River Of Life (Book 3) (14 page)

Down a pair of stairs Erelon stumbled and almost fell as the
heat of the sun and its blinding rays seemed to race into the wizard’s wounds
and attack his mind as the wizard left the protection of the building’s
shadows.  In great pain, Erelon swayed back and forth before the great Keep
until his eyes adjusted.

Erelon turned to say a final good-bye to the Keep.  An oath that
the wraiths would not long abide in the residence of the wizards stumbled
through Erelon's mind in broken thoughts.  As Erelon looked up, towards the
mountains that crowned the castle, his eyes came in contact with the leering
giant busts of goblin heroes on the mountain’s face.  Casting his hand before them,
the memorial turned to rubble.  With the sound of quickly moving sand, it came
rushing down to disappear from sight at the mountain’s foot.

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.

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 the 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.

Erelon looked to the sky and thought about calling out a storm
of rain to counter the fire, but he knew he did not have the power, the energy,
in his physically beaten state.  Looking down into the bubbling water, Erelon
could envision summoning an elvish water dragon, but the question filled
Erelon’s mind.  Was there enough of the liquid for such a creature to form, to
exist?  Erelon looked at his horse.  It was not in the condition to run.  Torn
and worn from the battle and filled with water, its stomach was sloshing back
and forth.

Even if it was simply a weak dragon, Erelon needed the extra
time to flee, just a little delay to outrun the flames, to make it to where the
wraith’s power dwindled, where the land once again grew green.  Where the fire
would smolder and slow until it died.

The fairies, he must trust that the river fairies would assist
his spell.  Erelon looked deep into the earth’s pores, into the vessels that
brought water from the deep places to this one little hole on the surface of
the earth that could save Erelon and his mission.

“Ayam,” one of the elvish words for water dragons, issued from
his lips. 

Far below, water gathered and came spewing up.  It started as a
thin geyser and quickly widened, sending a shower of rock and mud through the
air.  Water poured through the old creek bed in both directions, forcing the
wizard to the banks to avoid being swept away with the current.

"Zambril," bellowed from the wizard as he also named
the dragon as it exploded into life above him, showering him with water.

Translucent bones, muscles, finally scales and wings slowly
appeared above the wizard as a swirling mass.  As the wizard scrambled up the
bank panting, several of his cuts again open and bleeding, he wondered if it
would have taken less energy to have called up a countering storm.  He decided
conjuring the dragon would be more entertaining and would have a greater
psychological impact on the enemy.

The dragon, pulling itself together, streaked through the sky
towards the black smoke and fire.  A demon seemed to emerge, head and shoulders
first.  An amorphous, continuously changing shape that bled into the flames
that gave it life.  One foot stepped forward, a column of smoke.  Where it
collided with the earth, a shower of sparks exploded and coated the prairie in
more fire.  The fire surged from behind and seemed to envelop the demon's body
so that only it's eyes could be seen glowing from the inferno.  The ground
cracked below the intense pressure caused by the head of this demon.  The world
around it wavered as all the moisture and oxygen was swallowed by the evil
spirit.

The water dragon glared at this demon it shot towards.  It
instinctively understood that it had been given life, it had been conjured to
fight this demon that threatened the wizard.  A path of water, like an
umbilical cord, connected the dragon to its water source, the new river.  A
shower of water fell on the dried prairie with every beat of its wings.  Erelon
climbed back on his horse before setting its path slowly towards the East.

The dragon, formed of water that swirled through the length of
its body, streaked towards the fire demon released by the wraiths.  As the
dragon approached, water spewed from its giant maw, slamming into the flames,
scattering the black clouds.

A hiss erupted as if the demon had been stung.  The form of the
demon composed of fire and smoke once again stepped forward from the chaos
caused by the blaze.  A hand swung forward to grab the dragon by the throat. 
The water dragon disappeared for a moment to reappear to the demon’s right. 
The dragon tried to penetrate the fire with its body of water, but the liquid
evaporated the moment it approached the demon.  Twisting and turning, the
elemental beasts struggled for mastery.  Slowly the fire demon pushed the young
dragon backwards.  Flames darted out, trying to sever the cord that connected
the dragon to its source.

The dragon disappeared for a moment in a mist only to again
erupt from the ground in another geyser, having reestablished a link
underground.  Wherever the dragon touched seemed to gain life.  The grass
gained color, sprouts shot up from the earth.  Only a moment later, the new
life shriveled and died, turning to ash to feed the demon who pushed the fire
onward.

The dragon soared upwards, towards the sky that had been
obscured by flames.  Liquid fire dropped from the upper atmosphere; fire from
below climbed upwards.  Pillars, stalactites, and stalagmites of fire formed
and disappeared only to be again replaced.  Tongues of flame shot upwards and
seemed to explode.  One demon inhabited this fire, spawned by an ancient magic
of ancient wraiths, now again brought to life by the warlocks of Chaucer’s and
Erelon’s time.

The dragon slammed into the ceiling of fire, puncturing it,
tearing through.  For a moment, pale blue skies shone through, then the demon
of fire pulled on the dragon’s long tail of water, pulling it back down.  The
hole in the ceiling of smoke filled back in.  The demon climbed up the dragon’s
back, grabbing at its wings so that it could not fly.

They plummeted down, twisting and turning as they fell.  The
dragon struggled to free itself, struggled for life, in the middle of the
inferno.  The demon grabbed the dragon’s horns, locked its legs around the
water creature’s throat, and jerked back on the dragon’s head.  Together they
rolled through the air.  The dragon barely straightened it's flight out in time
to see the ground coming towards it fast.

Face first the dragon plunged into the earth.  Water spilled
everywhere.  The fire demon went rolling into its own smoke.  Not a hundred
feet away the dragon again burst from the earth to flee towards its protective
water source.

The fire demon came to the stream which was flowing furiously
now that it had been given new life after years of sleeping within the earth. 
The stream’s agitation showed the anger that tore through the dragon to which
it had given birth.  With each passing second the stream grew stronger and
wider.  This stream passed through the realm of the warlocks.  Those that had
called the demon wished for him to destroy; this water gave life.  It was
contradictory to the demon’s very purpose for being.  It would have been
easiest to simply jump the creek and continue chasing the wizard, but the
dragon that protected this quickly growing stream had attacked him.  And the
fire demon's vengeance was as hot as the fire which it was made from.