River Of Life (Book 3) (31 page)

They stumbled upon a small creek, hardly more than a stream with
a smooth rock floor.  The two men refilled canteens and allowed the horses to
drink.  It was the first fresh water that they had come upon since Massif,
where there had been a well.  They watched its crooked path on its way to the
River Fallas, where the stream’s waters, upon impact with the river, would
become foul, impossible to drink without becoming sick.

“Do you think this is the second tributary?” Easton asked.

“Do not know,” Erelon said with some confusion, “Sure is small. 
It is a tributary, but I do not really know if it is the second that we were
told about.”

For several more moments they stood debating silently as they
watched grains of sand pass down the water’s current.

“We’re never going to find out by simply standing here,” Easton stated.

“No,” Erelon said while walking toward his horse, “Might as well
go and figure it out along the way.”

Erelon mounted Draos, and as they crossed the stream, Erelon
allowed his horse to play in the water for a moment before nudging him out onto
the other bank.  It was a wooded area, the trees feeding off the stream.  The
small forest was filled with brush that Erelon had to find or force paths
through.

Burrs caught in the horses’ hair.  Their tales and manes turned
into knotted messes that would make for horrible brushing.  It was just a small
forest, however, and ended long before the valley was cut off by a hill.

Rain rolled over the landscape.  Far off Erelon could see it
coming down in what seemed to be unmoving streaks that covered the landscape
beyond in a gray veil.  What seemed to be a hill rose up in a flat gray value,
on its summit a few rough trees.  But as time progressed, the trees seemed to
change form, morphing.  It was no more than a large cloud.

The rain washed over the riders and their horses, soaking
everything.  Erelon had packed their food in material that was supposed to be
waterproof.  Erelon’s own clothing became completely wet, more than doubling
its weight.  Drops ran down the wizard’s limbs, tickling and making travel
uncomfortable as clothes clung to every muscle and the atmosphere became heavy,
oppressive, and hard to breath.  Lightning bolts streaked from cloud to cloud
before descending and striking the ground, causing huge explosions and the
earth to shake.

Easton had wanted to stop, to hide.  But Erelon had insisted
that there was no place in which to hide from the storm and so pressed on.  The
rain blinded both men and horses as it came down in vicious torrents.  The
river rose and began to flow down a few of the valleys carrying the sludge with
it, turning low points into ponds or annexing them.  Erelon could not keep to
the high ridges without risk of being swept downward and into the rushing
water, and he could not keep to the valleys as the floods came fast and
furious, carrying everything with it into the main river.  Erelon was forced to
choose a path that led away from the river.

The lightning grew closer to Erelon, striking the hills around
and drawing closer until it was striking the wizard.  The electrical power
circled him, bolts of electricity decorating Erelon, showing his true power as
he absorbed the energy without causing any damage to himself, Draos, or
anything around him.  The horses, excepting Draos, wanted to bolt.  Draos had
long ago become accustomed to the ferocious power emanated from his rider, but
so much energy and power left the other two skittish.  Only Easton’s powerful
arm kept them under control as he watched Erelon before him in a display of
power great enough that it had the potential to destroy entire armies.  It no
longer surprised Easton that the wraiths offered Erelon a position among them.

Easton did not know how many days passed while it rained.  The
world was dark most hours of every day.  Easton feared that they might have missed
their stop, the third tributary that fed into Fallas.  The flooding had caused
many phantom rivers to appear.  They might have passed the real one or gone
around it as they had been forced to travel far east of Fallas.

The rain slowly let up.  The clouds thinned so that some light
could come through, a gloomy dull gray light.  Erelon continued onward, showing
no sign of worry over the fact that they could have easily missed their stop.  Easton nervously looked backward.  Even after the world darkened as the sun went down, Easton continued to turn to look at the path they had already traveled.

The lightning had left, now only a dull rumble far away,
traveling, echoing through the valleys, reminding Easton of Erelon’s display of
control over nature’s elements.  Erelon finally stopped.  He pulled under some
low hanging branches, unsaddling Draos and laying the saddle on the wet earth. 
Everything was wet; a dry camp was impossible to find.  Clothes were already
soaked, and so it did not matter where they slept.  Erelon drifted off,
shivering in cold wet clothes with branches dripping water from above.  The
ground was so saturated that the water sat on top of the ground and surrounded
the wizard.

A few hours later, the world was still so dark that Erelon could
not see his hand even as he held it before his face.  Still the older wizard
was awake.  He thought about starting a fire, but knew it would be impossible
without gathering a pile of wood and casting a spell.  Erelon felt too tired to
move.  Instead he just lay there as if brain dead, listening to the horses
breathe in their own sleep.

It was again drizzling, but a fine rain was better than a
downpour.  Erelon pulled his legs up against his body and simply sat there, too
tired to move, but not enough to go back to sleep.  He watched the clouds
brighten as the sun shone behind them.  He watched the younger wizard sleep. 
Erelon had long known that Easton had considered him a kind of mentor, not
quite like how Erelon had seen Chaucer but close.  Chaucer had been more like a
grandfather to Erelon.  Erelon was more like an older brother to Easton.  However, Erelon had long looked back along his failures and tried to steer Easton to find guidance from others more stable than himself.  But after having seen Chaucer's
own life, Erelon discovered even his own mentor had failures, secrets that he
had never told Erelon, secrets that he had not been proud of.  Erelon had come
to discover that these failures, these moments of disgrace were what made
Chaucer the man he was, that had given him the strength of character to raise
himself.  And now, Erelon tried to channel his own failures to help make Easton a better wizard, a better man.

Easton slowly stirred as a tree allowed water to drop into the
wizard’s face.  Slowly Easton climbed to his feet and looked down at Erelon
before moving, trying to get his muscles and joints to loosen after being wet
and cold all night.

“How do you know we did not miss our stop?” Easton asked Erelon
as the younger man looked out into the saturated, dreary world.

One look from Erelon told Easton that the older wizard was
traveling only by what he felt to be right.  Erelon did not know any facts to
prove that he knew where they traveled.

With the rains moving off, Erelon took a path closer to the
river.  The clouds began to clear, and the world grew hot and oppressive as the
rain had left the atmosphere humid.  The men were just as wet from sweat as
they had been during the rain storm.  They topped a hill, and Erelon stopped
for a moment to look around.  The river had steadily grown wider the farther
north they had traveled.  The other side would be impossible to reach by swimming
the horses.  In the current, debris swept strong and steady.  The sludge
gurgled and plopped as it drifted along.  No more than little spots, goblins
moved on the other shore line.  The wizard watched as they scrambled on some
errand before disappearing into the trees.

“They own the western side?” Easton questioned.

“I know,” Erelon answered and then pulled on Draos’s reins,
leading him back down.

Both men watched for another tributary.  Easton began to talk of
going back, but Erelon refused.  The younger wizard began to wonder if the
third tributary was a small stream easily covered by leaves or maybe something
underground.  Easton began to carefully inspect the ground.

Erelon watched Easton for several hours as he turned over
leaves, looked behind rocks, and checked every low point before finally saying,
“When we find the third tributary, we will know it.”

“How can you be so sure?” Easton asked suspiciously, as if he
suspected Erelon of withholding information.

Erelon did not answer but continued on, never looking back,
never hesitating to go forward.

The small river flowed past, smoothly between two hills and then
into Fallas.  It was surrounded by trees and brush.  It was deep and just wide
enough that Erelon could not have thrown a small stone to the other side.

Erelon stated after a long moment of standing in silence, “The
people we are looking for live at the beginning of this river’s source.”

“What?” Easton asked.

“I assumed it would have to be a source of water of some
significance if the people we are looking for live at its source and have a
ferry service,” Erelon answered with an explanation.

Erelon turned east, traveling against the tributary’s current. 
At times the brush forced Erelon to find a path that led away from the small
river, which eventually turned into a shallow bog.

“Not long now,” Erelon said.

“From what?” Easton asked.

“Those we are looking for,” Erelon answered, “They will not want
to live far from the current.  Too far to push a boat.”

Draos began to sink to his knees.  Erelon dismounted and began
to find a path by foot, feeling for the earth that had more density.  Erelon
smelled something hot, something burning, and followed it.  Little flickering
fires sat on top of the swamp, lighting a drier path.  At the path’s end were
several small, round mud buildings with sticks, driftwood, and debris sticking
from their outer walls.  Small, smoothly arched windows and doors were well lit
from inside.  Moss, fungus, and mushrooms hung everywhere, suffocating the
trees, floating across the bog’s surface.  The whole area smelled of
fermentation and decay, an odor that made the nose tingle.

“Which one?” Easton asked Erelon and himself.

“I would guess the biggest,” Erelon said while indicating one
toward the center.

Erelon stepped before the giant mound and dropped the reins. 
Erelon was forced to hunch low to walk through the doorway.  There had been no
door blocking the opening, no knocker to hammer with, and so the wizard simply
stepped through.

Before there had been the low rolling sound of mumbling voices,
but as Erelon stepped through, all the inhabitants ceased to speak.  A long
table lay before Erelon surrounded by little ugly creatures.  Each looked like
a mix between a frog and a man.  They were covered in a variegated, bumpy, dark
green skin except the abdomen, bottom of their arms, chest, and neck, which
were covered in soft, light green skin.  Fingers were all half connected with
webbing; their joints were bulbous; and they had huge eyes.  The table was
covered in plates of food that looked like a pile of decaying flies. the walls
were smooth and white.

One at the head of the table belted out rudely in a nasal,
croaking voice, “What do you want?  Why are you here?”

Erelon looked directly into the frogman’s eyes and stated, “Just
two men, three horses, looking for a ferry across the river.”

The frog gurgled for a moment while thinking and then asked,
“You do understand that the other side is controlled by goblins?  They also try
to patrol the river.  It will be dangerous to cross, and once on the other
side, you are in territory controlled by forces beyond the power of any army of
man, elf, or dwarve combined.”

“Yeah, I know,” Erelon said, a wild smile creasing his face as
he remembered what had happened last time he had visited Mortaz.

“Jer,” the leader croaked, “Get the ferry ready immediately.”

One of the creatures jumped to his feet and disappeared out the
door.

“You’ll leave immediately.  You’ll reach Fallas by the time the
first rays come up and the other side by mid morning.  It’ll cost a gold coin
per horse and silver per person, paid before you leave.”

Erelon reached into a pouch within his cloak and drew out the
appropriate amount.  He held the coins up so that the light could catch their
color and then dropped them to the table.  He turned without another word to
disappear through the door.

It took a few moments to drag the horses onto the boat.  Draos
had followed Erelon without hesitation.  The other two, however, did not like
the unstable vessel and struggled as Easton and the frogman pulled them
aboard.  The raft was constructed of logs in a wide oval bowl shape.  A few
logs came up to create an edge.

The frogman propelled the boat forward with a pole through the
bog’s water.  As the vessel began to pick up pace, another of the creatures
appeared.  Running, the second frogman caught up and leapt in to flop down
beside the oar.

The raft pushed the moss aside as it passed through.  A hole had
been cut through reeds.  Trees hung low, trying to grab at those in the boat,
and roots tried to tear the bottom from the raft.  The water grew deeper as it
changed into a narrow river.  As they left the bog behind, the boat began to
move faster.

“You both had better get some sleep.  It’s several hours before
we reach the main river, and from there the danger starts.  For you all, since
you’ll be traveling on the other banks, I assume trouble for you will last
until you find some safe place to hide,” the frogman continued to croak, trying
to break the silence that settled on the water.

“I heard that River Fallas is drying up,” Erelon asked.