River Of Life (Book 3) (17 page)

But Chaucer's enemies were many.  Erelon could not hear the
words bellowed throughout that meeting, but he felt the hatred that Chaucer had
felt.  He felt his own heart burning, melting.  His chest hurt, his skull
throbbed, and every muscle in his body shook and twitched.

Tears rolled from Erelon’s eyes as he watched Chaucer flee from
his own home, the one he had helped to make.  Chaucer was humiliated.  He had
not left willingly.  Lightning bolts, magical energy, fire, and ice all blasted
through the Keep.  An observer from outside could follow the fight as windows
lit up.

Chaucer escaped through tunnels that led to the bottom tier
after casting a screen of smoke.  He fled into the night and across the prairie
on foot.  Later, he found the gnomes and reestablished himself.

The image blurred, faded, and when it came back, Erelon saw
himself, as a baby.  Erelon watched as his mother gave him to Chaucer who
raised him.  Rage filled the paralyzed wizard as he discovered his roots in
this town, destroyed by the wealthy, the greedy.  His mother, Erelon could feel
little for her, he had never known her.  Curiosity of who she was dissipated
from his mind as quickly as her image had from Chaucer's memory.  He had known
little about her and this short memory left Erelon holding onto the image of a
soft face and a kind voice.  Finally, the troll battle flew by.  Chaucer’s eyes
had already begun to grow blurry, as in his old age, his mind was not as clear
as it had been.

Still Chaucer had proudly watched as his apprentice had become a
respectable man.  Erelon cried out in terror as he watched the end, as Chaucer
had built the sword and slowly turned to stone.

Tears rolled as Erelon reached out and grasped the air as he
yelled, “DON'TTT! I needed you, I need you.”

An entire life flew by the eyes of Erelon in a few moments.  The
humiliation, pain, and death of his mentor, his father.  In his own way,
Chaucer had answered all of Erelon’s questions.  When Erelon was in the
greatest need of help, mentally and physically, Chaucer had equipped his
apprentice with the greatest weapon made by a wizard and had brought him some
form of mental equilibrium.

Slowly Erelon’s mind cleared as the last few scattered images
raced through his mind, and he was finally released from the spell.  The statue
of Chaucer slowly began to lose its form.  Erelon did not notice until
Chaucer's nose began to disintegrate, turning to dust before the wizard. 
Erelon grabbed frantically at the powder, trying to hang onto his mentor, put
him back together, and bring life to his final form.  He tried to push the dust
back together, trying to will it to become the man it had once been.

Yet the dust floated into the cave, swirling around, not resting
until it had disappeared.  The weapon Chaucer had forged to help with the final
destruction of his enemies, and to help all those in dire need afterward, fell
forward, into the arms of Erelon.

The wisdom, the energy, of two wizards filled Erelon, one his
own, the second his mentor.  Erelon felt as if he had lived the lives of two
men.  He breathed a heavy tired sigh.  His shoulders now held the failure, the
struggles, and the pain of two men, of two lives.  However, there were also the
victories, the successes.  He had finally found the last resting place of the
only man Erelon had known as father, and here he had finally gained full
knowledge of his mentor’s life.

In the last minutes of Chaucer’s life, the deceased wizard had
made sure that his apprentice would learn everything he needed to know. 
Chaucer gave Erelon full knowledge of his own life so that he covered anything
Erelon did not already know.

Erelon was kneeling on the floor, looking up at the place
Chaucer’s statue had stood only moments before.  Tears rolled from the corners
of his eyes to meet the wrappings around his face, the cloth absorbing the
salty water.  Slowly he pushed himself to his feet.  The wraps around his body
began to unfold.  The wizard paid them no attention.

Slowly he turned and walked the gauntlet of on-looking statues. 
Great men, revered rulers they had been in their time.  Now they looked on as
the greatest wizard of his own time walked between them with one of the
greatest weapons of all time, Rivurandis.  The sword was clutched in Erelon’s
left hand.  He slowly walked from the room.  He was tired.  He still had much
to do, and he was not in the healthy, strong body that he had once controlled.

He stepped outside the door and turned to quietly and
respectfully close it.  The blue light that filled the chamber was cut off and
the tunnel went dark.  Erelon walked up the cavern.  He was in no hurry. 
Events had not become so dreadful that a few seconds would make any
difference.  Patience and a sense of calm settled on the wizard.  He did not
feel well, his body hurt, and his mind was weary, yet rushing around in panic
would not help the situation. 

The little dot of light appeared and slowly grew larger.  Just
outside the door, Erelon could feel his magical horse become nervous as several
creatures approached.

Erelon stepped into the exit.  About a dozen scraggly beasts
approached.  At one time they may have had some resemblance to human beings. 
As Erelon looked at the blond muscular monsters, he recognized the tools that
had brought death to this city from Chaucer's memories.  Monsters bred
specifically to be warriors, Krudgels.

Draos nervously stepped sideways.  Erelon looked at his enemies
without emotion.  They were to him no more than a mosquito that hurt as it
bit.  They were something to be destroyed so it no longer plagued the earth.

Quickly Erelon strapped Rivurandis onto his back and pulled both
magical swords from their sheaths.  The magical essence of Chaucer filled
Erelon, and he seemed to grow in size.  The black swirling mass left the globe
on the sheath, which grew transparent as black masses swirled through the gold
red blade.  The elvish sword blazed white, and Erelon attacked.

Quickly he glided in.  Both swords moved together.  Smoke rose
from the severed bodies, obscuring the area in a fog.  Erelon brought both
blades down through one and, turning, jammed the elvish blade through the
abdomen of another.  Both swords came together, severing the head of another. 
A blade came up and an arm fell freely to the stone floor.  Erelon turned
bringing his body downwards, slicing off a leg.  Brought the blade up, cutting
another cleanly in half.

He moved in quickly, pounding away with each blade.  One and
then the other sweeping down in rhythm.  He turned, evading a blundering
attack, and with both swords cut another Krudgel into thirds.  Erelon cared
little if they were completely dead.  Instead he simply assured himself and the
world that they were no longer a threat as they lay in pools of their own
blood, looking at their own severed limbs.  They were clawing at the ground
trying to pull themselves away from the demonic wizard.

To Erelon’s right, the shadow, the magical essence from the
sword crept.  A shadowy blade slipped through the body of another enemy.  The
raw energy of Rivurandis slammed into the buildings.  Stone scattered and
foundations crumbled.  Entire buildings collapsed, and Erelon did not stop it. 
He did not try to control it as the livid emotion of the blade matched his
own.  A stone fell, splattering into the skull of one Krudgel while another boulder
bounced across the street and crushed the vertebrae of another.

Erelon looked through slits for eyes stone falling all around
him.  For a moment he had two eyes that were no more than small blazing dots of
fire.  A few of the monsters fled like gorillas on all fours.  The only
survivors were terrified of a power they could not conquer, a power that was
not completely physical.

Erelon walked on, almost strutting, daring the monsters to
return.  Draos trailed behind, following his rider, the man who could protect
him.  The city seemed empty even though Erelon assumed there was still an army
of Krudgels roaming through the houses, gnawing on bones or catching rats. 
None of the Krudgels appeared, none wanted to try to fight the wizard who had
come home.  Nothing in the city was left except the Krudgels.  None of the
lower or upper classes had survived the deterioration of the city.  There was
nothing left for the returning warrior to save.

Erelon knew what waited beyond the gates of the city.  They
could wait impatiently a little longer for the death that Erelon brought. 
There was no use mounting his horse.  He did not plan to flee.  Instead, he now
had the weapon which made destruction easy.

The main roads were all stone, but Erelon crossed onto many side
paths that were no more than mud.  Empty doors and windows looked at Erelon,
silent reminders about how wealth and power could destroy those who coveted
such ideals.

Erelon finally stopped before an empty lot.  In the center lay
the burned out, deteriorated remains of a home, the home to Erelon’s mother and
the resistance.  Destroyed in their little fort.  This had been the last refuge
of the resistance before they were butchered by the Krudgels while they had
been under the command of the aristocracy.

Erelon wandered away from the house, finding a main road and
following it towards the exterior wall.  A pair of gates stood open, sagging as
their weight pulled down on rusting hinges.  Several bolts had snapped and turned
to red dust.  A few others barely held the stone gates off the ground.  The
wizard stepped around the corner, and a small group of snarling goblins
confronted Erelon.  One stepped forward, taking the position of leader.

The goblin leered at Erelon and said, “I am Gerlung.  Your death
will be my glory.”

The goblin produced a scimitar from behind his body and lurched
forward.  Several others also joined the fray while the rest held back
cackling.

Erelon waited until the last moment before the goblins could
reach him with their blades, and then he pulled Rivurandis free.  With two
hands, Erelon shoved it into Gerlung’s chest.  Quickly the wizard pulled it
back out, spinning and bringing it down, through another. Twisting, Erelon cut
another in half.  All others stopped for a moment, watching the wizard whose
lungs were heaving out of joy in the death of his enemies.  Grins spread out
across their faces as they waited for their leader to rise again from the
ground.

A screech issued from the wound in the leader’s chest followed
by a rush of air through the hole.  As the air rushed from the hole, the
goblin's body slightly pulled up from the ground like an invisible hand tugged
at him.  His body shook vigorously, and then dropped back to the earth.  The
same high pitched sound came from the other bodies.  The bodies seemed to age,
decades of decay gripping the bodies in seconds, cheeks sinking, forehead
protruding, eyes shriveling, ribs sticking from their chests.

This far from the power of the wraiths, the sword had greater
power than that of the warlocks.  Erelon's grin grew.  He wondered how the
sword would perform when he was closer to his enemy.  The bodies shriveled. 
The living goblins stared, their mouths opening slowly.  Until now, nothing had
been able to stop the wraiths.  Their power had seemed to only grow.  Now the
bodies of their friends lay dead, never to rise again unless they came back
like the skeletal warriors from the dungeons of Mortaz.

Slowly they looked at Erelon.  Within the wizard’s eyes seemed
to swarm a black fog, twisting, clouding the color of his eyes, blocking the
view through these windows into the soul.  The surviving goblins disappeared
down the path.  They now knew fear, fear of death, of an enemy who would
destroy them if they persisted in their pursuit.

A woman with chestnut hair stood on the parapet of Kintex. 
Surrounding the city, her city, lay a horde of the enemy’s army, the wraith’s
army.  She almost could not remember a time before they had come.  It seemed so
long since they had first encamped around the last city of Westeron.

With a deep sigh, she looked across the world, hills and
valleys, ponds and rivers, as the last rays of the sun came bouncing across
them—a great orange ball, getting ready to dip below the horizon.

Below the walls of Kintex nothing lived.  All was black, burned
off as far as the eye of an elf could see.

The woman sighed again.  An ever reoccurring thought filled her
mind.  Would the wizard Erelon come to their city?  She had fought beside him
at Samos, and since, she had seen or heard only glimpses and rumors.  She had
married the King of Kintex, Thorberd.  King Thorberd had also fought at the
troll battle for Samos as a young man.  He too remembered Erelon’s magnificent
display of power.  Thorberd also hoped for the wizard’s return to save his
kingdom.  Now it had been months since any word of the outside world had reach
those besieged within Kintex.  Any riders who had left the city walls had not returned.

They held the walls, pushing the enemy back every time.  But
rumor said that the enemy did not die.  The men of Kintex did.  The enemy’s
army was made of a mix of trolls, ogres, some really disturbing creatures, and
mostly goblins.

The woman looked longingly at the setting sun, not knowing what
tomorrow would bring.  A sudden cloud of smoke appeared, and out of it a man
seemed to step.  The smoke solidified from the crown of his head, flowing down
into his arms, cloak, and legs, becoming his form.  A bald man with a scimitar
looked into the eyes of Westeron’s queen.

“You are not magical, you cannot do that,” the woman said,
knowing she looked at the army’s general.

“No, I’m not magical, but the wraith’s power stretches far now
days,” was the assassin’s reply,  “You’re the woman who tried to give Erelon
her heart?”

“A long time ago.  What about it?”

Iriote hissed, remembering the embarrassment given to him by
Erelon at their only meeting, “I’m here to ease its pain.”

Not another word was spoken.  The woman pulled two swords from
within her dress, and Iriote gently twisted his own sword so that it caught the
last orange glow of the setting sun.  Upon the narrow wall they began to
circle.  The assassin waited for his victim to make the first move; he planned
to counter it quickly and make his own strike.

The woman attacked quickly.  She had not given up fighting since
the battle with the trolls.  Instead, she had continued to protect her city. 
Both swords danced in and out, leaving the assassin untouched.  Her lithe feet
gently danced around the narrow wall, while Iriote's own were cautious, gently
stepping so as not to step off and tumble far below.

His own blade went swinging inward, only her body was not where
Iriote had imagined.  A blade went through his thigh, his own blood dripped to
the ground.  Quickly he turned to face his assailant, his leg limping as he
jerked it around in his slight retreat.  She planned to kill him.  Every step,
every move, was mapped out in her mind.  She planned to kill this man who led
the enemy against her people.

Iriote gritted his teeth.  First the embarrassment from Erelon,
and now to be wounded by a woman.  Iriote's wrath filled his body so that his
neck turned red and purple, the vessels bulging vividly.  His teeth were
pinched together so that the air whistled as he breathed heavily.  With each
exhale, spittle flew from his lips.

Again she charged first.  The assassin stepped below the first
swing.  The second struck him across the shoulders.  He knew he could not win
without taking the hit.  She was too quick.  Silently he turned, the woman’s
unprotected body with her back to him lay vulnerable, unguarded.

Quickly he thrust his scimitar through her lower body.  The tip
of the blade emerged from her left breast, and as quick as it went in, Iriote
pulled the blade back out.  The woman’s body arched, and stiffly she fell to
her knees as blood bubbled to her lips.  She fell forward, her mind going
blank.  Loud bellowing could be heard below, bringing the assassin’s mind back
to reality.  Soldiers charged the walls, archers lined up to take aim at the
murderer.

A satisfied grin spread across the face of Iriote.  The wind
picked up, and his body seemed to turn to ash, to be whipped away by the
breeze.  Arrows flew through the space he had just occupied, to sail away into
the space beyond.  Gently they floated, as if taking with them the hopes and
dreams of the people which seemed to vanish with the death of their queen.