River Of Life (Book 3) (34 page)

The gates to the prairie were closed.  Erelon was forced to
climb the walls and look down upon the trolls.

“Bunkir!” Erelon yelled, “This is a long way from home!”

“Ya.  I hear ya was acceptin' volunteers frum every race.  Thunk
I’d represent my own.”

The giants glared in the direction of Erelon.  The master wizard
was making friends with the sworn enemies of the giants.

“They are okay,” Erelon said to Auri, “Let them in.”

Slowly the gates opened and about a dozen small mud trolls
cautiously stepped through.  Erelon was the first off the wall to greet the new
warriors.

“Do not worry,” Erelon assured the trolls, “Here you are under
my protection.”

“I refuse to trust them,” one giant told Erelon as he dropped to
one knee to get closer to the wizard’s height.  The trolls were being led away
by Auri and several other soldiers to a place they could encamp.

“My friend,” Erelon said to the giant, “These are simply mud
trolls.  I doubt they come to cause trouble in these few numbers, especially
where they are outnumbered three to one by giants alone.”

Runners came by to alert Erelon to Bahsal’s progress.  As time
went, one rider even brought a report that a significant army of dwarves from
the Broken Mountains also trailed with Bahsal.

“Thousands of dwarves marching,” the rider said excitedly,
“Never has such a large army of dwarves assembled.”

Loud horns and the beat of drums woke Erelon from where he slept
in a room in the wall.  Erelon had been warned that Bahsal was not far away and
so had spent the night at the wall.

Erelon jumped to his feet and raced to the gate where the
dwarves marched through.

“Should we watch my army from the wall?” Bahsal asked from
behind the wizard.

Erelon smiled as he turned to shake Bahsal’s arm, “Sure, sure.”

They climbed to the top of the wall, looking far across the
hills.  A line of dwarve warriors snaked its way far off into the east until it
disappeared.  It was an impressive sight that gave Erelon hope.

“What happened to you?” Bahsal asked with concern.

“Long story that you will hear soon enough,” Erelon said.

The dwarve crowd piled in.  The Rusted Mountain dwarves wore
their armor made of their special alloy; those from the Broken Mountains wore iron and leather armor and weapons.  Huge wagons and carts were packed by stocky
horses.

“Siege towers and weapons that only need to be assembled.  Also
stores of weapons and armor, cranes, everything,” Bahsal explained proudly,
“We’ll be here for hours if you want to watch my entire army come in.  Let’s
go.”

Erelon had just left Bahsal in the dining hall with a squad of
other dwarves and friends, and with instructions to meet him in the meeting
hall as soon as Bahsal was fin
ished.

Erelon was walking along with Auri and Easton, giving them
instructions, “I want my generals, my close friends, those that will be leading
the armies into battle.  I want them in the meeting hall in one hour.  It is a
private meeting; those attending are the only ones to know.”

Erelon parted from their company.  Erelon was going to his room
to prepare for the meeting, the other two were going to inform the others about
it.  The old wizard was walking when the sound of something big cleared its
throat behind him.  The wizard turned to look a centaur in the eyes.  The
warrior was dressed in armor, covered in large weapons.

“Erelon,” the centaur stated in greeting.

“Mayor,” Erelon replied as a question as he pulled himself up to
full height.  It was a motion of both pride and self respect as Erelon wanted
to be seen in the posture of a warrior and not an old man.

“We’ve come to fight,” the centaur said.

“Good to have you,” Erelon said, “You won’t have long to wait.”

The centaur turned out the door, and Erelon went on up the
stairs.  The wizard sat at the end of his bed, staring blankly forward,
forgetting why he had walked to his room.  Slowly he came out of his trance and
grabbed the bundle that had the stone in it.  He strapped his swords to his
body and grabbed at the leather-bound journal, his memoirs.  Erelon walked from
his room, shut and locked the door.

The meeting hall was empty as Erelon stepped into it.  The
experienced wizard set the shrouded stone on the table and collapsed into a
chair at the end of the table, his respectable seat that he had assigned to
himself.  Erelon waited on the others.

Slowly they filed in.  First was Festor.  It was the first time
since being home that Erelon had seen the ancient wizard.  Festor’s skin was
drawn, filled with wrinkles.  He was fragile, a cane held up his sagging body. 
Festor’s form, his muscles that at one time commanded power and had the ability
to swing a hammer, now barely had the strength to move his own body.  He had at
one time been feared for both magical and physical power.  Now he was respected
for his wisdom that came with his age.

Festor gently lowered himself into a chair near Erelon.  The old
wizard was gasping for air at the exertion to simply come down from his room.

“You are the youngest and last of the original five?” Erelon
asked, though he knew the answer.

“Yes,” Festor answered proudly.

“You then will be the one to represent and witness the events to
come for your generation.  Before you die, the evil left free during yours and
Mellacobe’s generations will end.  You will see this and the return of the
wizards to power in Mortaz.”

“Do not create stories about events that have not happened and
you do not know how they will come out in the end.  It brings hope, and in the
end, if your story is false, it brings desperation and heart break,” Festor
warned.

“One always filled with logic,” Erelon stated, “That is why you
must be here to guide the next generation at their start.”

Grism entered next.  The old brawler nodded toward Erelon, his
face also covered in scars from multiple battles.  Grism’s lips were set firmly
as he prepared to face the oncoming instructions that would lead to the
greatest battle he had ever had the privilege to fight in.  Quickly Yalen
slipped in with Grism, bringing a cool breeze with him that carried on it the
music of the twilight world of the elves, a world that slowly darkened in
Erelon’s mind.  Auri and Easton were not far behind. Erelon assumed that Easton was telling some of his adventures to Auri, explaining what had happened after they
had left Easton to travel alone across the desert.

Hendle came in alone, limping on his stump.  Erelon did not say
a word.  The master wizard kept silent and still, waiting on the last member of
his closest friends.  The others began whispering among themselves but grew
quiet as Bahsal entered.

“Good, that is all of us,” Erelon said.

The master wizard twitched his arm, and all of the doors and
windows, every balcony, was closed and locked.  An uneasy feeling filled the
men as they remembered the stories of how irrational Erelon could become.  How
he could lose his mind and destroy everything.

“I have brought you all together for several reasons.  The first
is to tell you what happened to me after I left.  I did not want to have to
repeat this story to each of you at different times, so I have instead waited
until now.  Secondly, I want to outline the part of the plan for battle that no
one except myself and possibly Easton knows, that is if he has guessed.  Third,
I want to set my affairs, and those of the Suragenna, Mortaz, and my predecessor,
properly in case of an unfortunate death.”

Erelon paused, looking for any premature questions, but was met
with blank faces, all waiting for what Erelon had to say.  So Erelon began
telling of what happened that day he had left.  Erelon emphasized his
investigation at the Keep, the finding of Chaucer’s sword, the stone, and how
the enemy had tried to steal it.  Erelon left out his visit to the corner of
the world, a secret that he would keep even as he was buried in his grave.

“That's what you get for not wearing the dragon-scale cloak,”
Bahsal said with contempt after Erelon had finished.

“The sword, can I see it?” Festor asked in awe, eager to see the
weapon in which his deceased friend had entrapped his spirit.

Erelon pulled Rivurandis free of its sheath and set it onto the
table.

As Festor drew his fingers across the blade, Grism asked, “Can
we see the stone?”

“No,” Erelon said, resting his hand on the bundle, “I have not
seen it and do not wish to uncover it until it is time to use it.  Easton has advised against it.  I respect the man who faced the world of the Humbas to
retrieve it.”

Erelon picked Rivurandis up and slipped the long blade back into
its sheath.

“Some of you may not agree with my plan for battle.  But it will
help explain my plans for taking care of my affairs.  I will not be going with
you to the fight at Mortaz.”  Erelon stopped to allow his friends to understand
what he had just unveiled.

“I am taking the stone and going to King's Time.  I will fight
the wraiths there.  Easton will go with me to King's Time, to watch my back
while I fight.”

“Then why are we fighting at Mortaz at all?” Festor asked,
acting as the voice of reason and logic.

“Besides pride,” Erelon replied, “and to take back what is
ours?  A mass of goblins and trolls that size is still dangerous.  It is still
a building of learning, of knowledge.  It was built on the blood of men
enslaved by magic.  But it can still be used for what it was meant for.  It is
a symbol.  You cannot just replace an object like that.  But most importantly,
I need you at Mortaz to force the enemy to stay there.  I cannot fight off
every goblin, troll, and anything else that they can throw at me.  You have to
keep their attention so that I can focus on the main threat, the key, the
warlocks trapped within King’s Time.”

All sat silently, understanding that the wraiths would crush
Erelon in the openness of the prairie.  Each understood the importance of their
task.

“Oh, some advice, burn the bodies of your dead enemies and set
them to a strong east wind so that they spread out and do not get blocked by
the mountain.  You do not want to send the ashes back to the wraiths, and you
do not want the bodies rising again below you as you sleep,” Erelon warned.

“Some of the soldiers are not going to like that you are not
fighting with us,” Auri said.

“I know,” Erelon stated, “That is why I did not tell them.  They
would never understand, it would have been too hard to explain.”

There was a round of mumbles of understanding.

“Hendle is to succeed me as leader of the wizards if I do not
come back,” Erelon stated, “Festor will aid him.  But Hendle will lead both
Suragenna and Mortaz.  I will leave it to him and the others of sound logic to
make decisions as far as political policies for the different fortresses.”

Erelon stopped as Hendle objected, “Why me?  Why not Easton?  He’s the one who got the stone.  He’s the stronger.”

Hendle voiced the opinion of all in the room.  Everyone had
assumed that Easton would be the next wizard to lead them, the one to succeed
Erelon, Erelon’s apprentice.  Easton had been the one to follow Erelon, to go
on the mission to get the Humba's Stone and to learn directly from the master
wizard.  Hendle had only stayed back, watching out after the castle, after its
occupants.

“This is not about who is stronger, but who is better able to
lead,” Erelon explained.  “I have been training you to lead.  Easton has other
issues to deal with.  You are the one,” Erelon assured Hendle.

“I cannot fight,” Festor said, “I cannot aid Hendle.”

“I do not expect you to fight,” Erelon told Festor, “You will
lead the wizards as they reestablish themselves.  Teach them the ways of the
original five.  You will stay here as we fight the battle for Mortaz.  Your
days on the battlefield are over.  You have seen your share of fighting; now it
is time for others to take their turn.”

Festor sat back down.  The ancient wizard’s face showed his
disappointment at being left behind.  But he knew that he could no longer fight
as was needed.

“If I do not come back, Easton is to have Draos and my memoirs. 
Easton will deliver the memoirs to the dwarves.”

Erelon looked at his friends for a few moments and then said,
“That is all I have.”

The men were silent and grim.  Their jaws firmly set as they
understood what was to happen.

“I was looking forward to fighting beside you again,” Grism said
as he walked by and patted Erelon on the back.

“Maybe yet someday we will get the chance,” Erelon said
optimistically.

A sarcastic smile crossed the old warrior’s face, as if to say,
look at me and my age.

One by one, each of Erelon’s friends left.

As Bahsal was about to leave, Erelon called out, "Bahsal, I
want you and Easton to stay.”

As the last few left, Easton and the dwarve took a seat to
either side of the master wizard.

“I do not want a fight among the wizards as to who gets my
journal,” Erelon explained, “Or my other friends.  You two are my closest
brothers.”

Erelon opened the leather book, “I will give it first to Easton.  If I do not return, he is to finish it and then give it to you,” Erelon finished,
indicating Bahsal.

“Written in elvish silver point,” Bahsal said with jocular
sarcasm.

“Sure, but most of it is written in the dwarvish language,”
Erelon replied.

“But I am sure it has the flowing, scrolling craftsmanship,
penmanship, of elvish writing,” Bahsal stated.

There was a few moments of silence before Bahsal concluded, “You
always combined the best of all the races within yourself.”

“Thank you,” Erelon said.

“You gave the dwarves back their pride.  Never will we forget
that,” Bahsal reminded.