River Of Life (Book 3) (2 page)

The same man stepped outside a door on the opposite side of the
dreaded mountains.  Not over or through, but underneath the mountains was the
passage that did not belong to the world of mortal man.  Not many traveled it. 
Those who tried the passage under the mountains seldom made it through; none
made it back.  Many had become part of the treasured collection of bones at the
beginning of the canyon.

Yet he had made it through and back.  Light could not penetrate
the darkness of these caverns.  The darkness of the tunnels was almost like ink
that extinguished all flame that threatened to expose its worst secrets.  Men
got lost in those caverns and could die of thirst, starvation, dropping into
any one of the many chasms, or finding oneself as the main meal for any one of
the multiple breeds of beasts.  A few had gone in with enough fuel for light
that they made it back, claiming that not far into the caverns there was only a
rock wall, completely impenetrable.  They did not understand, they had to put
out their light to continue on.  The only way to proceed was in complete
darkness.

Yet he had come out alive, although not unscathed.  Somehow the
monsters had left him alone, and he had not gotten lost or fallen into one of the
multiple traps.  The man did not even think of the object under his arm which
was giving off intense heat.  He had long forgotten that he carried it.  He had
not started this quest with it.  It was something that he had picked up along
the way.  He hoped that it had been worth the time, the energy, the mental
exhaustion, and the physical wear it had put on him to retrieve it.  So far it
had only been a burden, something heavy that he could not leave behind.

He looked on sunlight and evidence of life, and sighed.  What
lay behind, he felt hopeful that it could not follow, but what lay ahead could
be almost as bad.

But here he could relax.  Looking around, he realized that he
had stumbled into a jungle, a rainforest.  Great leafy trees hung everywhere. 
Trunks several times as wide as his waist were towering out of the underbrush
like pillars to hold up a ceiling of foliage.  Water dripped off of everything,
clinging moss, the heavy humid atmosphere, and fog hanging in and drifting
through the tops of the trees blocked out the sky.  The rustling of wind and
animals was a comforting sound that soothed the man's nerves.  Out in the
distance, the hooting and whistling of exotic birds could be heard at one
moment only to be drowned out by the low vicious growl of some carnivorous
animal.

For a moment, the man looked around.  Slowly, he began to
realize that he recognized this world, this forest.  Slowly it came back to
him.  This is where the terror had started.  It had been months since he had
been here, at that time hopeful, full of the spirit of adventure, arrogant and
filled with pride.  This had been his chance to prove himself, to prove his
prowess as a wizard.  He was the pupil of Erelon, after all.  He should be powerful,
prepared for this task.  Days into the adventure and his mind had begun to fail
him as the spirit world of the Humbas stole his memories.

Kicking open a rotted fallen log, pieces flew away, exposing
brightly colored insects and slimy crawling and slithering pests that ranged
from thousands of legs to none.  Narrow paths wound their way silently through
the forest, created by animals brave enough to explore near the opening to the
Humban underworld.

Strange runes cut into the stone decorated the door posts
through which the man had exited.  He followed flat stones that lay in the
ground.  Just as ancient as the old runes, a black iron fence blocked his
path.  A locked gate still stood in the way, not only sealed with rust but also
a craftily constructed padlock and a locking spell that kept unwanted visitors
from the underground realms.  Being persistent, the man soon found where the
ground had been washed away from beneath the fence as well as from beneath the
roots of an ancient tree, creating a natural tunnel through which animals
traveled in and out of the secluded garden.

Looking down, the man saw the old prints of boots filled with
rotting leaves and water.  His heart leapt into his throat.  Somebody was
nearby, somebody had come for him.  Slowly, he thought back.  No, those were
his prints.  He laughed at himself and said, “Wow, Easton, you really are
losing your mind after all.”

After escaping from the enclosed space, Easton turned to look
back north at the old mountains through which he had passed, marveling at his
luck.  The massive rock wall towered high above him, blocking all sound that he
might have heard coming from beyond.

The most amazing part of the local landmarks he found as he
began descending a stairway made of tree roots was the giant sculptures that
had been cut into the rock.  Smoothed by chisel and fine sanders, many carven
images—several being smooth faces with huge noses, big ears, and decorated with
beads—lay peering from their rock wall prison.  But there were others that had
bodies as well, and some more that were not human, some not even other animals,
but instead grotesquely broken figures with gnarled limbs and shrunken bodies.

As he followed paths formed by the flat stones and the animals
that kept them cleared, many more statues followed, some carved from the mountain’s
roots that ran above ground.  Others came from transported rock that had been
set at certain places for reasons understood better during the time they were
carved, generations, centuries ago.  Still other sculptures were those that had
broken from the mountain face and, tumbling, had found their current resting
place.  Staying for a short time, they found themselves anchored by roots and
vines.

Small animals were seen scampering and playing everywhere. 
Little gray squirrels with large hairy ears would stop climbing trees to watch
as Easton passed, and song birds would float over his head to land in a tree,
causing the limb to rustle.  Animals big enough to keep such a trail free of
brush had yet to appear.  Something would creek and groan occasionally far off
in the distance.  Easton stopped for fresh water which was found in plenty as
creeks, rivers, pools, ponds, and beautiful, graceful waterfalls bound across
the rocks, falling and twisting in their trail towards the base of the
mountain.

Easton even found a couple of easy mouse nests and had a meager
meal.  A few times he got a glimpse out of the jungle.  He could see spires far
to the south.  Black towers reached toward the sky, getting narrower as they
reached their peak, with smoke coming out in columns from within their
perimeter.  Dread filled his heart.  There was a feeling within his chest that
told him nothing could overcome those towers that soared above him.  Continuing
down the same path, he again saw it several times.  It was always to the
southwest, but it was not until he broke from the jungle that he understood
what they actually meant.

Easton left the border of the jungle, leaving behind slithering
worms and centipedes, fresh, clear, snow-cooled water, and rodents and animals
both known and not known.  Easton found himself on the top of a hill that led
down into a valley.

Across from him on the edge of a high plateau was a black
fortress, with great spires which he had seen from the jungle, overlooking
valleys, dark forests.  In them lived evil, impenetrable darkness which was
much too close.  The dark kingdom that this fortress claimed was spreading,
same as that of the Witch of Turgeon.  As Easton stared at that fortress he
felt the eyes of a strong presence watching him.  The young wizard shuddered so
that his rotting cloak half fell from his shoulders.

The wizard turned his attention to what laid between him and the
dark fortress, a place that he felt would be a refuge.  Out of the tunnel of
wide green leaves and rich soil smells came the sight which many had thought
only to be a mirage.  Seemingly hanging in the thin air that filled the
atmosphere was a huge berg.  But not that of ice like those that floated in the
oceans to the northwest, but one made of dirt and rock.  Rough dirt, some of
the richest on earth, hung from the bottom and was roughly in the shape of a
cone.

Huge roots and vines grew through it, splitting rocks, pushing
dirt, and holding it together.  Many continued intertwining all the way to the
ground, nature’s ladders and ropes for those who had no other method of
traveling up.  On top of the berg sat a city.  Great tan stone walls towered
high.  The top of the city peaked high in the air, a beacon to all the valleys
around, a sign to them of power and wisdom.  The city, being higher in the
center, was built on a hill on the berg.

Easton climbed down the hill, walking towards the floating
city.  Another man, one of dark colored skin and dressed in all black and
yellow, stood directly below the flying monolith.  He did not climb the vines;
he did not even grab for one.  Transforming from his feet up, he turned to a
mob of crows.  Catching the wind under their wings, they whipped up the side of
the monolith and gracefully swooped toward the top.  Curving over the wall,
they disappeared from view.

As Easton stumbled down the hill toward the floor of the valley,
trembling in his excitement at what he had witnessed from above, a dense fog
moved in.  It enveloped the fugitive, hiding him from the world and the world from
him.

ERELON stood in the center of a raised stage.  The room was in
the shape of a third of a circle with the stage in the corner.  A short drop
led to the seats, and then as the seats fanned backward, they rose until well
above the stage in front.

Several flights of stairs marked different seating sections.  In
this amphitheatre, thousands could be seated.  From the top row of seats, the
walls climbed, and set in the walls were balcony seats where more visitors
could observe the ceremonies that were held within this special chamber.  Above
was a high vaulted ceiling, fashioned in similar design to the rest of the
complex.  The chairs, stage, balconies, all of it had been carved from stone. 
Natural light filled the arena as small vents were punctured through the
mountain’s outside skin.

Today was in honor of Erelon’s return, and for this reason, he
was on the stage looking out on the crowding faces.  Ceremonies had started
with different heroes being honored and medals and awards being hung upon them
or pinned to their chest.  These highly praised wizards became like decorative
objects so that the wizards who proclaimed them as heroes could again find
themselves in the public eye.  To show off power and money for social
demonstration was all these ceremonies were.

Erelon was the main attraction.  From his seat at the back of
the stage he had been called forward.  Around him sat many other wizards, all
in their appropriate regalia.  Festor sat on the stage, but he had no part to
play in the ceremony’s functions other than to look the old and wizened wizard
he was.

Grism was not there, not even in the crowd.  He commanded the
troops that guarded the wall.  Upon stage, Hendle sat gowned in a long robe of
honor and rank.  Hendle had been recruited to play an important role in the
part of the ceremonies that surrounded Erelon.  Hendle had been given the honor
of decorating the master wizard.

Erelon was not necessarily against such ceremonies, yet he was
not accustomed to so much attention directed towards himself.  He did not enjoy
it.  For others it was fine, and at a more practical time, Erelon might have
even enjoyed being a spectator.  Heroes should be decorated, but not in the
middle of a battle; and indeed, at every moment, a battle at the walls threatened
to consume the refuge.

During his travels, Erelon had come to the conclusion that there
were two types of wizards.  One was the normal, average kind that enjoyed
studying, ceremonies, and organization.  Of this kind Erelon had tried to be,
yet had failed, for he was of the second type.

Erelon was a powerful lone warrior whose goal in life was to
protect or change the world.  Such wizards backed from praise and recognition,
living alone even when among people similar to themselves.  The friends of
these powerful wizards were multiple and of great variety, mixing among many
personalities and races.   Of this wizard there were few.  Besides himself,
Erelon only really knew two others, Chaucer and Tix.

As his name was called, Erelon looked into the eyes of the
crowd.  They cheered wildly.  Songs that had been written about him could be
heard flowing from the crowd, while a chant formed from the different names of
the master wizard in many different languages filled the air, picking up a
tempo.  Pride filled Erelon as he thought of all those who had come to love his
name even though they did not even know him personally.

Everything Erelon had done for this crowd of people had brought
him their love and respect.  At the same moment, sadness overwhelmed the wizard
as he felt his heart sink into his stomach; this was not where he should be. 
When younger, he had loved the ceremonies of wizards, the inauguration and
graduation ceremonies of those who moved up to gain more respect for their
years of study.

Now Erelon looked upon the ceremonies with a wiser, older eye. 
He was still proud of his rank, the symbol upon his cloak, but it did not hold
as much significance as before.  It was slowly becoming another symbol in
Erelon’s life, much like the flags of Samos and Kintex or the dwarves of the Rusted Mountains.

Erelon barely noticed a ceremonial blade slipped into his
hands.  Hendle raised his arm in a signal of triumph that their leader, the
master wizard, had returned to them.  Then the ceremonies were over, leaving
Erelon standing at the center edge of the stage, staring off into times past
and ages to come.  Crowds began to flow along the stairs, filing out.  Many
looked up at Erelon with wonder, some at the power that he had been rumored to
hold, others wondering skeptically if this dazed wizard could actually be their
hero.

A few men came up to the wizard to congratulate him on his safe
return.  Erelon recognized their presence with a barely perceptible nod of his
head.  Erelon was no longer the master wizard he had been.  He was more
experienced, older, more knowledgeable about the world, which had led him to
understand how small he was really.

He was left standing on the stage alone.  Everyone was now
gone.  Festor had been the last to leave, giving Erelon a sorrowful pat on the
shoulder as if he understood the conflicts that tormented the wizard below his
cool exterior.

Slowly the master wizard walked the stairs to a portal that
would allow him to leave the uncomfortable world of social customs and traditions. 
The hall was empty.

No one walked up or down, and then a surprising young voice
squeaked, “Hey, Mister Erelon, if you need anything, anything at all, if you
need anything, just let me know, sir.  If you need it, just tell me, and I’ll
be there.  If you. . .”  the child continued to nervously ramble on and on,
stumbling on his tongue in his eagerness to help this famous, outstanding
wizard.  Erelon looked down at the kid, about the same age as he had been when
he had destroyed the nobles’ sons at Kintex in a short but bloody fist fight.

“Sure,” Erelon said, “Maybe, sometime.”

Promptly the wizard walked off, leaving the child behind in a
nervous state, tying his fingers together and then tugging on them.

Erelon stepped on the top of the fortifications.  It was a wide
strip that allowed for men to easily pass by one another during the heat of a
battle.  Only, now there was no fight being waged.  Erelon stooped above a gate
that looked into the forest.  It was the same entrance that allowed him to
enter only a few days before.  Two other gates also were along the wall’s
expanse, yet they were far away, beyond the sight of a hawk.

Both of the other gates were in the section of the wall that
stretched into the prairie.  The most heavily guarded entrance was this one,
the gate within the forest, as it was the entry most aggressively attacked as
the enemy preferred to hide within the dark eaves of the trees.  Yet a constant
guard was kept on the entire stretch of the wall as a precaution so that the
inhabitants of the wizard’s refuge were not taken by surprise.

The forest beyond the walls was quiet.  The only enemies that
Erelon had seen since he had spectacularly attacked them with fire and
lightening was a scattering of goblins.  None of the strange and dark beasts of
strange nature had come back.  Erelon awaited their return with both dread and
curiosity.

Occasionally, a dark lanky shadow would creep from tree to tree,
watching the walls.  Erelon observed as a few bored men wasted arrows as they
took aim at the figures within the woods.  The sun above gently caressed
Erelon’s body.  A comfortable breeze stirred the evergreen needles as well as
Erelon’s lightweight cape with his insignia of the staff upon it.  Erelon’s
eyelids wanted to sink, and they did so slowly as Erelon’s mind wandered into
the forest.

The master wizard had been efficiently controlling his
impatience, yet the extremely pleasant weather caused him to want to travel. 
Instead, he was locked within the walls built for the protection of his
people.  Word had been sent that dwarven friends proceeded to the wizard’s home
now that Erelon had taken command.  As the days had been passing, the goblins
had been adding to their number.  It was as if Erelon had not destroyed any of
them.  With an angry sigh, the wizard turned from the wall.

Festor's cracked voice stopped him, "Irritating, is it
not?  Waiting, only waiting, unable to do anything.  You could fight, but that
would do no good, they just come back.  So we wait."

"Yes, I am not accustomed to this.... sitting idle,"
Erelon grumbled.

"I have seen several seasons come and go here now,"
Festor replied.  "Many of the youngest citizens of Suragenna were even
born here now."

"They do not even know Mortaz," Erelon sighed.

"They may not want to know Mortaz," Festor pushed.

"Maybe, but I want Mortaz," Erelon growled.

"For what?"  Festor pushed, "For your own pride? 
For vengeance?"

Erelon glowered at the older wizard, "Because of our
history, because it is ours.  And because of what it represents, the good and
bad that the wizards here in the North have gone through and committed in
building it so that wizards could study."

"Not all will want to leave," Festor pushed.

"Not all have to leave.  They can stay if they want,"
Erelon grumbled.

"Hmmmm," Festor hummed in thought.  "This place
has much that everyone needs.  More than everyone needs.  Take for instance the
upper reaches of the castle.  They are unfinished and lead into valleys,
canyons.  And in one, there is a canyon where every winter the temperatures
drop to the perfect level where they can sustain frozen crystals for months
without a drop melting.  It is said that the perfect crystals grow in harmony. 
Magic crystals that contain the spirit of winter.  They have everything from
the beat and melody to dissonance.  A virtual orchestra, created by the magic
of winter."

It was Erelon's turn to think, "So, Suragenna has
everything.  Even magic and mystic legends."

"Hmmm, yeah, and no one has ever really explored there,
especially in the winter," Festor fed Erelon's curiosity.  "Too
dangerous in those valleys and canyons in the mountain's peaks during the
winter."

“I want Draos picketed just beyond the castle door,” Erelon
commanded, all patience lost.

The commanding wizard had just been explaining how he wanted
Draos close for a quick race to the wall if it was attacked.  Erelon had been
speaking to Festor at a round table in a well-lit dining hall.  Bahsal, Auri,
and Hendle were also sitting there sprawled out.  Bahsal and Auri both had
their dirty boots resting on the table, the perfect picture of relaxing
adventurers.  Festor had been explaining the care he had bestowed on the
magical beast, knowing that it was Erelon's horse, many times his best friend.

Yet Festor had given an excuse for why it would not be in
Erelon’s best interest to use the horse, “You know, he is not too young and
now, well. . . . Let’s just say he is no longer in his prime.”

Erelon looked up at his old friend, his patience regained, and
calmly stated, “The horse is of elvish breeding, with magic running through its
blood.  Time has not the same impact on such a horse.  Draos has many good
years left in his life; it is just a shame that I will not be alive to see
them.”

“Please,” Festor implored, “Do not speak like that.  Do not
discuss your death before its time.  I will have the horse tied close to the
door for you.”

“Without the saddle,” Erelon added, “I will ride him bareback.”

“Of course,” Festor stated, still not convinced that a younger
horse would not better fulfill the wizard’s needs.

With a heavy sigh, all of the men at once leaned back into their
seats.  A few moments of welcomed silence were interrupted as Erelon grunted
and pulled a red stone from out of his cloak, passing it to the dwarve across
the table.

Hendle watched the exchange and, as he recognized the stone, had
to ask, “So what happened to the staff you took from the wizard of Samos?”

“I destroyed it,” Erelon simply said.

Blank faces greeted his short explanation of the staff’s demise,
so reluctantly he continued, “It was too weak to be taken seriously, but
powerful enough to cause great harm.  There was nothing to be done but destroy
the threat before it fell into the hands of a careless man.”

“And so, you give the fire stone to the dwarves.  Why not destroy
it as well?” Hendle asked with a mix between confusion and curiosity.

Erelon simply shrugged his shoulders and replied, “May the
stone’s beauty find itself better used in an artwork of dwarven culture and
pride.”

"So you give an elvish stone to the dwarves?" Bahsal
asked with a laugh.

Erelon's face grew stern as he remembered the stones he had
brought back to Mellacobe.

Again silence ensued.  People around were eating and murmuring
in low voices, as if each had secrets that they did not want those around to
know.   A cough echoed through the large room, a chair scraped across the
floor.  The fire stone sat heavily in Bahsal’s hand.  Warmth emanated from it. 
It was not an uncomfortable heat, but one that would be nice at the foot of a
bed to warm one's toes on a cold morning.

The silence was broken by Auri, “The goblins are harassing
incoming caravans.”

Erelon’s reply was simple, “I know.”

“There is a party of elves coming in today.  Led, some say, by a
friend of yours, a Yalen.  The goblins may attack them.  Are we going to do
something?”

Again Erelon’s reply was simple, “The elves can take care of
themselves.”

The master wizard fell silent as he began to brood, becoming
quiet and withdrawn, deciding on a course of action to relieve the area of the
marauding, infesting race of goblins.

“Let me know when the elves arrive,” Erelon suddenly spoke out
as Auri rose to his feet to leave.