan of action, up the forest across Sirus, the river, all the way to the Suragenna. Erelon looked at the map. His impulse was to drive a hole through the wraiths' army before him, and Easton sensed it.

  “No, Erelon, let’s go north. You’ve gotten lucky until now. Don’t press your luck. One of these days it’s going to kill you.”

  "Hmmm, you call this lucky?" The woman stated tapping Erelon's mashed fingers with her knife and then pointing to Erelon's face.

  "If you knew what he had done to deserve those, you would understand that he got lucky," Easton growled.

  Erelon did not reply, although he did hear and take into consideration the feelings of Easton. Erelon’s heart sank at the thought of the weeks lost as they would have to travel back north and then go back south, and by the time they backtracked, they might find out it was no safer than if they had just gone south from where they now sat. And the very thought of having to cross the dead prairie again caused Erelon’s mind to throb.

  Erelon looked up. A word of thanks was on his lips for the blonde who had brought them the information. She was gone, leaving the map for Erelon to study.

  “Erelon, I go north with or without you,” Easton threatened.

  “Pack,” Erelon simply retorted.

  Erelon was rolling his clothing into bundles and stuffing them into bags. A whole morning wasted, and now they were to travel weeks out of their way. Erelon looked into the direction that Suragenna lay, his eyes glowing. He would have chosen to blast a hole through the enemy that stood before him.