River Of Life (Book 3) (23 page)

“When we get a little further south there will be a few
evergreens and some more gangling ironwood trees.  You’ve heard the rumors and
stories about this wood?”  Fresmir asked, looking at the wizard who nodded his
head, “Good.  Then I don’t have to explain, and you know to be careful.”

"So the legends are true?" Erelon wanted to know.

"True enough to make a man cautious," Fresmir
answered.

The fire went out, and the forest went black.  Something chirped
and croaked.  A few leaves in the trees rustled as a fast-moving creature
rushed through, and then the forest went completely dead.

Fresmir kept becoming more anxious as his nose poked into the
trail ahead.  His eyes pried into the forest and kept looking upward through
the trees.  His mind was often further ahead than that of the horse he rode. 
There seemed to be no end to the trunks of the forest.  They continued on,
unbroken by any barren hill or valley, though Erelon did not feel the pressure
that drove Fresmir onward at a hurried pace, anxiously looking through the
trees for something that he had not warned Erelon about.

A small circle, where trees did not grow and the open sky was
dotted by clouds skipping by, could be seen.  A giant rock rose from the
center.

“Here is where we will stop for the day and rest all tomorrow,”
Fresmir said, all anxiety seeming to fall from his shoulders.

Erelon looked at the Brect for a moment, curiosity filling his
mind.  This was odd behavior for his companion.  It was too early to quit
traveling, and why were they not going to travel tomorrow?

But Erelon did not voice his questions.  Experience had taught
the wizard that to observe and listen would be better.  So Erelon helped the
Brect set up a makeshift camp and then leaned up against the rock, watching the
day pass as the bright blue sky began to darken, turn to black, and fade in
with the trees.  The fire outlined a few of the closest tree trunks, almost
like pillars holding up a black roof filled with bright spots.  Neither moon
appeared, leaving the world dismal, good for those who lived and worked by
night.  Fresmir was already asleep as Erelon sat writing in his journal.  It
required an interesting mix of silver ink when no moon existed; the blind could
have written better than Erelon did that night.

Slowly the journal slipped from his weakening fingers, a long
line of ink cutting across the pages.

Erelon woke with horrible pains shooting through all his muscles
as he had slept in a slouched position against the rock.  His head had been
cocked backward and to one side against the cold rock that penetrated his
muscles, freezing his body.  The wizard rolled to his knees before using the
rock to help him to his feet.  Every muscle screamed as Erelon forced them to
contract.

Erelon stumbled over to the fire and poured a cup of coffee that
was thick and chunky, like mud.  The wizard blankly looked at it for a moment,
as if debating whether to drink it or not, and then finally put the cup to his
lips and let some of it slide down his throat.  Fresmir’s bed was empty, the
blankets lay where they had been thrown back.  Erelon looked around for a
moment, enjoying the morning off.  Both horses were rolling in the grass,
filling their manes with briers and dirt.  Erelon slowly wandered around the
rock, watching a few birds pass above the clearing and a couple rabbits race
through.

On the other side of the rock, Fresmir was prostrated on the
ground.  Erelon grunted and whispered to himself, “Religious thing,” before
turning back toward the camp.

Erelon had just finished coffee and a small breakfast of dried
meat and biscuits when the Brect came around the corner.  Dropping to the
ground, Fresmir pulled a bottle of water from his pack, scented and sweetened
with something similar to honey.

“A religious thing?” Erelon asked.

Fresmir shook his head and replied, “It is a custom among the
members of my race to pick one day to meditate.  Today is my day.  All day
long, five hours of meditation and then fifteen minutes of off time, but only
if needed.  Always the morning facing east and the afternoon facing west.  We
search the world using our minds.  We are clairvoyant, remember?  One never
knows what they will find.”

The Brect disappeared and that was the last Erelon heard from
him that day.  Erelon for several hours sat with his legs crossed, meditating. 
At one moment the wizard became so entranced that his body began levitating. 
Erelon’s mind probed the dark corners of the world, sometimes successfully
uncovering what lay hidden, at other moments being fought off, the amount of
distance from his query having a direct impact on his result.

His mind passed over a camp of trolls.  They had buried their
brothers that the giants had killed.  Now they were mourning, but already
several were arousing themselves and sharpening the trunks of trees for spears
or tying giant rocks to logs for use of clubs.  Erelon's mind drifted over to
the witch nearby, the witch of the Crescent Moon.  The fortress hid in a fog. 
The flying city just beyond was filled with so many magical minds and voices
that Erelon's mind became cluttered and his thoughts disjointed.  Quickly he
jerked his mind out of the city, allowing it to drift across the Desert of Fire where a large, lonely beast crept across.

Slowly he came from his meditation.  Erelon’s eyes opened.  The
sky was already turning black, and Fresmir still had yet to return.  Erelon
just lay there, silent, quiet, no thought entering or leaving his mind.  Slowly
his eyelids dropped, but he was already unconscious before they closed.

Erelon awoke as the first rays began to highlight the trees. 
Fresmir lay asleep, and Erelon left him, knowing that he had been awake in
meditation for twenty-four hours, and though meditation was supposed to be
relaxing, it could easily absorb energy.  It could become extremely exhausting.

The wizard roped the horses and saddled and packed both before
starting a small fire.  Grabbing a bucket, Erelon walked into the forest and
followed the sound of running water.  A little stream appeared at his feet.  He
knelt down, letting the cool water drift between his fingers.  Picking up
random smooth oval stones and letting them drip, he observed the change in the
stream’s ripples and the short burst of brown fog as mud was disturbed and
caught by the streams flow and carried away, replaced by clear water.  A few
small fish, minnows, went dashing by, small blue and silver streaks.

Erelon dunked the wooden pail into the stream and, filling it,
went back to camp.  He started the coffee, and it was not long before Fresmir
was awake.  Rolling onto his side, the Brect watched the fire for a moment
before throwing the blankets back, rolling them, and tying them to his horse. 
Fresmir also disappeared in the direction of the creek.  Erelon was sipping at
his second cup of coffee when the Brect again appeared, face still damp, a few
water drops dripping from his hair.  Without a word, he grabbed a cup and
poured himself some coffee.  They sat, warming up, chasing away the cold
mountain atmosphere.

The Brect’s cup emptied, and he finally broke the silence,
“We’ve got to make up time lost.  We’ll have to move quickly for the next few
days.”

Fresmir came back to camp.  Light was failing, causing the
furrows that lined his concerned brow to look all the more deep and anxious.

“Watch this,” Fresmir commanded.  Dropping the logs, the Brect
brought an axe over his head, slamming it into the limbs.  Sparks flew and the
sound of tearing metal shrieked and echoed through the trees.

Erelon looked around.  The last few days had seen the trees grow
iron gray and spindly.

“We’ve entered the Ironwood, then,” Erelon said more as a
statement than a question.

Fresmir nodded his head as he squatted and began to throw pieces
onto the weak fire.

“Hard to catch on fire, but once it does, one log will burn hot
for a long time,” Fresmir commented.

They both sat watching the few flames, taking turns trying to
coax it to life with tinder and by blowing onto it.  For a moment, the flames
would brighten and rise, but only for a moment.  Then the flames eased back
into their bed of ashes.  The ironwood slowly began to glow red and then never
died.  The wood crackled, ridges and valleys grew, and little pieces popped off
and quickly cooled.

“It’s true,” Fresmir whispered.

“What’s that?” Erelon asked.

“What they say about this forest.  The trees and animals are
hardier.  Almost as if made of iron,” Fresmir answered.

“Never doubted the stories,” Erelon answered back, “If traveling
has taught me nothing else, it is not to ignore myths until proven one way or
the other, but always to be cautious.  One country’s legend might have some
truth to it in another land.”

The Brect was puffing on a pipe and nodded his head at the truth
of Erelon’s words before adding, “Once we reach the flying city, those words of
wisdom will take on new meaning.”

“Just wait until we reach home, I’ll show you all the great
sites.  I’ll take you to my favorite places.  There’s this bar at the corner of
Magle’s Street and Borton.  Wow! The ale is cooled using mountain streams, and
constantly fresh beef over an open fire, and then there’s fresh goat cheese and
bread,” the Brect was in an optimistic, upbeat disposition.

The sky above the trees was dark grey with white clouds passing
above.  Holes were pierced by streaming light that filled the forest, unveiling
holes and chasing shadows.  Erelon’s mind trailed, and the Brect’s voice,
excitedly talking of his home, passed into the back of Erelon’s mind.  The
wizard was not as comfortable riding through the strange forest.  A sense of
inevitable encroaching shadows weighed on his mind.  The wizard always heeded
his instinct, and at this moment, he listened to his instinct with anxiety. 
The trees behind the two men rustled, and as the wizard turned to look, he
thought the trees moved closer, making all paths narrower.

Erelon shook his head, his long hair dancing back and forth as
he tried to clear his mind, and shrugged it off as a vision.  Only the trees
moving in the wind, Erelon tried to convince himself.  Something creaked and
groaned behind the wizard, but he forced himself to resist the temptation to
turn around.  The Brect’s voice floated to the wizard from in front, but again
the wizard’s focus, his attention, was directed to what was happening behind.

“Run,” Erelon bellowed toward Fresmir as he spurred Draos into a
sprint.

Limbs swung down and crashed into the back flank of the wizard’s
horse.  Draos stumbled, went down, but was up just as quickly and darted down
the trail.  The horse’s elvish blood turned him into a spirit as he moved
through the trees.  The kicking heels of Fresmir’s own beast of burden were not
even the length of Draos’s body ahead.

Erelon turned to look at the pursuing enemy.  Like thousands of
twisting turning snakes, the branches and roots of the iron trees had seemed to
come alive, filling the trail behind.  A branch lashed out, catching the wizard
across his face and leaving a welt and drawing blood, while a root tried to
lasso one of the horse’s legs only to find it already gone.  The memories of
the roots that had attacked Erelon while traveling the tunnel between the
Rusted and Broken Mountains, raced back into the wizard's mind.  He remembered
how the roots had not stopped coming, until he had ended the fight.

A low hanging branch caught Erelon across the shoulders as he
looked backward.  The impact almost caused him to flip off Draos.  Barely, the
wizard’s foot caught in the stirrup, and his loose hands caught onto straps. 
Erelon jerked himself upright into the saddle in time for Draos to jump a rock
and come back down, jarring every bone in the wizard’s body, his insides
scrambled.

Ahead, Fresmir swung at limbs with his axe, pieces dropping to
the ground where they writhed with pain until they went still.  Fresmir was
desperately trying to keep a path clear, at least until both he and Erelon
could pass through.

The axe swept around, the blade shattering.  The trees continued
to close in, and no path was left to follow except one. Erelon felt that they
were being funneled, guided like scared cattle.  The world grew dark as the
trees closed in and their foliage cut off the light.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Erelon yelled toward Fresmir and pulled his
horse to a stop.

The trees also stopped moving, but closed in behind the wizard
so that neither Erelon nor Fresmir could retreat.  They left, however, the path
beyond open.  A cackling came from out of the forest daring the two men to
continue their flight.  The two looked around, back to back, before looking at
each other, Fresmir with confusion and bewilderment, Erelon with anger.  Both
were out of breath and panting.

“Why are we running?” Erelon asked between gasps.

Fresmir only raised his eyebrows and looked at Erelon and then
around them, his expression and body movement his sufficient answer.

“Come now,” a voice old and cracked boomed in unison from what
seemed to be all the trees, “Continue, run, or we will be forced to crush you.”

“I will give you one chance to go back to sleep and allow us to
pass in peace,” Erelon threatened.

“Or you will do what?” the voice laughed.  A branch swung out
and knocked the wizard from the saddle.

Without another word, Erelon drew Rivurandis and pointed it
towards the sky.  A bolt of lightning tore a hole through the trees so he could
see the sky.  The clouds began to twist and turn like a huge whirlpool in the
sky.  A cold wind blew through the tree tops, and then hail began to drop.

The hail came in the form of boulders and spikes ripping through
the foliage, attacking the trees.  Branches flew; spikes drove themselves
through the trunks; and ice boulders smashed into the living wood, splintering
it, mashing fibers, and rudely forcing them to splinter and break.  The
boulders continued through the foliage, striking the ground, causing huge
explosions of dirt.  The sound of the impact covered any other noise excepting
a succession of explosions and then the rain of dirt as it showered back down
upon the earth.  The atmosphere was filled with the fresh scent of recently
plowed dirt and crushed plants.