River Of Life (Book 3) (21 page)

Erelon did not worry about goblins or bandits.  They would hold
to more traveled paths where there were men to ambush.  Still, the wizard took
care to take cover, to make sure that if he was trailed, if attacked, his
position would be easy to retreat from or defend if necessary.

The mountains fell into hills, and even the hills and valleys
began to level off, yet the forest continued.  The grass still ran against
Draos’s chest as his massive body parted the silky green sea.  The landscape
was calm; always there were the trees and a level field of grass.  The sun
sometimes was all that moved except for the horse and Erelon.

The wizard broke into a path through the grass where it had been
beaten and broken, turning brown and snaking around the trees.  Erelon looked
around suspiciously.  He had not seen any sign of habitants for days, maybe
even a couple weeks.  Now a path, something well traveled and well defined, lay
before him.

For a moment he considered passing back into the deeper parts of
the forest, avoiding the path and anyone it might lead to.  As he was about to
pull back on the reins, an overwhelming wish to hear the voice of another human
washed over his body.  The last couple weeks, his horse and a few random
squirrels were all he spoke to.  Erelon stalled his horse for a few moments
more.  Erelon felt out the future path, wondering where it might lead, the
trouble that might lie along it.

The path felt empty, the world felt empty.  The light turned to
a golden brown as it passed the trees, filling the empty space as far as Erelon
could see.  There was no brush, no dead falls, nothing in which to hide, no
good place for an ambush.  Erelon nudged Draos onto the path, the urge for any
possible human contact overcoming any potential danger.  It seemed to curve on
forever, almost as if it was a magical path that never ended.

Trees thinned, and for a moment, Erelon thought that the forest
was going to come to an end.  Instead it dipped downward into a clearing that
was spotted with a scattering of huts made of grass, sticks, mud and large
chunks of bark.  In the center was a community fire with a large black pot
sitting on top.  Just beyond the last hut, the forest again started.  Erelon
looked into the small settlement, simply looking, wondering what kind of people
could live in such an isolated area.  Of course goblins did not often come down
from the mountains, though on occasion, the trolls would come from the Iron Mountains.  Erelon allowed his horse to wander down into the bowl.  The leather from
the saddle creaked impatiently as the horse walked slowly.

A slight young laugh came from a dark doorway, and then a voice
asked, “Tell you your future?”

Erelon did not see the body the voice belonged to, but replied,
“No, I could probably tell you more about yours than you could mine.”

A couple children in rags raced from a shadow and into a hut.  A
short old woman, with dry gray hair dragging the earth, ran from a hut cackling
and scuttling by Draos towards the pot on the fire.

Erelon called out, “Hey there!  Is there a place where a tired
traveler can take rest?”

A cackle erupted from the old woman, “Choose any abandoned
building.”

Erelon looked up.  All the buildings looked abandoned.  The
settlement looked as if nothing had lived there in years.

“Food is in the pot.  Good food, good food,” the woman trailed
off into a hum before picking up general conversation at first with herself and
then trying to pull Erelon in.

“Yes, yes, you are the second visitor we’ve had today.  Normally
we see nobody, and in one day, two visitors.  Yes, yes, two visitors.  Are they
here to train?  Nobody comes here to train.”

She walked up to the pot and stirred the murky liquid within it.

Another visitor at this forsaken and cursed place, on the same
day as his own arrival?  Coincidence? Erelon asked himself.

“He’s what they call a Brect.  Half wraith, half animal.  He’s
an assassin,” the old woman hissed as she scampered away.

Erelon looked up, his eyes meeting those of the creature he
assumed to be the other visitor.  The Brect had a squared goat-like face with
stubbed horns that were growing back from the last time they had been cut.  He
wore a long brown overcoat.  A large crossbow hung from his back, and a wide,
short sword hung from his belt.  Below the coat there was no physical body
visible; it was as if his large boots were filled with air, as if the lower
half of his body were invisible.  The creature stepped on the ground, the dried
grass flattened slightly as it gave below the pressure applied by his enormous
frame.

“You’re a wizard,” the Brect said without hesitation.

“What brings you to that assumption?” Erelon questioned
curiously.

“Not an assumption; I know.  I’ve some psychic abilities,” the
Brect finished mischievously.

Erelon only grunted, not enjoying the idea that the Brect might
be able to know more about him than Erelon wished.

“So where are you headed?” the Brect asked sincerely.

“North,” came the short answer from Erelon, unwilling to give up
too much information freely.

“Me too.  Maybe we should travel together,” the Brect suggested
in a gesture of friendship.

Erelon looked into the pot as it boiled and the bubbles popped. 
Then he looked towards the Brect, “I travel alone.”

“Come with me, and maybe you’ll learn something.  I know wizards
have a love of knowledge,” the Brect enticed.

ERELON had chosen a small, dirty hut at the rear of the
settlement.  A few rats both dead and alive were all that inhabited the
shelter.  A draft blew through unimpeded, and the shack swayed back and forth
in the slightest breeze.  Where the Brect stayed, Erelon did not know.

Though the next morning the Brect accompanied him along the
trail.  The Brect’s horse was a huge, shaggy brown beast.  Erelon doubted that
it could move quickly, but it could hold up the creature’s large frame.  Erelon
had loosened all of his blades, removing thongs and resetting the knives for
ease of use.  The wizard did not trust the Brect; he did not trust many
strangers now.  In an attempt to facilitate a friendship, the Brect started talking,
speaking to no one particularly, but Erelon was the only one besides the
horses.

“My name’s Fresmir,” the Brect started, “and the town we just
left is called Himlet.  Well over a century ago it was where those who wanted
to be great warriors came to train.  There were training grounds hidden by
magic.  They’re abandoned now, but if you know where to find them, they are
still there.  It once was a thriving little town, but has now died.  Only a few
still stay.  They’ve got nowhere else to go, no way of getting anywhere. 
They’ve got little money now.  Though, occasionally a great hero or warrior
comes from the town, almost as if those training grounds, the ones hidden by
magic, mutate the natives.”

Fresmir kept talking of the little town, almost with a hint of
sadness, as if he had known the town when it thrived, as if he had trained
among the great heroes and warriors and wished for those days to return.

Erelon and Fresmir climbed a hill that led from the little
village.  The forest went from being clear and smooth to an immediate
wilderness.  At first it was only a few shallow gorges the two had to climb
through, at times even having to remove dead falls and fight through brush, a
task the Brect and his big beast of burden excelled at.  The Brect would take
hold of the large timber and easily throw it aside.  Or Fresmir would wrap a
rope to it, and the horse would easily pull it away, the log tearing through
the brush, the large beast never even stuttering or hesitating as each muscle
tightened and pulled.  Soon the landscape was crossed by large ditches, their
steep walls, sometimes even concave walls, were held up by the massive roots of
trees.  The floor of the shallow gorges was often wet, the horses sinking with
each step, and at times a creek would run through its center.

This continued for half the day before the hills leveled and the
gorges ceased.  The Gronge Mountains virtually were invisible.  They emerged
from the forest into a little circle that looked out onto the prairie.  Fresmir
had stacked a pile of dried wood onto the back of his horse, knowing that once
on the prairie, nothing but grass would be out there to burn.

“Ugh,” Erelon grunted with disgust, “I hate this prairie.  It
goes on forever.  You think you are wandering in circles until you almost go
insane thinking that nothing else exists except for a solid blue plane meeting
a green one.”

“I like the stillness, the nothingness.  Almost as if the soul
of the earth lives in this prairie, a place where there is nothing else but
time to look inside yourself,” the Brect replied.

As their horses passed through the grass, Erelon leaned over and
stretched out his arm, allowing the grass seed to pass between his fingers like
sand.  There, nothing else stirred except the two men, the grass, and the sun
that arced through the air.  At the least, Erelon had a companion.  He did not
have to talk to the horse or his shadow.

As night came from the East, the Brect led his horse in a
circle, smashing the grass, and then cleared the grass away before starting a
fire using the timber packed on the back of his horse.  Each ate from their own
pack, heating some of the food, but mostly eating it cold and dry.  The
gurgling of their throats along with saliva mixing was all that was heard excepting
a horse tearing at grass or stomping a hoof.

Finally Fresmir decided to break the silence, “I’m headed north,
going home, to the flying city.”

Erelon's mind jumped for a moment, and he looked up with
distrust settling in his eyes.

“You too?” the Brect asked, “What for?”

“To see a friend.  What took you south?” Erelon tried to force
the conversation to focus on the Brect rather than his own mission.

“Some of it was family and friends.  Some just an urge to see
the world, and also a little business.”

Erelon offered no reply, remembering what the old woman had said
about the Brect’s occupation.

As the two men traveled, Erelon slowly began to turn his horse
toward the East, knowing eventually that they would be turning in that
direction.  After a few hours of an easy gait, a soothing up and down, up and
down, the wizard’s head bobbed with the easy rhythm of his horse.  His eyes
half closed.  Erelon felt comfortable enough around the Brect to let down some
of his mental and physical guard.  The wizard felt no evil within the creature,
no ill will toward himself, and Erelon needed to rest.  The trail behind had
been a long one, and though the trail before him drew closer to the end, it was
still far from over.

Sweat trickled down his arm as it rolled over scars.  Very few
bugs bothered, but as one flew around the wizard’s head, he swatted into the
air, trying to chase it away before he finally gave up, allowing it to land on
him, buzzing in his ear and tickling his nose.  The Brect stopped moving, and
Erelon’s horse also came to a halt after a few more steps.

Erelon’s head slowly came up, and looking at the Brect from
below his hood, he asked, “What’s happening?  Why have we stopped?”

“I want to go straight north from here.  You have been leading
to the East,” came the answer.

“But I thought the sky city was east of here,” Erelon said with
confusion, disoriented.

“It is, but I have another place I want to visit first,” the
Brect explained.

“So I guess this is where we part,” Erelon questioned, looking
across the empty prairie.

“Come with me.  You may yet learn something,” the Brect enticed,
a smile forming.

The fight that was to come, Erelon’s waiting friend, the evil
that needed to be destroyed, all these thoughts filed through the wizard’s
head.  But curiosity filled him, along with the desire not to travel alone. 
There was also the wish to see some more of the world, as the future was
constantly uncertain.

The Brect looked at the wizard with eyes that pleaded.  They
were both lone wolves, traveling through the world in solitude.  They were
dangerous to those who crossed their path with ill intentions, but even lone
wolves join a pack occasionally for camaraderie.

“Sure,” Erelon said, not quite sure he was making the right
choice, but knowing that it was the decision he wanted.

With a grunt and a nod of satisfaction, Fresmir sent his horse
into the lead, going straight north.  Fresmir led off at an eager pace, almost
as if he could smell or sense something nearby that he greedily desired.  Their
pace ate away at the distance as the Brect had some desired location, goal, in
mind.  He did not disclose what it was to the wizard, and Erelon was content to
leave it alone, to be for one of the only moments in his life the one who did
not know the reasons for the chosen path.

As mountains appeared, t
he terrain which they traveled
also
began to climb and to flow into hills and valleys.  The moment that Erelon saw
the first rock jutting from the earth, he knew that he had entered the kingdom of Sirus.  A few hours later, Erelon began to see signs of civilization: a few
spots in the valleys where cattle were grazing, paths cut by wagon wheels, even
smoke rising from the trees.

Fresmir looked toward Erelon and stated, “Hope you don’t mind
avoiding civilization.  You might be welcome here, but my kind is feared. 
You’d be surprised, even in Pendle, which they claim to be the city of
brotherhood where all races live in peace.  They don’t really live in peace. 
They tolerate each other.  And my kind, since there are so few of us, can’t
step into the city for a moment before being asked to leave.”

The Brect stopped for a moment before continuing with a sigh of
longing, “Now my home, the flying city, that is truly a place of peace among
the inhabitants.  If we make it, you’ll see that none there are the same.  All
are different, there is no normal.”

They wove a path around the valleys and their villages.  If the
two smelled or saw smoke, they made a wide circle around it, making their own
path if needed.  The two men hid in the brush, living off what they killed,
sleeping below the eaves of trees and the stars, even though not ten minutes
away, a tavern, a hot evening meal, and a soft bed could all be found for a
cheap price.

“I am finished with this hiding shit,” Erelon exploded as he
stopped his horse.

They had been following a worn path, which now looked into a
small village.

“I want cold ale, to eat something I did not cook, and to sleep
in a bed that is softer than the branches of bushes.”

Erelon’s eyes glowed as he looked at Fresmir.

The Brect opened his mouth to protest, but Erelon cut him off saying,
“No more excuses.  They may persecute you, and maybe me, but that is their
problem, not ours.  There is not an army in this country that wants to face
either one of us, let alone both.”

Erelon’s face was determined.  He wanted to hear the voices of different
people, to enjoy a few luxuries of life while they were still available.  The
Brect shrugged his shoulders.  They pointed their horses toward the village,
Fresmir with regret, Erelon with anticipation.

The Brect kept his head held low.  The duster hung over his
legs, and he pulled his head into his collar.  Fresmir could pass for a member
of the race of man if any quickly glanced in his direction.  But halfway
through the village, it became obvious that his presence had been noticed as
citizens stopped their chores to stare.  One little child went crying into a
house, others just backed away.  The atmosphere grew tense. Erelon could feel
it, but did not care.

The wizard picked one tavern of only two in the town and,
dropping the reins, stepped from Draos and surveyed the street.  A few more
adventurous men had begun to encircle the street.  Erelon pulled his cloak
back, inconspicuously allowing everyone to see he was well armed.  Women and
children had disappeared, faces looked out from windows.

Fresmir also climbed from his beast and growled, “This had
better be worth it.”

The Brect raised his head, showing his face and his horns that
glared in the sun's bright light.  No reason to hide who he was.  Too late for
that.

“Oh, it will be.  Or at least we will make it worth it,” Erelon
growled back.

Erelon walked into the tavern first, followed by Fresmir who was
watching their back.  The moment the two men stepped into the bar, those
outside moved towards the tavern quickly.  That was the last Fresmir saw as he
stepped through the door, but it caused his anxiety to rise.  Those in the
tavern backed away, and Erelon led the way toward a table in the corner.

Slowly a bartender came to their table, a towel shaking in his
hands.  Stuttering, the proprietor explained, “We don’t serve his kind in
here.”

“Please, Erelon, let’s just go,” Fresmir growled in anger, his
eyes glowering as he looked at both the bartender and the wizard.

“Erelon?” the manager squeaked the question that was also his
answer.

The manager turned pale and sucked in air through his teeth. 
The proprietor looked as if he had swallowed a lead ball which caught for a
moment in his throat and then dropped into his stomach.

“You can stay here,” the keeper stammered, addressing Erelon,
“But your friend will have to eat and drink out back.”

“Out back!” Erelon roared, “This is a village of assholes.”

Fresmir sat watching as his comrade exploded.  Then suddenly
Erelon went silent as the sound of horses fighting came through the door. 
Erelon jumped to his feet, his chair flying and tumbling backward.  Three men
also stood, and one brought a sword up and tapped Erelon’s chest, saying, “I’d
sit back down if I were you.”

Erelon slapped the blade, sending it thumping to the wall and
landing dead on the floor.  With his other arm, he smashed the man’s face as he
brought his palm up.  The other two came with knives.  The wizard caught one
man by the arm and whipped it, breaking it before jerking the stranger’s body
forward into a fist.  The last man Erelon simply caught by the throat and
dragged his body with him as he stepped to the door.  Throwing the body into
the street, he looked as men harassed Draos, one of his oldest friends.

“Damn, all I really wanted was a cold beer,” Erelon muttered.

“I wondered if I would get to see it.  They say it doesn’t
happen often now days,” Fresmir muttered to no one as he watched the scene from
within the tavern with his arms crossed, leaning against the rough wooden door
frame.

The proprietor who had overheard asked, “See what?”

“The uncontrollable anger of the wizard Erelon.  It’s legendary
among campfires and in any circles where those who fight for a living come
together.”

A few moments of silence drifted before Fresmir stated, “It’s
said that he has gained more control over his anger the older he has gotten. 
But at one time, Erelon could not control it, and it got him into some
trouble.  Yes, it is said that whenever the wizard Erelon becomes truly angry,
power explodes from his body and everything is destroyed.”

Erelon’s body twitched, and out of the blue sky, streaks of
lightning slammed into the ground, sending the bodies of those men harassing
his horse flying.  Erelon stepped onto Draos and bellowed, “Fresmir, are you
ready to go?”