River Of Life (Book 3) (24 page)

The forest seemed to shiver in pain.  The roots and branches
began to unweave and disappear, racing away from the destruction of the angered
wizard.  Ice boulders still bounced across the ground after them.

Erelon looked toward the Brect, his eyes still glowed red.

“I’d hate to have you mad at me,” Fresmir joked.

Both men looked around.  “We’re lost,” Fresmir stated.

“I never really knew where we were,” Erelon replied.

When the forest had first attacked, they had been closer to the
prairie that the mountain’s foothills flowed into.  The paths had been smooth
with few rocks.  Now the forest had virtually guided them back into the
mountains, with very few trails leading out.  Rocks cut into the view in every
direction, deadfalls cut off paths through which they might have at one time
passed.  At any chance they could find, they took paths that led downward.  At
many places, this meant leading their horse’s across ridges they could barely
stand on or down gravel slopes that threatened to send them on a rock slide
over some edge crashing into trees far below.

As they made their way down, the mountain towered above and the
forest grew darker until, day or night, it was virtually black.  The glowing
silver eyes of animals were all that they could see.  Bats flew low enough that
Erelon could feel their silky wings graze his head.  Mostly they had to trust
the senses of their horses to guide them.  At times they lit torches or even a
fire, but that seemed to draw more animals and insects that bit, and no matter
how many spells Erelon cast, the end to the insect problem did not come.

Night and day became one, and the travelers did not know the
difference.  So they slept on their horses, riding day and night, stopping
periodically to give their horses a break.  Holes in the roof of the forest
began to give the men hope as light came through, blinding to those that had
been traveling the dark passageways for days.

The breaks became more frequent until the trees began to thin
and blue sky could be seen.  The mountains still towered above the men, but
they no longer were traveling through them.  The forest through which they
passed was crossed by many deep ravines filled with dead falls, rancid water,
seeps, brush, and washed-out roots.  They passed through one which contained a
stone tombstone, the name barely visible.  As soon as they passed into a
ravine, they looked for a way out on top of the other bank, fearing quicksand,
rushing water, deadly snakes, or any other of many possible traps.

As they climbed from one ravine, a graveyard appeared to their
left.  It contained no huge stones, and no clue had been left as to the race
who had left their dead here.  Random stones of random size and shape grew from
the ground.  None were perfectly straight, and many had sunk into the earth. 
Moss hanging from the trees seemed to brush the stones.  A small gate still
stood, but there was no fence.  Whether there had ever been a fence, Erelon
could not tell.

On more than just a few occasions the travelers were forced into
a ravine and had to follow it for miles before finding an exit.  They grew
deep, the top so high that the trees above grew small and distant.  The ravine
would split and branch out, sometimes to grow shallow with the walls' grade
flattening. At other moments, they grew deeper and turned almost into canyons. 
The roots of trees were what held the earth together and kept the ravines from
collapsing.  The roots were sometimes exposed as the earth had been washed away
by racing water.

Fresmir sighed heavily and then stated, “We’re still lost.”

Erelon looked over towards the partially buried body of some
race of human.  The body laughed at the wizard from the side of an earth wall. 
The thought ran through Erelon’s mind, hopefully we don’t end like him.

A path led the two men to the edge of a meadow directly below
the mountain, against its wall.  Ringed by trees, the grass grew above Erelon’s
hip.  In the meadow three trolls stood, two large and iron grey, belonging to
the Ironwood.  The third was short and almost brown in color.  All were huge in
comparison to Erelon and Fresmir.  All were hideous.

“Let’s go around,” Fremir hissed.

“No, no, wait a moment,” Erelon whispered with curiosity.

One of the grey trolls smacked the brown one with the back of
his hand.  This assault was followed by the Ironwood troll slamming his club
into the little troll’s skull.  Both iron grey trolls let out a low laugh that
rolled through the grass.  The small brown troll tried to protect itself, its
hand covering his face, stumbling backward.  This continued on until the little
troll was bleeding, whimpering in terror and pain.

Erelon looked at Fresmir with a smile of humor creasing his face
and said, “A typical case of the big bullies picking on the smaller.”

A voice boomed from one of the grey trolls, “How dared ya tu
thunk ya, a little mud trull, cud pass throw the country of the Ir’n trulls.”

“Let’s go,” Fresmir seriously and sternly stated.

“We need a guide, we’re lost.  You take one, I’ll get the
other,” Erelon gave the orders, his mind made and set.

The Brect groaned but followed Erelon out of the trees.  Both
horses became a dark streak as they quickly shortened the distance between them
and the trolls.  The horses were barely tired since travel had been relatively
easy after the flight from the trees.  They enjoyed the run into battle, their
hair flying in the breeze they created with their speed.

They passed the brown troll cowering in the grass.  The Brect
almost seemed to become a single identity with his horse as he disappeared.  Suddenly
Fresmir could be seen morphing from the horse until he was racing across the
earth on all four legs, almost like a cougar, in front of his horse.   The
Brect’s cloak trailed behind him.  Fresmir climbed the troll like a cat does a
tree.  His square blunt teeth, lengthening, turning into fangs, sank into the
throat of his iron troll, into the main vessels of the neck, tearing them out.

Erelon passed below the feet of his troll while riding Draos,
Rivurandis cutting through the tendon of one heel and then the other.  Sparks squealed as the sword sliced through the tough hide.  The troll came to its knees,
and the wizard climbed its back as the troll swatted wildly.  Barely the wizard
hung on, jabbing two short knives into the huge creature, swinging from one to
the other as the troll tried to smash the creature that bit.  It slapped at its
back like Erelon would swat at a mosquito.  Erelon continued to pull new
knives, stabbing them in, using them as a ladder to climb.  Finally, standing
on the troll’s shoulders with both swords pulled, Erelon thrust them through
the trolls’ neck.  The troll stood for a moment, very still as blood gurgled
out of the wounds and poured down his chest.  Then the huge beast fell beside
its brother.

Erelon looked up toward the brown troll, the wizard’s eyes still
heated by the magic of two swords,  “We need a guide through this forest.  Can
you help us?”

The troll looked at both men in disbelief.  He feared that he
was next, but now they spoke to him.

“Well. . . ?” Fresmir said with nervous impatience as he looked
at the fallen trolls.

The brown troll gurgled, wiped blood from his rough face, and
said, “I dun’t came frem these perts.”

“Can you help us find a way through them?” Erelon again phrased
his query.

“I c'n try,” the troll stated.

“Good.  Then let’s go now,” Erelon commanded.

The troll’s huge, powerful legs did not tire easily and covered
a vast amount of space, which demanded that the horses keep a steady, quick
trot to keep pace.  The troll wore torn pants and a belt across his chest.  No
apparent weapons, no boots.  He had eleven toes, twelve fingers, and every
individual muscle of a member of a normal human race was a cluster of muscles,
all tightly woven and bound together.  Two horns grew from his forehead, one broken,
both banded with gold, and one tusk came from below his lip.

The troll cautiously chose their path through the forest,
sniffing and guessing where they would be likely to run into other trolls of
the Ironwood race.  Three men of separate races, traveling together, were
trying to survive, all with their own mission.  The troll sat outside of the
campfire one night.  The flame’s flickering gently outlined his muscles, though
the rest of his body faded in with the trees.

“So do you have a name?” Fresmir asked the troll.

“Bunkir,” was the low answer.

“Family?” came the next question.

“Muther, two bruthers, one sister.  Father die in a fight wit
another clan.”

“Sorry,” Fresmir said and then asked, “So where’s home?”

“In ta mountains.  Deep.  There is swamp forest.  There live in
mud homes.”

“So what brought you out of the mountains?” Fresmir asked,
suddenly very cautious.

“A threat, by a witch.  In few days, you too see her fort.”

The troll made paths where there were none, clearing brush when
it blocked the path and dropping logs across deep ravines.  Time improved, and
quickly they passed from the forest as one moment it just vanished.  Across a
meadow, in an indenture in the Northern Mountains, an island of earth floated
in the sky, gently rotating on an invisible axis.  The city could be seen above
the walls as it rose to a point.  Vines hung from the floating earth and also
came to a point.  A well marked trail, made of smoothed stone, led straight to
the flying city.

Yet this wonder was not what the three men stared toward. 
Instead, a dark fortress stole their attention.  On the side of the mountain,
made of dark stone, with towers that started narrow at the bottom and widened
toward the top with a slight curve, a fortress looked across the landscape.

“Tat is wut I come lookin' fer,” the troll said, “Ta witch tuk a
bruther of ma father; I come lookin' fer him, but couldn’t enter ta gates.”

“I’ll look for him,” Erelon stated.

“But it's impossible ta enter. . . ,” the troll was cut off as
Erelon held up one hand in silence and closed his eyes.

Erelon’s mind, his spirit, raced through the gates, as if
escorted by the wind, causing leaves and dust to stir and goblin guards to look
around in bewilderment, startled by the invisible presence.  Erelon wandered down
dungeons holding the living and dead bodies of prisoners.

Then the fortress ended in a void.  Experience and tradition
told Erelon that the throne room should lie where the void appeared.  So the
wizard waited.  Only a few moments later a cackle flowed across the void, and a
room rushed from the darkness at an alarming speed.  A long colonnade, at its
end a low stairway, led to a throne on which sat the fat body of a witch.  The
columns were black; down the aisle was a carpet of blood red color; and torches
were fixed to the wall, a liquid crimson flame bubbling.

“Hello, Erelon. I knew you would have to drop in for a visit,”
as the witch spoke, Erelon could feel her casting a spell, weaving a web of
illusions and lies, “So why didn’t you follow my escort? I sent the trees to
guide you here.”

“Do you really think you can challenge me?” the contempt was
strong within the wizard’s voice.

The witch froze for a moment and passed back into the void from
which she had appeared.  The dungeons, hallways, doors all passed backward from
the wizard’s gaze.  His mind passed back through the gate and into a burst of
fresh light and air.

“I’m sorry, but your uncle is dead,” Erelon stated.

“T
at’s
wat I . . . We feared.  But I don’t know wat to do,” the troll said.

“Don’t worry about the witch.  Her power will fade when the
reign of the wraiths ends,” Erelon explained.

“This is where I leave you,” the troll sighed.

“Before you go, take this,” Erelon said, pulling a green pendant
from within his cloak, “From now on, you and your descendents and family, they
are friends of the wizard Erelon.”

The troll took the pendant, looking small as it sat in his huge
hand.  He clutched it for a moment, thanking the wizard through a few tears and
then turned into the forest.  The troll lumbered along at a slow pace, but his
huge stride took him far.  The trees parted where he made a path, their tops
still visibly shaking even after his physical presence could no longer be seen.

The troll would not be safe again until he reached the mountains. 
Fresmir and the wizard watched long after the troll had vanished.

AT a quick trot, both men traveled the stone path.  Fresmir had
thought about goading his horse into a race.  One look at the elvish horse,
though, and Fresmir put the thought from his mind.

The flying city slowly grew bigger.  The vines which hung to the
ground seemed to rise until their tips were far above the reach of a giant.  A
small log shack and stables were built into the side of a hill and in the
shadow of the flying city.  A short old man, with long, wild, wiry, white hair
surrounding a bald top, sat in a rocking chair smoking a pipe and cackling to
himself.

“Hello, Gaz,” Fresmir called.

“Why, if it isn’t Lord Fresmir.  How has the world been treating
you?” the old man called back as he watched Fresmir and a stranger ride up next
to him.

“The world treats me much like it does the other citizens of
this city,” Fresmir replied shortly, “I was wondering if we could, me and my
friend that is,” Fresmir said pointing to Erelon, “could get a ride to the
top?”

“Of course, of course,” Gaz said.

The old man produced a tiny silver flute from within his leather
vest and lightly began to blow into it while his fingers danced across it.  A
song of springtime filled the air, the scent of wild roses and fresh air, air
that had never been breathed by another animal, straight from the trees in the
mountains.  It gave life to the hanging vines which began to dance and weave
together.

The vines dropped down and lay flat along the ground as they
weaved in and out of each other, creating at first a sturdy base.  Then sides
exploded up, made by flowing designs of spirals and arches.  As the vines grew
and wrapped around each other, flowers popped out.  This box, this crate kept
growing.  The sides rose and then the vines pulled back together across the top
until they weaved and wrapped into a long tight rope leading up into the city
above.  The living box began to shine gold and silver.  The vines that made up
a two-sided gate opened, and without any hesitation, Fresmir stepped into it
with his horse.  Erelon followed leading Draos, who nervously stepped onto the
vines.

Slowly the box began to rise, the vines pulling it upward.  The
small man quickly disappeared, but he could still be heard calling, “Don’t
forget to come and visit!”

The shack, grass, rocks, the stone road, all shrank from the
height to which they climbed.  The road became a small gray worm winding a slow
path toward the prairie.  The grass blended together so that it was only softly
changing greens.

“This is the only way in or out of the city unless you have
means of your own to fly in,” Fresmir bragged.

A trap door opened above them, and their box of vines raised
itself through the door.  The gate swung open.  The moment both men stepped
from the box, the vines unraveled and disappeared, and the trap door slammed
shut.  They were in a small building, empty, well lit with all the
white-painted walls reflecting the light.  The paint had been peeling for quite
some time, and old dried wood showed through.

Fresmir reached for the only door and pushed it open with his
palm.  It opened onto a city brightly lit and colored.  The buildings all
displayed a variety of colors not noticeable from the ground, shielded by the
gray stone of the walls.  Blue and green windows decorated the houses, catching
the light of the sun and spraying it in a multitude of colors in all directions. 
The city rose straight into the air, forcing Erelon to tip his head backward to
see the summit.  Trees, shrubs, and flowers grew everywhere, anywhere soil
could be found.  Even the stones of the roads were multicolored.  None of the
creatures that they passed were of the same race.  There were mixed creatures
and many more that Erelon had never seen.  Animals talked, and creatures could
morph into any form they chose.

“Here is the true city of Brotherhood,” Fresmir boasted.

Erelon looked down at a small man in a rocking chair with a
pipe.  Erelon almost cried out “Gaz!” in confusion and bewilderment, but
Fresmir’s voice cut him off, “Hey, Diz.  How’s the city?”

“Same as you left it,” came the reply.

Erelon almost lost himself in the midst of the people as they
stepped out onto the road.  All the different personalities, thoughts, talents,
chemistry, flowing together congested Erelon’s mental processes.

“How am I supposed to find Easton in all of this?” Erelon cried
in humor and dismay.

“Don’t worry, I’ll send some of my own boys to look for him. 
And until he is found, allow me to show you around my fine city,” Fresmir
stated.

A man on a high wheel bicycle, went rolling by, followed by
several flying carpets, laughing children, and a multitude of people all mixing
and churning as they passed on and off of the road, passing onto other paths as
if sorting themselves.

Fresmir led, making a path with his wide frame.  Erelon followed
closely behind, not wishing to become lost in the mix.  Slowly the road began
to rise.  To continue to follow the road would have led in a complete circle, a
tour of the bottom tier, the bottom level of the flying city.  But before they
had made it even halfway around the flying rock, they passed below an arch and
onto another road that led in a circle around the next level.

“Fresmir,” came a low guttural growl from the street.

Erelon looked down to see a lanky white leopard trotting along
beside them.  It was a little larger than those that Erelon had seen hunted in
the mountains of Sirus.  The men and leopard continued to walk as they spoke.

“Didn’t know you had gotten back.  It’s been a while,” the
leopard said.

“Hello, Tanton,” Fresmir replied with enthusiasm at meeting
friends from home.  “Just got back in today.”

“So how was the trip south?” the leopard asked, “It took you
almost two years.”

“The trip was slow, the world is falling apart much like up
here, but that’s soon to all change,” Fresmir stated, looking expectantly at
Erelon.

“Tanton, you know everyone in this city, maybe you can help my
friend here,” Fresmir suggested, motioning toward the wizard.

“This is Erelon.  He’s looking for a friend of his, from the
South.  This friend is also a wizard and goes by the name. . . .”

“Easton,” Erelon stated.

Tanton purred as he replied, “I’ll see what I can find out. 
Where will you be so that I can find you?”

“Oh you know,” Fresmir said with a deep laugh, “Seeing the city,
visiting a few favorite bars.  We won’t be too hard to find.”

Tanton slithered off into the crowd, easily his lithe body
gliding through small cracks in the wall of bodies.

“Tanton,” Fresmir said, “The official enforcer of the law, and
at the same moment, friends with everybody.  He knows everyone, especially
those who come in but don’t live here.  Has to keep an eye on strangers so they
don’t start trouble.”

Fresmir continued to amble on, yelling at different people here
and there, pedestrians, merchants, tourists.  Different flags flew above the
different buildings, mostly representing families and races, or occupations. 
Few represented countries.  Erelon guessed that there were over a dozen
languages used in the city by observing signs and listening to the chatter.  A
few of them he understood, but most were strange, exotic.  None of the training
he had received from the gnomes, Chaucer, or the wizards had prepared Erelon
for this city, so diverse and rich in cultures, ethnicity, languages, and
customs.  Those who had lived in the area for years still felt like visitors,
and to be able to truly call this city home meant being one of a kind.

Fresmir led Erelon into old stables, still colorful as the rest
of the city.  The insides were dry, aired out.  It did not smell of stale
stock, mildew, and rotting hay with feces as most stables Erelon had
frequented.  Heavy beams held up a roof made of wooden squares of tree bark.

Fresmir took his saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder and
called to the manager, “Can you look after my horse and the horse of my
friend?”

“No problem,” came a call from a back office.

Fresmir led out of the stables and immediately off the street to
their right and up a flight of steep, narrow stone steps that passed between a
couple buildings.  They were so shallow that half of Erelon’s boot could not
rest.  Thin doors appeared to their left and right on shallow stoops.  Vines
drooped down, playing with the wizard’s hair.  They met very few locals going
down the stairs, mostly single individuals, a few in pairs, and no groups over
three.  Now and then the flight would angle sharply, left or right, and a few
times the path led through gardens.

Fresmir stopped in a garden and stepped off the stairs,
meandered through a maze of wild rose bushes, and stopped by a wooden door with
a knocker that was a sculpted brass goat's skull.  Keys clanked together as
Fresmir pulled a ring from his duster.  Inserting one key, he turned it. 
Tumblers fell and the door squeaked inward.

“You’ll have to find patience.  It may take Tanton a while to
find your friend.  Maybe many days.  There are many that claim the title of
wizard who come to this city.  It has almost become a pilgrimage.  The problem
is that this is a city of unusual and many magical people.  Finding one wizard
in a city of magic may not be easy.”

A triangle of light fell on the floor through the door.  Erelon
stood in the door’s frame, his eyes adjusting to the dim room while Fresmir
stumbled within.  There was a wooden groan, and the shutters of a window
crashed open, and more light poured into the room.  The light caught dust
particles which filled the room, disturbed by the Brect.

Erelon stepped in.  Immediately his hair was covered in cobwebs,
and instantly he swallowed a lung full of dust.  While coughing, Erelon swung
his arms around, trying to scare the cobwebs into the corners.  A large black,
furry spider streaked across the floor, fleeing for a shadow.  Erelon’s boot
came down quickly, the spider’s exoskeleton sounding like a tin can as it was
crushed.  Erelon’s boot slammed into the floor, echoing throughout the house.

Fresmir’s head jerked up and he looked silently at Erelon for a
few moments with a questioning look on his face before pushing another window
open.  Grabbing a broom, Fresmir chased dust from the house and tore the webs
from the corners and, coming out the door, looked up toward the sky.

“It’s going on five.  The bars will be opened and going fast. 
My friends will be out,” Fresmir said.

Picking up both Erelon’s and his packs, Fresmir slung them into
the room, and as Erelon stepped out, the Brect locked the door behind them. 
Fresmir’s boots flew down the stairs, Erelon following quickly, but trying to
avoid missing a few and tumbling down the rest.  The street was still bustling
with life.  The city seemed untouched by the evil that lay in the fortress on
the mountain wall overlooking the city and prairie.

“Come,” the Brect ordered with excitement.

“So do you live with family in that house?” Erelon questioned.

“The Brect’s body stiffened at the mention of family and
replied, “A Brect’s life is not that simple.  Once old enough and taught how to
fight and hunt, we are basically sent off into the world on our own.  Years it
takes to find a mate, to make a family.  We do not live in clans or cities much
like the other races of the world.  We mix with the world, we do not isolate
ourselves from it.  To find more than five Brects in a country is unusual.  We
explore the world, taking our talents with us and using them to make our
living.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Fresmir finally added as
a condolence for his outburst, “In the last fifteen years I’ve seen my parents
twice, my older brother and sister each once, and I’ve never seen my two
youngest brothers.  I have never found another female with which to make a
family.”

Without any more questions, they went down the street, entering
a tavern with a hawk’s eye above it.

The bar was filled to capacity so that many were standing, but
as Fresmir entered, a path cleared for him and his visitor, leading him to a
table that several were deserting in respect for Fresmir.  Many signaled their
recognition through a nod; a few even shouted Fresmir’s name.  The Brect set
his heavy frame into a chair which creaked.  Erelon took a seat for himself,
and then others began to fill the empty seats or grabbed random buckets and
barrels to engage the Brect in conversation.

A gnarled man whose hands resembled the roots of trees ground
out, “So, you’ve been gone a while.  Tell us of the world beyond these
mountains and the prairie.”

An albino stuck his oval head, attached to a long scrawny neck,
across the table and said, “Yes, yes, do tell us of your adventures.  You have
a few additional scars.  They speak of stories.”

A roar of approval went up among those around the Brect.

“Okay, okay.  But only one.  I’ve had a long journey and wish
for only my ale and to hear of my home city.”

Fresmir proceeded to entrance the entire group with an
adventure.  The Brect’s ability with language was as smooth as his skills in
fighting were aggressive and destructive.  Fresmir told those who piled around
the story of a great bear who terrorized a village.

"Any who wandered outside their home at night were only
found as pieces the next morning," the Brect insisted. "As the
village grew wiser to the situation and no longer left their homes at night,
the bear began to enter the village, choosing the weakest buildings, tearing
into them, destroying the building, and devouring everything edible within
it."

Erelon looked around at the men.  They were entranced.  In this
city, Erelon thought that everyone would have their own adventures, their own
stories.  Yet here they sat, absorbing every word this Brect uttered.