River Of Life (Book 3) (41 page)

Other warlocks took form from the darkness that was the wall of
the containing bubble.  Their bodies formed as the Stone of Combining reached
far into the depths of time, both past and future, and pulled the warlocks back
together.  The warlocks attacked Erelon at once, together with a unified
front.  Magical spells blasted toward Erelon, looking like a swirling wall of
fire and ice.

The master wizard simply threw up a magical shield, deflecting
and absorbing the
magic.  Then Erelon charged w
ith both huge swords held ready to
strike.  He crossed them once before him and then allowed them to drift behind
his body.  The wizard leapt into the mob, bringing himself down along with his
enemies.  Erelon did not count the number of warlocks; he only knew that more
were continually forming, more than he had thought actually existed, and his
plan was to destroy them as fast as possible so that they could not all attack
him at once.

Erelon’s swords smashed through the knife and shield of one
warlock, cutting into the enemy.  Erelon, turning, brought Rivurandis through
the throat of one and on into the chest of yet another.  Erelon parried the
attack of one warlock, turned around, cut the legs from below the one behind,
and thrust his sword as he again turned into the man he had just parried.

“You could have joined us!” a voice screamed at Erelon

The master wizard turned to see a female warlock cursing him. 
Her hands came forward, and a blast of magical energy, a mix of electricity,
fire, and ice, blazed through the air.  Erelon instantly brought Rivurandis up
to parry the magic.  A current raced between the sword and the woman, and for a
moment, both were paralyzed.  The sword released a surge of power through the
current that connected it to the woman, blowing her backward, her innards
completely fried.

A cackle sounded, coming from Rivurandis, the spirit of Chaucer
finally achieving his revenge.  These wizards had chased him from Mortaz,
making him a fugitive from the very world he had helped to develop.  Finally
with the power of Erelon, they together made Chaucer's adversaries run
terrified, much like how Chaucer had fled the halls of Mortaz.

A younger warlock turned as if trying to flee.  Erelon threw the
elf blade.  It spun in the air, covered in white flames, and went through the
warlock, throwing the enemy to the ground and pinning him there as he went
through his final convulsions before death finally set in.

Fire and electricity filled the dome.  Smoke began to rise, the
stone burned.  Erelon brought Rivurandis slashing down through a male warlock,
plunged it into the chest of a woman, and pulling the elf blade from the
ground, turned and thrust both swords into the chest of another man.

A warlock reached out with his hand, reaching into the memories
of the wizard and then, finding the right one, squeezed his hand into a fist. 
Pain ripped through Erelon’s torn eye as the warlock forced him to relive the
memory of the goblin's claws ripping through his face.  The master wizard was
almost blinded as his vision was filled with bright lights and colors flashing
and continually changing, a multitude of visual stimuli that caused his brain
to scream in pain.

Blades began to bite into Erelon’s body as warlocks tried to
take advantage of the wizard’s painful situation.  Erelon swept Rivurandis in a
circle, slicing through those close and then down through the warlock’s hand
that was causing the pain.  The pain immediately gone, Erelon looked into the
warlock’s eyes, reached into the wizard's own mind, and found a memory, one
where the blood of the warlock's own mother ran down his arms from where his
own knife had cut a hole.  In her bed was another man whose flesh was burning,
a sack of gold laying on the floor.

Erelon smiled at the emotional pain he caused the man at finding
this hidden memory.  The warlock, never having forgiven himself for killing his
own mother, had locked away the memory.  The warlock's eyes filled with tears,
and his lips bubbled as he cried for his mother.  The warlock's heart began to
pump quickly, and pain echoed from his chest down through his stomach and
reverberated back through his mind as he tried to cope with the memory of
destroying his own mother. 

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! AN ACCIDENT!" The warlock
screamed over and over again.

Then Erelon plunged the elvish blade between his eyes, ending
the memory.

Erelon felt his own warm blood pour down his side.  Now that his
body had sustained injuries, he could not last as long.  This fight would end
soon.  Erelon ducked below an axe and spun with both swords, clearing a space
to escape the enclosing death as many other wizards had charged into close
proximity when Erelon had been down.  Erelon turned around.  There were no more
warlocks appearing from the bubble’s walls.  Only a handful remained, and they
were charging.

The wraiths had disappeared from the battlefield, though those
fighting did not understand why.  Most did not even notice as the goblins still
pressed forward, their master’s presence still in the air, though not visible. 
Grism was swarmed by the enemy, cut off from the main army and surrounded.  The
veteran had gone to a pair of short blades.  At first, the enemy had been far
enough away that Grism had easily brought down the few that strayed too far
from the main army.

Grism organized the few with him so that none had a back to the
enemy.  Grism knew they had to make it to the wall.  He knew this plan, to back
up to the wall, would mean they would be pinned against it.  This meant their
only way out would be forward through the goblin mass.  However he understood
that their only chance of survival was waiting for rescue, not in fighting
through the goblins.  They could not survive fighting a complete circle of the
enemy around them.  With their backs to the wall, they would only have to fight
those before them, everyone facing the same direction.

His boot came in contact with the stone of the wall.  Grism
stopped.  He could make his stand.  Surely Auri would come back for his men. 
The warrior's head slowly turned in a circle looking for the southerner, but he
was gone.

In the distance, to the left, Grism could observe where a circle
of goblins were falling.  He assumed that to be where his closest allies were. 
Must be where Bahsal is leading the dwarves, Grism thought.  Too far away to be
much help to himself and the men with him.  Grism looked right; one man fell as
a scimitar split his belly.

"Closer men," Grism growled as he jumped forward.

He pushed to the front of his small band, pushing the goblins
backward while trying not to push too far ahead and allow goblins behind,
between him and the wall.  A sword bit through his arm.  He turned and glared,
shoving his sword through a goblin's throat.  He stretched his neck as high as
he could to try to look above and beyond the goblins; he could see none of the
southerners.  His head turned right, the direction in which Auri had disappeared,
and his gaze only met the angry eyes of goblins.

Both swords started to swing wildly as he quickly backed toward
the wall.  The goblins were patient, their eyes gloating.  There was no rush to
kill this man, he was theirs at any time they wanted to kill him.  He was
alone.

The main force of goblins soon pushed in close, forcing Grism
further against the wall.  There was no escape, only a hundred foot drop. 
There were no ladders, siege towers, or ropes.  Grism stood alone, a short
blade in each hand, parrying and blocking with one while forcing the other into
the body of an enemy.

Bahsal watched as the enemy began to surround Grism.

“To Grism!” Bahsal bellowed to his troops.

Bahsal and several of the dwarves closest to him began trying to
punch a hole in the huge mass of goblins before them.  With the wraiths gone,
the wizards' army began to hold their ground well.  Yet they had much to
recover.

A rock from the giant’s sling whistled above Bahsal’s head to
slam into the earth, sending a shower of dirt and goblin bodies into the air. 
A skeleton warrior was looking the dwarve in the face.  One moment it was only
goblins; next, Bahsal faced the undead warriors.  Bahsal’s axe came up,
scattering the dry bones.  One after another, Bahsal sent the undead flying,
but they began to reform the moment they broke apart.

Powder flew from their bones that splintered below the impact of
the axes.  It was slow work, and tears began to form in Bahsal’s eyes from
desperation and aggravation as he knew he would be too late to save the old
veteran.  Grism would have to save himself.  Still, Bahsal pushed forward.

As Bahsal’s army of dwarves saw that their leader had turned a
new course, they also changed their direction.  A huge mass of dwarves,
changing the flow of their current, charged into the side of the enemy, pushing
them sideways.

Bahsal raced up beside Grism.  The old veteran was propped on
the ground, his body filled with holes.  Around the old veteran, bodies were
piled.  Grism had fought well, he had done himself and the wizards' army proud.

“I guess that this will be for nothing come tomorrow,” Grism
said with a hoarse laugh, “They’ll be alive in the mornin’.”

Grism gasped, choking on blood as the dwarve army began to
gather around him.  Then a breeze picked up, caressing Grism’s face and tugging
at the beards of the dwarves.

“Then again, maybe not,” Grism whispered.

As Erelon turned, he struck his hand toward the ground. 
Warlocks went flying as energy exploded below them.  Only one continued rushing
in, and Erelon plunged his sword into the abdomen of that warlock, never
looking into his enemy’s eyes as the warlock slid from the blade.

The other warlocks tried to converge on the wizard.  Quickly, Erelon
brought the swords around.  The blades seemed to disappear as they glided
through the air, so fast that they could not be seen, they could not be
blocked.  There was no second chance for these warlocks.  Erelon, without
remorse, destroyed them as a child kills roaches.  These warlocks had killed
many of Erelon’s own good friends.  They had hunted Erelon, trying to destroy
him, and these warlocks were killing the world.  The warlocks had destroyed
countries they had never visited just because they could.

Erelon smoothly turned one sword, going through an abdomen of
one, coming up across the throat of another.  Twisting with great energy,
Erelon forced both blades through a third enemy.  One more turn and Erelon
brought both blades down through a fourth warlock.

Erelon turned toward the last warlock, a younger man with fair
hair and an almost white complexion.  Whether the warlock was white because of
his natural skin color or because of fear, Erelon did not know.  The warlock’s
eyes kept dancing around nervously as the knowledge that he was last broke into
his mind.

In an attempt of desperation, the warlock charged at Erelon,
screaming like a man who had lost his mind.  The warlock swung two short swords
with no motive except desperately hoping they would strike something, maybe
accidentally mortally wounding the wizard.

Erelon easily parried the madman’s attacks multiple times with
the same sword.  Erelon brought his free arm around, smashing an elbow into the
warlock’s face, crushing his nose.  Blood splattered, feeding the hungry dry
stone.  The warlock stumbled back a few steps.  The pain brought the warlock
back to reality.  The warlock knew he was going to die.

Erelon’s elvish sword went through the warlock’s neck and just
as quickly came back out, ringing as the man’s fibers caught the blade’s edge. 
The warlock dropped to his knees and fell backward.

The seams between the stones that had been previously invisible
now had rivers of blood flowing through them, highlighting runes, messages left
by the Humbas.  The fight, for Erelon, had been as easy as a child killing
ants.  Now and then, the child would get bit, but in the end, the child, a
giant monster in comparison to the little bugs, wins.

Erelon smiled, he was a weapon, an extremely dangerous weapon. 
Without the sword of Chaucer, he had been powerful, but with it, he had the
power of two great wizards, and these warlocks did not have any understanding
of how powerful the wizard had become.  Erelon thought to himself that he had
become even more powerful than he could have ever realized.  These warlocks,
when robbed of their powers by the Stone of Combining, could not compete with
the strength of Erelon.

Erelon dropped to his knee, tears rolling from his eyes.  The
wizard was so tired, and now it was over.  The curse that Erelon had inherited,
that had followed and plagued the master wizard’s entire life, was gone.

Erelon’s eyes grew heavy, his feet lead.  The wizard yawned,
sucking in dust as he crawled toward the bubble’s wall.  Erelon did not know
how he was getting out, but he did not care.  He been chasing answers for so
long.  He had been born for this mission.  Erelon was the only one who could
complete the mission, or so Tix had warned him.

Now it was done, and Erelon was so tired.  He had seen too much
in his lifetime.  Erelon had shouldered much of the mission alone.  There had
been those who had been there for him, who had supported and helped him.  But
they had come and gone.

Erelon crawled for the bubble’s wall, his hands bleeding as they
strained against the stone.  Erelon sat for a moment, just looking around,
breathing heavily.  The wall began to ripple and then started to come apart in
ribbons.

Erelon thought, “I guess I’ll take a little nap.”

The breeze felt first by Grism picked up until it was a howling
gale.  The disappearance of the wraiths, their demise, left a void in the rifts
of time, and as time healed, a strong wind blew through.  A wind that smelled
of must and old dust, as if it had been locked away in a dungeon for decades,
and at the same moment had a fresh scent of spring, like freshly plowed soil,
clean rains, and new flowers.