by Paul Drewitz
Hendle voiced the opinion of all in the room. Everyone had assumed that Easton would be the next wizard to lead them, the one to succeed Erelon, Erelon’s apprentice. Easton had been the one to follow Erelon, to go on the mission to get the Humba's Stone and to learn directly from the master wizard. Hendle had only stayed back, watching out after the castle, after its occupants.
“This is not about who is stronger, but who is better able to lead,” Erelon explained. “I have been training you to lead. Easton has other issues to deal with. You are the one,” Erelon assured Hendle.
“I cannot fight,” Festor said, “I cannot aid Hendle.”
“I do not expect you to fight,” Erelon told Festor, “You will lead the wizards as they reestablish themselves. Teach them the ways of the original five. You will stay here as we fight the battle for Mortaz. Your days on the battlefield are over. You have seen your share of fighting; now it is time for others to take their turn.”
Festor sat back down. The ancient wizard’s face showed his disappointment at being left behind. But he knew that he could no longer fight as was needed.
“If I do not come back, Easton is to have Draos and my memoirs. Easton will deliver the memoirs to the dwarves.”
Erelon looked at his friends for a few moments and then said, “That is all I have.”
The men were silent and grim. Their jaws firmly set as they understood what was to happen.
“I was looking forward to fighting beside you again,” Grism said as he walked by and patted Erelon on the back.
“Maybe yet someday we will get the chance,” Erelon said optimistically.
A sarcastic smile crossed the old warrior’s face, as if to say, look at me and my age.
One by one, each of Erelon’s friends left.
As Bahsal was about to leave, Erelon called out, "Bahsal, I want you and Easton to stay.”
As the last few left, Easton and the dwarve took a seat to either side of the master wizard.
“I do not want a fight among the wizards as to who gets my journal,” Erelon explained, “Or my other friends. You two are my closest brothers.”
Erelon opened the leather book, “I will give it first to Easton. If I do not return, he is to finish it and then give it to you,” Erelon finished, indicating Bahsal.
“Written in elvish silver point,” Bahsal said with jocular sarcasm.
“Sure, but most of it is written in the dwarvish language,” Erelon replied.
“But I am sure it has the flowing, scrolling craftsmanship, penmanship, of elvish writing,” Bahsal stated.
There was a few moments of silence before Bahsal concluded, “You always combined the best of all the races within yourself.”
“Thank you,” Erelon said.
“You gave the dwarves back their pride. Never will we forget that,” Bahsal reminded.
“This map,” Easton spoke, “It does not cover your travel from Pendle to the Flying City?” Easton worded the comment as a question.
“There, the corner of the world sits. I will not mark its location on my map. My most prized knowledge and what I discovered at Meltrose was written at Meltrose. If any has the power to find the Humban corner of the world, then they can also have the privilege of reading what I wrote on those pages, the little there is of it.”
Erelon sat watching the stream silently pick up leaves in its current and steal them away. The stream fell over small waterfalls created by stones that would not budge. Erelon now wore a new cloak, one with the Staff of Saris sewn on the back. But below the cloak, he wore an off-white, light-weight tunic with the mark of his mentor on it. In this way, Erelon honored the memory of Chaucer.
“I had nowhere else to be,” a rough voice spoke behind the master wizard.
Erelon turned and looked up at Fresmir holding the reins to a shaggy horse.
Erelon smile and stood, “Good to have you.”
“Tanton has to watch the city, he couldn’t make the trip,” Fresmir apologized for their friend.
“Perfectly understandable,” Erelon said, “Come, let me introduce you to my generals.”
The giants stood proudly as Bahsal presented each clan leader a shield along with either a spear or sword. The wizard’s council along with Erelon’s close friends and generals stood behind Bahsal. This ceremony was to strengthen the bonds of friendship with the huge race. Each shield took many dwarves to carry it. The plan was that, better equipped, the giants should be more destructive and dangerous.
Erelon sat at the edge of his bed. The date for the march had been set for tomorrow, early morning. Erelon would start with the army and slip away several days out, taking only Easton with him.
A knock sounded on the door. Erelon looked up to see Hendle’s frame filling it.
“Come in,” Erelon told the younger wizard.
Hendle sat beside the old wizard but refused to talk until Erelon finally said, “Tell me, what is it that troubles you?”
“How can I fight with my wooden leg, and how can you or I expect me to lead if I cannot fight?” Hendle whimpered.
“You will find the power in here,” Erelon said tapping Hendle’s chest, “But as a friend, I will help you.”
Erelon touched Hendle’s leg where the fake and real joined. Instantly pain coursed through Hendle’s body. The pain shrieked up his thigh, almost as if some giant hand dug into his spine and squeezed. His head jerked back as spit exploded from his lips and a shriek could be heard from his throat. The intense pain subsided into a dull throb that left Hendle gasping with the beat of his heart.
“It will never be as good as the original,” Erelon warned, “But it will give you greater mobility on the battlefield.”
Hendle moved the cloak back to reveal a shocking twisted form that half looked like a leg, but at the same moment was still recognizable as the wooden stump.
Hendle looked down at the leg. He could feel toes, but as his hand slid across the appendage, it felt hard and wooden below his fingers. Yet the toes moved.
Hendle stumbled around with words in his mind. Half in tears of excitement, but at the same moment appalled that this was what his leg would be for the rest of his life, Hendle could only blurt out, “Thanks,” in his confusion as to if this were a blessing or curse.
Hendle turned to Erelon. The master wizard had stood up, walking toward his chest. He ignored Hendle's comment of appreciation and threw back the blanket that covered the trunk.
"If you are going to lead the wizards, there are a few spells I have picked up over the years, especially from the elves, that I feel I should pass on down to you," Erelon stated.
Like a slow millipede, Erelon’s army moved from the walls. Different sections were dispatched through the various gates to drive the enemy before them, like herding cattle. Festor and those left behind retreated into the mountain where they could easily protect the few doors and windows.
Erelon shook Festor’s hand in farewell at the gate. The look in both their eyes stated that they did not know what was going to happen over the next few days and on into the battle.
"If you take too long coming back, I may be dead from old age," Festor joked.
Erelon only gave the old wizard a sad smile, so Festor turned shaking his head.
Erelon was not at the head of the army, but all around it. Erelon wanted the men to know that he was there, but did not want to appear as the leader and cause great speculation when he disappeared. If all went well, no one would even know he was gone when he and Easton finally broke off and went to King's Time. His horse raced up to Bahsal who marched by foot.
"Can't even see the end of the line of dwarves," Bahsal bragged.
Erelon smirked, "No, it is impressive."
"There was some rumor about making me king, but I have rejected any serious offers," Bahsal remarked.
"Too much responsibility?" Erelon quizzed.
"No, the dwarve king has no real power," Bahsal explained, "Only a figure, a symbol of dwarve power. I have more power
sitting on the council through friends than the king has."
Draos flared across the front of the army. The horse was unmistakable. Its colors blended into the trees, the dirt, into the flash and sparkle of the warriors' armor. Erelon rode up next to Yalen who was on a yellow horse with a black tail and mane. The elf wore armor that tingled with blue and silver.
"Watch out for Hendle. He will need help and support," Erelon told the elf.
"I will make sure to protect him," the elf replied.
"The wizards will need him after this battle has been won," Erelon stated.
"They will need you too my friend," Yalen hissed.
"Ugh, I need a break," Erelon grumbled. "Going to take a long vacation after this. The wizards will have to learn how to live without me no matter the outcome," Erelon said, a chuckle hidden in his comment.
Erelon rode past Grism and Auri. This was going to be a vicious dirty battle, one made for the brawler. Grism was barking at some soldier whose horse collided with his own. Auri only grinned. As he saw Erelon ride by, he raised a fist into the air and let out a yell that was lost in the rhythmic crunch and thump of the army.
Every night out, Erelon camped just a little farther from the main army. If any had questions, Erelon sent them to one of his generals, mostly Hendle. The army traveled slowly, as most were on foot. The army stretched on for several miles, a vast number of races and clans and ethnicities within this one army.
One morning, the army began to pick up camp. Fires were stomped out, tents pulled down. Erelon’s friends drifted away from the main camp, into the forest, saying goodbye to the wizards who stood below the open trees in cloaks that bragged of their power. These were the closest Erelon had to family, to brothers.
Hendle gave Erelon and Easton a firm handshake. Grism began by shaking Erelon's hand, then he jerked the wizard into a breath-stealing embrace before letting go without a word. Bahsal, Yalen, and Auri were all there as well. These had been Erelon's closest friends at different parts of his life, different parts of his journey. He smirked as he looked at the different men he brought together. As the others turned to slowly and silently leave the forest. Erelon patted Rivurandis and thought to himself that indeed, all his closest friends were there.
As the army moved off, two tents went unnoticed as they were far away from the main army encampment. Erelon watched the army, his army, move off. The master wizard stood on a hill, watching the glittering dark line as it caused dust clouds to roll from behind. This was one battle Erelon would have loved to watch. It would be a fight of titans. The enemies did not realize the number of heroes this army contained. Some who were even unknown at this moment but much like himself after the battle at Samos against the trolls, would come out heroes. Erelon proudly watched the army brought together because of him.
As the last of the army moved out of sight, Erelon walked down the hill slowly. The army was supposed to arrive at the Keep before Erelon showed at King's Time. Erelon wanted the enemy already occupied when he started his own offense, so Erelon was in no hurry.
Easton was taking the tents down as Erelon walked up. Together, in silence, they finished taking their camp apart. Erelon folded the canvas and kicked at the few embers until they died. It was just Erelon and Easton, the horses they rode, and a pack horse. They skipped through the valleys. The grass and trees were all turning brown. A few streams still carried water, but they were few.
Abruptly, the hills ended. Erelon passed from between two of them, and a wide flat land opened before his eyes. What remained of what had been tall prairie grass glared at the wizard. A wind began to howl, scattering dust before it. Wind demons danced across the dead prairie, twisting and turning, catching the dust up in their dance.
Erelon breathed in heavily and let it all out in a disappointed sigh, “Here we go again.”
The army moved on, Yalen leading his elves and the horsemen from Sirus; Bahsal the dwarves; Hendle the wizards and giants; Grism and Auri led everyone else, a wide variety of soldiers and races. None of the regular army seemed to notice the disappearance of Easton and Erelon.
The heat increased as the army drew closer to the Keep. The heart of every soldier beat faster. Each knew that a stray arrow could be their death. But to keep their sanity, each had convinced themselves that they would live to see the end of the battle. It took a careful and perfect balance of fear and insolence to keep one’s sanity. While facing the truth of death, the soldiers had to lie to themselves to keep marching forward.
The army turned the corner that led into the valley that led to Mortaz. The valley was shrouded with smoke. The goblins had set fire to the dead evergreens, filling the valley with a screen of fog. The smog engulfed the army, and soon all the warriors had tears running from their eyes as they stumbled backward coughing. A spell drifted in the smoke, and the tears of those with weak minds were soon tears for their mothers, wives, or any others close to them that reminded them of better days when they did not face death.
Bahsal looked down the length of the army as fingers of smog drifted through. All the soldiers stopped in unison, stopping as the banner men began to wave flags signaling the stop and the rhythm of the drums ceased. There was a large absence of sound as the roar of metal rubbing and jangling against metal stopped.
Bahsal looked at Hendle and said, “I want to know what’s before us.”
Hendle gave a nod of his head and the dwarve ducked into the smoke, silently working his way toward the Keep, hoping to come out on the other side before he stumbled into the enemy.
A wizard stepped out next to Hendle. The wizard wore blue and green robes. He was young with smooth skin, clean shaven, with dark eyes that seemed to take in the whole world at once. He had no scars. His hair was nicely trimmed above his ears and combed so that it had a flare before his bangs fell before his eyes. His muscles were not bulged, but there was no fat on him. He stood slightly taller than Hendle, taller than most average men.
“I would like to try quenching the fire,” the wizard told Hendle.
“Sure, Flex,” Hendle replied with a nod.
Flex turned toward the East and, pulling a leaf from his pouch, held it in the palm of his hand and passed it before the sky. Behind the trail of the leaf, clouds appeared as if painted in place. The clouds grew, reaching up as other pieces tumbled out from the base. A curtain of rain burst from the bottom, and a wind came up, blowing the smoke back into the Keep.
Bahsal stepped onto the other side of the smoke screen. The wall was still several minutes' ride, but there was not an enemy to be seen except in the trees along the edges of the mountains where a few goblins stalked. The rest of the valley was clear. A well placed arrow flew by Bahsal’s head. Into the smoke Bahsal disappeared.
Bahsal stepped back onto the eastern side of the smoke wall as an opposing force stopped Flex’s rain storm before it could reach the valley of Mortaz. The stress between the two spells caused a violent reaction. An explosion and bursting wind blew dust into the valley, blasting into all of the soldiers, completely suffocating the fires, and pushing what was left of the smoke into the Keep. It was as if two winds collided and pushed against each other until both snapped.
“Okay, that was not the best outcome, but it did get the job done,” Hendle said with a chuckle.
Bahsal only glared upward, dirt falling from his beard with each step like a waterfall.
“Come with me,” Bahsal growled as he led a giant toward siege towers that needed to be assembled.
Chapter 16
HENDLE had set a guard for the night. He had no idea what to expect from the wraiths. The night had gone peacefully; there had not been any sign of the enemy. There had not even been any lights along the walls.
Now as the sun rose, there still was no sign of opposition. The walls remained empty. Hendle had almost expected to see the entire army of the wraiths staring back down at them by morning, but there was nothing living or visible along the wall’s summit.
Everything was ble
ak, not the green lush paradise Hendle remembered.
"Not what I had in mind when I imagined this place," Auri grimaced.
"I was really young, but this is not how it was," Flex grumbled.
The walls were bleached, the ground a light brown of earth that had been blasted dry by both sun and wind. The trees that had lined the mountains were only skeletons, some even had their branches stripped away leaving only the trunk, a lonely finger pointing upward.
Hendle turned toward Bahsal. The dwarve shrugged his shoulders and said, “Let’s go in anyway. Either they will show, or this will be the easiest wall taken in the history of the earth and war.”
Hendle gave a nod, “Then to war we go.”
Bahsal turned around and let out a roar in the dwarvish language. It was answered by thousands of other dwarves. Bahsal left Hendle, walking into the encampment of the dwarves who had begun to take down the tents, Bahsal hurrying them along with his harsh voice.
"I don't hear the beating of those drums, and I still see standing tents!" Bahsal's voice roared. "Where are my crimson banners? We are GOING TO WAR! Come my lazy brothers. We are off to kill goblins and trolls!"
Warriors were slipping into their armor, strapping on weapons, and finally setting helmets on their heads. Today, they would march, most likely, into conflict.
“So how do we attack? There’s nothing to attack,” Grism said angrily.
“Bring the giants. Have them push the siege towers. If no one wants to give resistance, we won’t complain,” Bahsal replied.
As the beat of the dwarve drums sounded, the army lined up. The fall of the army’s step matched the beat of the drums, filling the valley with a slow steady rhythm. The army moved slowly forward as there was no real purpose in charging the walls. The armor jingled with every slow step. The siege towers could only move as fast as they could be pushed. The night before, Bahsal had instructed the giants on how to assemble them. Easily bars had fit into hooks and were locked into place, a huge clanging noise as metal slid into metal, weighed down by tons of material. Slowly they had risen to great heights, the giants finally having to use the cranes, which were no more than gears and pulleys that raised a hook tied to a rope high into the air.
