River Of Life (Book 3) (16 page)

The sky was clear.  Only a cloud or two drifted by against the
dark blue.  Their shadows gently moved across the ground, bending and
conforming to the contours of the hills.  A giant crane swooped silently over
the hill towards some invisible pond.  The gray points of the mountain’s peaks
pierced into the sky.  Not long would it be before they again began to climb
and the air would grow cold and thin. But here in the foothills, it was mild. 
Not too warm, not cold.  Yet Erelon could not enjoy the pleasant weather.  His
body was torn, mutilated.

The horse followed the caressing breeze that carried the voice. 
Draos too knew the voice.  Draos even understood to whom it belonged.  The
horse’s memory had not failed him.

The horse traveled into another mass of woods.  Here there was
no path, but there was little brush and the trees were far enough apart that
the horse easily picked a new path.  The sun had gone down.  A moon cast a
silver glow on all the trees, casting shadows that played games with the trees
that bobbed up and down.  Another gave off a barely perceptible red glow.

Erelon continued to sleep as the horse broke free of the woods
and stood on a trail that went right and left.  There was a broken wooden
sign.  Left led to Pendle, right to Sine.  The names were barely visible, but
it mattered little as Erelon was not conscious to read them.  Straight before
Draos lay a path long abandoned but built of uncovered mountain stone, and for
this reason, it had lasted long after men had forgotten where it led.  Draos
stared up the path for a moment before crossing the route that connected Pendle
to Sine.

“That is right.  This way,” the voice soothed the horse. 
Draos’s ears twitched a little and then on up the path he ambled confidently.

“Whoa!  Where are we boy?” Erelon question and exclaimed to his
horse.

The sky was dark, and Erelon did not know how long he had
slept.  As he looked around, he saw they stood on a well built rock road, but
from the moss and mud that covered it, Erelon assumed it was not used much. 
Looking up, Erelon saw that there were two moons out in the sky not much more
than a thumb apart, and that meant he had slept at least a day on the back of
Draos.

“Come,” the wind whispered again.

Erelon’s ears became alert to the voice.  It was stronger; it
came from ahead.  Erelon had only wanted to find a walled city to hide in until
healthy enough to travel.  But this voice on the wind, it aroused curiosity in
him.  The wizard allowed his horse to lead on.  Trees crowded thickly around
the path, though none grew on it.  The path led up the side of the mountain. 
It would get thin and then widen.  At one moment the trail would have been
barely passable by a wagon.  A huge block of stone sat beside the path, now surrounded
by trees.  It was extremely worn, and its surface was covered in illegible,
though noticeable, markings.

After some time, the flat stone road disappeared as it was
covered in dirt, washed over by frequent rains. Soon the dirt became thick. 
The remains of deep wagon ruts became visible.  Through the trees a stone wall
raised its head.  Erelon’s thoughts surrounded the fact that he had found the
lost city, and his mind began to race, gleaning all information that he knew about
it.   This thought was immediately followed by the question of how people can
lose something so enormous and marked by such a clear path.

The path widened, the trees fell back, and the front wall of an
old city was revealed.  There was nothing more spectacular about these stone
walls compared to any of the other great cities Erelon had visited.  Yet it was
empty.  No one along the parapets, no archers, guards, citizens, travelers,
traders, no one, and nothing moved.  Erelon uncomfortably adjusted his weight.
Draos stood still, awaiting the next command.

“Come in,” the nameless voice commanded.

No longer was the voice carried by the wind.  It seemed to
enshroud the wizard.  It was all around, it lived in the atmosphere.  Slowly
the wizard allowed his horse to walk through the open gates that had been torn
down long ago.  Houses—a mix of wood, stone, brick, and adobe—all stood silent.

The horse stepped gingerly, almost as if he felt that if he
stepped too heavily the fibers of the earth would give way, and both would fall
into a bottomless pit.  A dark form, no more than a shadow, disappeared to
Erelon’s right.  Nervously the horse shifted to the left.  The voice guided
them on.  More than a voice, it became a magical presence, almost a form within
Erelon’s mind.

They passed around several corners, always going in the
direction the voice seemed strongest.  A cloaked figure began to form in the
back of Erelon's mind, the form the voice belonged to.  It was an old, twisted
form, but somehow controlled immense power.

Erelon felt as though he knew the paths they traveled.  They
strangely felt familiar almost like he had been here before.  The rock roads,
yards of mud and weeds, an atmosphere so saturated that his skin seemed to
absorb the water from the air, and his dehydration eased.  Dark, dank, dreary,
the city had once housed thousands, but Erelon could not understand why anyone
would have voluntarily chosen to live here.

The thought occurred that maybe this city reminded him of
Pendle.  But immediately Erelon knew that was not the answer.  Maybe, he had
dreamt of this city.  He pried into his mind, back into his past dreams but
none of them resembled this decaying city.

A city square opened before them.  Destroyed carriages, bones of
beasts, and men lay everywhere.  The skeletons were now long dried out, the
bones scattered by wolves, many crushed, but it was all evidence of a fight, or
more likely, a slaughter of unprepared townsmen.  This evidence of the
destruction of a city lay open for anyone to venture in and see.

A tree grew out of a small square stone basin that was half
filled with water.  A skeleton lay half in half out.  Both Erelon and Draos
began to become nervous.  This massacre had occurred long ago, but what had
caused it and was such a threat still around?  Erelon gave his horse a slight
kick.  Simply standing and staring would not find them safety.

Erelon wanted to find out what was calling to him and escape the
city.  Erelon had thought about hiding in one of the buildings, maybe locating
some supplies that might have survived the age in which the city had been
desolate.  Now the wizard only wanted to escape.

The path Erelon followed led him closer to the mountain’s wall. 
Then the path ended, blocked by an old oak door.  From within the door came the
voice, and into it the magical presence now retreated while beckoning for the
wizard to follow.

Erelon slid from his horse and looked up at the mountain wall,
at its peaks.  The wizard debated bringing the horse along and then decided
against it.  Draos would not enjoy the close dark corridors that Erelon assumed
would wait for him inside.  The horse was able to defend itself or flee fast
enough to escape.  The wizard’s hand reached out to grab the door’s iron
handle.  Erelon’s body froze.  Paralysis took control of him, a magical current
racing through his body, stopping all movement.

Slowly, gently, Erelon released the handle.  The moment there
became space between the wizard’s skin and the iron handle, the magical current
ceased.  Erelon smirked with a little exasperation before casting sparkling
powder in front of the door and uttering a counter spell.  The hinges crumbled
from the pressure, falling to the city floor no more than a pile of rust
powder.  The rotten door fell backwards, breaking into chunks.  Erelon stepped
through into a dark tunnel.  A strong breeze blew through, pulling the wizard
along with it.

Erelon’s hand trailed along the rough wall as he followed into
deepening darkness.  The opening where the oak door had once stood was the only
source of light.  Erelon did not carry a torch.  The exit to the outside world
had only shortly disappeared when small slits of blue light came through
another old wooden door.

Erelon stood for a moment, looking for traps, feeling for a
spell, observing and meditating, yet he could not feel anything out of place,
nothing strange or unusual.  His hand searched around in the dark like one who
was blind. Finally his hand came in contact with the cold metal of the handle.

Slowly Erelon opened the barricade.  Blue light spilled out, the
light coming from vents that led to clear mountain air still higher.  The light
blinded Erelon’s one good eye; the other still lay below a patch constructed of
material from his cloak.  The corridor was lined by the statues of men who
Erelon assumed to be great men, kings and warriors.  At the far end stood the
stone statue of Chaucer.

Erelon raced forward, tears running down his cheeks.  His mind
screamed with mental confusion.  He had never known what had happened to his
mentor, the only father he had ever known.  From this spot emanated the
presence, the familiar voice out of Erelon’s far past.  It was the voice, the
magical essence of Chaucer.

Erelon crashed to his knees before the form of his mentor.  The
wizard’s stomach felt as if it was trying to burst through his throat.  His
head pounded with questions and possible answers.

What had happened to Chaucer in those last days of his life,
Erelon still did not know.  This statue did not belong in this alcove.  The
crowned but splintered figure that lay on the floor belonged in the small
recess in the corridor.  Surely Chaucer’s body did not lie in the slotted tomb
behind, a tomb on which was carved the name of a king.  Who would have made
such a statue?  Who would have placed it here?  What events had brought Chaucer’s
magical spirit to this room?  These questions all raced through Erelon’s
throbbing mind.

Erelon’s hand slipped down the statue's robes, his vision
blurring.  His mind went blank.  He was too worn to continue this mental
beating, and his mind refused to focus.  His hand came in contact with the
sheath. It was not stone, it was leather.  For a moment the image of a living
Chaucer flashed before Erelon’s eyes.  Stumbling backwards, startled, the wizard
ceased to touch the sword.  He looked up.  From the sword the magical presence
of Chaucer emanated.

With the resolve to discover what was actually happening, Erelon
stood and slowly, respectfully, approached the figure and sword.  Slowly Erelon
held out his hands and grasped the sword’s handle.  Erelon’s entire mind and
body were gripped by a magical power that held him rooted in place.  Quickly
Chaucer’s life began to flash through the mind of Erelon.  The wizard not only
saw his mentor’s life, but for a moment, he lived it.  For a moment, as Erelon
held the sword, he became two wizards, two men.

Erelon watched Chaucer as a young boy, wandering the streets of
Sine.  Chaucer had been feared.  Men refused to turn their backs on him.  Women
and children would hide around the corner of buildings until he had disappeared
down the street.  He had grown up when no man who controlled magic was a real
man; they were a mutation, an abomination.  Magic was left to other races,
specifically the elves.  Early on Chaucer had come to the city of Ristine, the city of Erelon’s birth, where he met Jace, one of the few who would accept
wizards.

The images skipped faster and faster. Chaucer made elves and
dwarves his allies.  He started trouble at Sine, fighting those who claimed to
rule but only used their power to suppress others.  Through Chaucer’s eyes,
Erelon watched in pain as Ristine started on its downfall.  Slowly the city
would fight, the rich against the poor, and it devoured itself.

Chaucer fled from the trouble to find other wizards, to make a
home where he could find peace.  The rumor was true.  There had been five
original wizards who practiced their skills in a shack.  Soon, together, the
five gave a good name to wizards.  They gave council to kings, aided in noble
wars, took on noble causes.  They traveled long distances, helping whoever
called.  Chaucer had seen much of the world.  He had given advice to the Kingdoms
of Westeron and Sirus, bringing multiple short lived truces between the
kingdoms.  Others had gone south, past the dwarves of the Rusted Mountains, beyond the Mushroom forest of Tix.  They would disappear for years before returning
to the shack they considered home, each time returning with more treasures.

Then had come the flow of others, those who had been corrupted
by their power.  Too many were there for the original five to fight.  The
newcomers enslaved the locals to build the Keep.  Though the natives had been
released from the spell after construction, many became those who populated the
villages of the Keep.  They were completely unaware that they had been forced
to build Mortaz.  Many felt they had volunteered, such was the nature of the
spell they had been under.

Several disgruntled wizards who felt their skills were being
underestimated discovered knowledge that they did not have the skill to
control.  Knowledge of King’s Time.  Into the machine they went, and it
destroyed them.  Chaucer and the others knew of the troublesome wizards before
they fell, and yet they did not stop them.

Erelon watched as Chaucer stormed into a council demanding that
the wizards who were using King’s Time be stopped.  He had begun to watch as
the power rippled out from the ancient site.  The River Fallas slowly began to
dry, the grass turned to a lighter green.  The war waged between Sirus and
Westeron was impossible to stop.  Others yelled back, and the meeting
disintegrated into a fighting match, more about who controlled more power than
what needed to be accomplished.

Chaucer rebelled against those that stood for everything he
hated.  And in the center of the meeting hall, he held a debate.  Chaucer was
eloquent with words and pulled his enemies apart.  They abused the ranking
system, always giving rank and prestige to friends, not those who deserved it. 
They used their magical prowess to take advantage of individuals and kingdoms,
always looking to gain more power, land, gold.  The peasants in the villages
were suppressed so that they could only work for the wizards.  Chaucer's
complaints continued on, his words biting deep and quick.