River Of Life (Book 3) (39 page)

Hendle froze one monster.  As he thrust the staff forward, a
blast of ice and wind pierced the atmosphere and impaled the monster in the
chest, and a giant’s hammer fell, smashing the dejected creature into chunks of
ice.  The wizard waded out into the battle, trying to change its flow as his
army was now in retreat.  Hendle did not wish to lose everything he had come to
gain.  What would Erelon do?  The question repeated over and over again in
Hendle's mind.  Erelon would have done something magnificent to boost
everyone's spirit, Hendle thought.  Erelon's very presence would have been an
inspiration.

Elves and dwarves had also joined in the magical fight.  Fire,
lightning, ice, holes, blasting winds, it was all being used.  But it seemed to
have no effect as the enemy continued to push Hendle’s army backward.  As
Hendle watched from the falcon's eyes above, the elements of the world seemed
to be battling themselves.  A circle of hateful lights and explosions.

Lightning struck the ground to Hendle’s left, coming from the
clear sky.  The earth shook violently, but the earth that had been baked for
two decades was unmarked except for a black circle.  Goblins flew over the
wizard’s head.  A giant toward the front of the line had just brought his sword
down, cutting a magical monster in half.  Still Hendle’s army moved backward,
pushed by the army that constantly rose from the dead and so had no limit to
their numbers.

Hendle's staff came down on the skull of a small creature.  Its
head froze, and as it fell toward the ground, the wizard's short sword thrust
through the fragile frozen flesh.

The atmosphere was filled with magical energy.  The air became
stale with the smell of burnt flesh, powder, and dust.  The atmosphere took on
a green glow that had explosions of blues and reds that cast ethereal shadows
settling above the roar of clashing metal, angry voices, and falling bodies. 
The world for Hendle seemed to slow as one of the warlocks appeared before
him.  Time no longer existed, it was no longer relevant as the wraith passed
through it, and his close presence to the wizard almost drew him into the rift
in time that the wraith occupied.

“My name is Harris Thusler. I am going to destroy you,” the
wraith introduced itself.

“Okay,” Hendle said brandishing his ice staff.  As Hendle was
pulled further into the rift, the ground around him faded and slowly the wraith
took on human-like features.

The wraith snickered, “Did you not learn from our battle years
ago?  Your weapons have no power over us.”

Something invisible struck Hendle, sending him flying through
the air and sprawling across the desert floor.  Looking up, the warlock came in
fast, rushing to kill the wizard in command.  Before the warlock reached
Hendle, it disappeared.  Hendle was on his feet, eyes wide, looking around,
holding the staff before him defensively.  The wraith had vanished into the
rift leaving the wizard crouching on the hot ground.

THE world seemed to whirl around Erelon as he stepped into
King's Time.  It was turned inside out and upside down, twisting and turning so
that north became south and east exchanged sides with the west.  Erelon became
disoriented, though directions in the rift in time had no significance.  Time
was not of any great consequence.  The grass grew and died at the same moment,
within the same space.  Birds flew through the same space; trees started and
then shriveled; the grass was green, brown, and then gone.  The wind blasted
across the prairie as if demon possessed while the air was completely still.

The glowing orb of the Humbas sat in the center of the circle
where Erelon had laid it moments before.  Now it pulsed gently as all time was
combined, as every second of every day, every century, was relived in this one
location all at the same moment.

The Humbas who had built it could be seen moving back and forth,
etching their runes, causing them to gleam bright.  The short, fat, olive
skinned race smelled of magic as it emanated from each one.  It was a scent so
strong that it made the nostrils feel as if they would start bleeding.

For this one moment, the entire artifact, every pillar, every
stone, was lit up with the life which the magic had given to it.  Magic flew in
currents, firing up the area, giving a glimpse of the radiance that the power
of magic had at one time given the entire world.

It sparkled, jumped, and flew into the dark recesses to light
the area.  The magic flamed and crashed into the ground as a shooting star. 
Little men, fairies, given life by the monumental powers danced in the showering
lights which sprayed across the circular stone floor to bounce lightly and then
dissipate.

Everything within the stone’s realm of influence that spread
throughout time became solid: the stone pillars and floor, the giant pyramid. 
Likewise, everything that did not exist in this area in all of time, which had
only briefly existed in the circle, appeared like a wraith. Many people of all
races of the world again, for this one moment, in this one place, again lived
for a brief moment.  All who had ridden and camped beneath the shadow of the
jutting rock of King’s Time again relived that moment of their life, looking
like a ghost as they were only in a small fraction of the time that was
combined by the stone.

Dust devils of past ages again tore paths through the dirt and
dust, tossing leaves and gravel, spitting it as if their mouths had become
dry.  They tossed around only to die and come back to life.  Yet at the same
moment as they died, they also lived, for every moment was still there before
the eyes of the wizard.  Clouds above tumbled in life and death.  Growing high,
they poured out a rain that Erelon felt but knew at the same time did not
exist, except for in the past or future.  For every day that had been and would
be given to the earth, the sun rose and fell.  All at the same moment, the
world was night and day.

As Erelon's mind began to focus, he was able to filter out those
things which came through time, that appeared ghostly.  The ruins, grass,
blowing dirt, occasional visitors.  He even could watch himself wandering
around in the past.  He saw himself as he rode through as a proud young man on
an errand for the Wizard's Council and then again when he had fled through,
running from the pursuing goblin army.  Erelon filtered it all until only what
was solid remained.  The pillars, the stone table, the Humban stone.

Dark silhouettes began to appear in the hazy fog on the
boundaries of the circle which enclosed King's Time.  Slowly, ominously,
without any features showing except for cloaks drawn over slouched, bent, and
almost broken bodies, the creatures came from out of the mists of time.  They
crept, shuffling their feet it almost seemed.  Erelon watched them, for they
seemed to be the only physical elements in this orb which had real dimensions,
mass, which seemed as if they could be touched.

The wizard was immediately wary.  His experience told him all
was not as it should be.  But in such a situation, Erelon knew that there was
no norm by which he could judge if the events occurring before him were natural
or not threatening.  Erelon made a mental note as to how many there were and
where they were placed.

He counted five, but he had never been able to find an exact
number of wizards who had turned rogue and left Mortaz.  There had always been
rumors.  The numbers he had been told went from only a few to hundreds.  Erelon
tried to remember the dream, the vision he had while sleeping in the outpost at
the top.  He tried to remember how many he had seen in that vision, but he
could not recall those dreams.  As Erelon looked on, four stopped, allowing one
to continue forward.  The creature shrugged back his cloak and stood, losing
its slump all in one easy, flowing movement.  Erelon grinned at the warlock who
he faced.  An unmistakable mirror of Erelon himself, and it was at that same
moment Erelon knew that these were indeed the enemies he had come to face.

The spell that gave the warlock the physical appearance of
Erelon was simply a psychological move and was quite a weak one at that. 
Still, many times this one had proven quite useful in battles of wars past,
especially on the inexperienced.  A man unaccustomed to seeing himself on the
field of battle might begin to question which one was real, begin to grow
frantic of the idea of fighting and possibly killing himself.

Yet this futile attempt to disconcert Erelon, to make him second
guess his own identity, amused the wizard.  Here were warlocks, strong in lost
magic found through their trespassing on the past.  Their confidence had grown
along with their power.  Yet, even as they controlled vast amounts of magic,
they now used almost useless spells as they faced their own death.  Even with
all of the knowledge stored, they could not stop mortality.

For now, while all other objects and people within the realm of
the stone were no more than ghosts within time, the renegade warlocks appeared
whole.  Every century, month, day, hour, and second was brought together in
this one area, and the warlocks infested every fraction of every second.  So
their forms were brought together and became once again physical.  Erelon now
had no need of piercing time with a weapon as he had brought time together.

One of the warlocks, with an open cloak, stood before Erelon
dressed in armor of ages past, intricate designs engraved upon the silver metal
glinting like a gold river as the sun, dropping below the horizon, caught every
line.  The warlock’s cloak dropped to its feet, enshrouding them in its
darkness.  The copy of Erelon grinned evilly and then struck.

A ball of blue fury streaked past Erelon’s face as he neatly
leaned back, letting the ball go cleanly by.  Erelon could feel its heat as it
blazed with the magical fury of one who had been interrupted from a hundred
year's rest and did not yet wish to arise.  Erelon could only grin at this most
common of weapons used by wizards.  A very typical, common spell, a ball of
fire.  Why should someone of such great potential in power use something so
common?  Then Erelon got clipped from behind.  It felt as if something exploded
behind his head.  The object singed Erelon’s hair and knocked him over as if a
stone had landed on him from above.

The world seemed to turn slowly as his body hurled toward the
ground, and he slammed into it.  The wizard’s mouth dove into the stone, feeding
him a mouthful of dust.  The dust sprayed into his face, yet he did not notice
as the impact against the stone turned his lips into a red pulp of blood and
tissue.  His teeth were chipped and a couple knocked lose.  His head began to
pound as he could now feel blood surging through it.

Blood dripped quickly from a cut across his forehead and, mixing
with his sweat, stung his eyes as well as continued on down to mingle with the
blood from his mouth.  It silently poured down his throat.  He could feel a
burning, tingling sensation banging against the back of his head.  Erelon
groaned against his stiff, sore muscles which commanded him to lie at ease. 
Erelon reached back to find a groove cut into the back of his head along with
locks of hair missing.

The wizard grimly reprimanded himself for allowing his pride and
confidence to blind his mental attention to the situation before him.  He began
to mentally look his body over, feeling for each twisted joint, looking for
broken bones, checking for bruises.  And all at the same time, he was feeling
out his enemy.  The wraiths did not move.  Their confidence was building.  The
one who had just knocked Erelon to the ground only leered at him, a slow laugh
gurgling from his throat.  Gingerly, Erelon began to pull his body underneath
him, to get up and again face these that had once been of his own kind, which
for a long time now had betrayed their oath to the wizards and humanity.

With one quick motion, Erelon rolled to his feet and faced his
nemesis while trying to mentally regain his confidence, composure, and
self-esteem.  Erelon’s copy still grinned at the wizard, but now Erelon was
more wary.  The wizard’s head hurt, and the world seemed to toss and turn as if
trying to dump him upside down on his head.

Erelon stared at the creature that had no respect for Erelon’s
presence or power.  The warlock just stood before Erelon, one naked hand
resting gently by his side ready to obey any command the warlock would give
it.  The other hand was gloved.  The glove of the weapon had been forged from a
black reflective metal unlike that of the armor which the warlock wore.  This
black glove held the ball of plasma.

As Erelon watched the warlock, the enemy began to spin it
lackadaisically over its comical head which now wore a comical, almost
grotesque grin.  The ball of plasma appeared to be attached to an elastic band
as it stretched further and further from the menacing warlock.  It flew,
blazing a blue halo of fire around the powerful warlock.  Then, as the ball of
plasma soared behind the nemesis, its route was cut short, as with a mighty
fling, the warlock brought it about, throwing it at the wizard.

Erelon again easily moved from the path of the plasma ball that
with a hot, blinding flash blew by.  This time, though, Erelon also watched as
it stalled, seemed to catch on the invisible gasses which gave it life, and
snapped back into the protected gloved hand of the warlock.

Both enemies looked at each other with a grin that said, you are
dead. Erelon reacted.  Rivurandis swung from its sheath, the collected magic
rushing into the blade from the protecting, enclosing sphere.  The sword's
rivers of magic swept like a flood down the length of its blade.  The black
gaseous form wrapped and flooded down its length.  The blade seemed to also now
smile and chuckle, as it had its own personality.  Erelon appeared to grow in
size, becoming two wizards, receiving the best attributes of Chaucer,
especially Chaucer’s ability to control his emotions.

As the sword of Chaucer came around in front of Erelon and
through the warlock, the mask of Erelon that the warlock had worn fell from his
body.  A brown-headed young man with skin so white that one might have thought
he had never seen the sun was revealed.  The warlock’s disguise seemed to fall
off his body, much like how he had shed his cloak earlier.  Yet even as the two
rivals continued to stare at each other, the evil grin of the wraith turned
goofy, weird, crazed.  The warlock stood in front of Erelon in the body with
which he would have stepped into King's Time decades ago.  Erelon looked at a
man who looked younger than himself, a wizard whose own aging had been
protected by the power of this relic built by the Humbas.

Erelon only cocked his head and looked at the wizard, as if to
say, I told you so.  Then Erelon watched as the two halves of the warlock
slipped apart.  Cloven from head down, like two halves of heated, soft lard,
the pieces slipped apart and flopped to the ground, no blood spilling as the
flesh had been seared.  Smoke arose from the body that had been split by pure,
raw magic.  The ball of plasma bounced on the ground, slowly dimmed, and then
died out completely.

Erelon quickly pulled his mind back into the game.  There were
four more at least.  No longer would they remain aloof or look upon Erelon as
only an intruder to easily destroy.  This wizard had effortlessly killed one of
their own.  They would no longer be willing to make or tolerate any more
mistakes.  Here stood a creature that represented death, something which they
had not feared for a generation, and now he brought it back on them.  He dealt
it out as readily as they themselves had done.  They closed in, dropping their
cloaks and straightening all in one motion.  They had become masters of war,
and they outnumbered this intruder.  They intended to fully enjoy the moment
when they hacked Erelon apart with their swords.

The wizard watched others approach from the gloom.  He quickly
unsheathed his other sword, the elf blade, which scratched as it came out and
afterward continued to ring as the wizard stood wielding two, two-handed
swords.  Erelon guided them with the swift assurance of one experienced in
their use.

Twisting and turning, Hendle looked for the wraith that had
disappeared.  At first, Hendle felt it all around him, enveloping his body,
trying to fill his lungs and suffocate him.  Then the wraith was completely
gone.  The presence of the wraith, the magic, the oppression and darkness that
it had thrown over Hendle’s mind, were all gone.

Black horses ridden by skeleton riders flew from the main army,
bolting toward the gates.

“Stop them!” Hendle bellowed, “Stop them!”

Bunkir grabbed a log and brought it around, taking the skeleton
riders cleanly off the horses, sending their bones scattering into the battle.

“No one gets through the gates,” Hendle told Bunkir.