River Of Life (Book 3) (18 page)

ERELON rode his horse down the path between a mix of evergreens
and oaks.  Two swords were now his only weapons except for a boot knife.  No
saddle, no reins, and none of the enemy in sight.  Erelon pushed his horse at a
gentle pace.  No pursuit by any of the surviving goblins was visible.  They did
not wish to die.  They would take news of this new weapon to the enemy.  Maybe
fear and worry would spread among the army; maybe it would begin to rebel and
fall apart.  All this speculation was only hope, most likely frivolous hope.

The trees would close in on the wizard only to spread apart.  At
times they were threatening and at moments protecting the one who passed
through their trail.  The wizard took a slow, easy pace.  Neither he nor Draos
needed to flee down the path, both needed to heal.

The iron gray points of the mountain continued to tower above
the wizard.  At times the forest seemed to turn to night as the trees thickly
crowded in, blocking out all sight of the sky and the mountain peaks.  But
mostly it remained open, and traveling was easy even if there had been no path
to follow.

It took Erelon longer to travel the trail than the last time
when the wizard had been with two companions.  But that time Erelon had not
been half dead.  Though now the air seemed to have a sweet scent, the trees greener,
the earth a richer brown. 

Erelon looked again upon the city walls of Pendle.  The wizard
knew that he had been warned not to come back by the centaur mayor.  But he
needed a good establishment in which to rest, to look after the injuries he had
gained through the continuous fight for the last several weeks.  Except for a
few mornings when he had been able to look into a silent pool of water, Erelon
did not know how well the wounds on his face were healing.  Only by touching
them as he cleaned and dressed them in new bandages had Erelon been able to
guess the extent of the damage.  The right eye no longer functioned.

Even as the walls that Erelon had been banished from towered
above him, Erelon no longer cared.  He did not fear an entire army of centaurs,
for he had faced a fire demon, and he had faced the warlocks.  The wizard
nudged his horse, which sent Draos flying through the crowding mass of people
going in and out.  His bloody bandages were still wrapped around his face.  His
arms were also wrapped in miscellaneous strips of cloth that he had found,
though ugly red marks showed where there were none.  Erelon looked like a demon
that had come from some legend told around a campfire.

Two guards tried to jump into the path of Erelon and his horse,
but Draos seemed to pass through them like a phantom and disappeared.  Stunned,
the two soldiers looked at one another for a moment before turning to race up
the street in the direction of the mayor’s mansion.

Erelon and his horse seemed to slip through the buildings as if
they traveled on another plane of existence.  All the time, Erelon guided Draos
towards the house of Backer.  These wizards of Pendle could only be matched in
the ability to heal by the elves.  The master wizards of Pendle first taught
their pupils how to heal because to heal is harder than to destroy.  And if a
apprentice could learn to heal, learning how to destro
y
, when
necessary, would be easy.

The old potion sign was no better than the last time Erelon had
stayed here.  Above, clouds threatened rain.  A gurgle of thunder could be
heard building in the distance.  The air was damp with humidity.  Erelon
stepped from his horse and walked to the door, his huge fist crashing into it,
ignoring the hammer.  Footsteps from within sounded, echoing through the rooms
of the house.  It was the step of a big man.  Slowly the door opened, not
enough for someone to block it from closing with their boot, but wide enough
for the occupant to see out.

A gasp sounded from inside, and the door rushed backwards as if
sucked by a giant wind.

“Get in here,” was the command of Backer.

A strong arm grabbed Erelon’s shoulder and pulled him within the
building’s protection.

“Harvey,” Backer barked at an older apprentice, “Take care of
our visitor’s horse.”

“But he was banned from the city.  All who help him are to also
be banned,” Harvey complained.

A stiff look from Backer cut off any further objections and sent
the boy plodding from the house.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” came a confused question
from Backer, one that was also filled with awe.

Erelon only remained silent as Backer guided him through the
house and into a basement.  A circular stairway tucked into a corner of the
kitchen led down.  It was narrow, confining, almost pinning the shoulders of
both wizards to the walls.  Both men had to stoop to avoid the bottom of the
stairs just above them.

The basement was one giant room with only slits at the very top
of the walls that allowed in light from the outside.  Several torches flickered
from brackets on the walls.  Several tables were cluttered with books, potions,
scrolls, swords, knives, and many other miscellaneous items.  It was kept clean
and dry.  No dirt or dust clogged the air like the cellars of many other
houses, and there was no moldy water setting in the far corners.

Quickly Backer closed off the windows with boards that easily
slid into place.  The wizard of Pendle walked around the room, torches lighting
up wherever he stepped.

As the whole room began to glow, Backer walked back to Erelon
and said, “Okay.  Now let’s take a better look at you.”

Erelon sat on a stool and Backer began to unwind the strips of
cloth around his face.  The sight was disgusting.  Three major lacerations made
ugly irregular paths down the right side of Erelon’s face.  One eye was totally
useless and was mangled so that the insides had come out.

Looking into Backer’s eyes, Erelon demanded, “I want to see.”

“No, no you don’t,” Backer replied firmly.

Erelon reached out of a mirror on the table behind Backer.  The
other wizard sided over to cut off Erelon's reach.  Erelon grunted and lurched
forward again, grabbing for it.  Backer again cut him off.  But after a few
moments, he gave into the younger wizard’s demands by handing him a mirror.

Erelon’s fingers gently ran the length of the lacerations,
gently caressing the blue and purple skin.  Erelon looked slowly up at Backer,
a question in the younger wizard’s eyes asking Backer if he could do anything.

Backer simply shrugged his shoulder and said, “Son, there are
some things magic can’t fix.”

Erelon’s spirit began to fail as he gloomily looked back into
the mirror.

“Is the rest of you just as bad?” came Backer’s next inquiry.

Slowly Erelon nodded his head and then asked, “Both I and my
horse need to rest.  How long do you think we can stay here?”

“If by stay, you mean hide, not very long.  By now, most likely,
the mayor already knows of your return.  But you can stay here as long as you
need.  I doubt the mayor or his family of centaurs is too fond of the idea of
tackling a house of wizards, especially with you in it,” Backer finished with a
smile.

Erelon awoke on a soft bed in an upstairs room with moonlight
sifting through the clouds.  Slowly the moons' light went out like a dying
candle and a mist rose followed by a drizzle.  Erelon felt his face.  The
scarring was still there, there was no sight in his right eye.  Backer, along
with two or three other wizards, had put a spell on Erelon, rendering him unconscious
before they went to work mending his extensive injuries.

But his eye still did not work.  The scars were still there. 
Backer had assured Erelon that they would never be able to entirely reverse the
damage, but that they could at least help it to heal properly.

The wizard just stared out the window, thinking about all the
decisions he had made in his life, the wise and the foolish.  Mostly though,
the foolish and futile.  Not too many more foolish decisions to be made, Erelon
thought about his black future filled with uncertainty.  Especially if he kept
making decisions like his last one to go to Mortaz, Erelon reprimanded himself
mentally.  Although Backer felt more positive about Erelon's future, continually
talked about Erelon spending some time in Pendle after the last battle was
finished.

“I’m sorry,” a rough voice sounded behind Erelon.

Erelon did not turn; he did not jump in surprise.  He knew
Backer had been watching his patient.

“We tried, and we managed to help your body to heal more properly. 
We destroyed any sign of infections, minimized damage and scars, even put your
eye together in a form that resembles an eye.  But you’ll never use it again,
I’m afraid.”

A few moments of silence passed as the rain picked up, washing
out all sound outside.  Erelon could feel, in the shadowed corners, under the
eaves, trying to hide from the view of men and avoid the downpour, soldiers,
centaurs of Pendle, lurked.  They were watching, waiting for further orders. 
For now they were just to watch.

“Then again, you really don’t need that eye, do you?” Backer
said.

The old wizard was referring to the fact that with Erelon’s
magical strength, he could most likely see without the use of his eyes.

“You never told me how you got into such trouble,” Backer
continued trying to persuade Erelon to speak.

A smirk spread across the face of Erelon.  It was not the smile
of humor, but of horror.  It was the smile of a man reflecting on the
unintelligent decisions of his past that had brought him close to hell.

“I went to Mortaz,” Erelon’s voice said far away and without
emotion.

Backer stood without saying anything.  Surprise clutched at him,
bringing his mind to a crashing halt.

Then with a gasp, Backer asked, “You did what?”

“I went to Mortaz, right up to the castle.  I even went inside. 
Faced the wraiths, fought their army, outran a fire demon, and then came here.”

“Uh huh,” Backer sarcastically replied, “And in that time you
picked up a new sword, the kind of which me and no other wizard scholar has
ever seen or heard tales of, one which the power is so great that it emanates
even beyond the sheath built specifically to contain that power?”

“Yeah, I picked that up along the way.  Where is it?”  Erelon
asked getting suspicious and protective.

“It’s in the basement, out of sight, hidden,”  Backer assured
Erelon,  “What’s after Pendle?”

“Not sure yet,” Erelon started thinking, forming a plan,  “I do
not think I will cross the mountains, then I would also have to go across the
desert.  If you do not know, I am going to the flying city.  I am thinking
about going north of the Gronge Mountains, striking out across the border of
the Ironwoods, and then slipping south of the fortress of Witch of the Crescent
Moon.”

“You do realize why they call it the Ironwoods?” Backer asked,
but then without waiting for a response continued, “It is said that there is so
much iron in the ground that it becomes part of the trees which are a solid
steel gray, very heavy, very dense.  But mostly you should consider the trolls
born in that area, trolls that supposedly come from the mountain rock.  They
have an unnaturally large amount of iron in them, and they are next to impossible
to kill.”

Erelon turned his battered face to Backer and replied, “I think I
can handle it.”

Backer grunted and, turning to leave, said, “You should get some
sleep.”

“Wait a moment,” Erelon called softly.

Backer stopped and looked over his shoulder.  Erelon stated, “I
found the lost city.  How does something so huge, so well marked, disappear
from maps, from the minds of men?”

Backer sighed with sadness, “The people of the Gronge Mountains know of the city’s location.  But because of the embarrassment, of what
happened to the city, and the feeling of being partly guilty for its collapse
as we didn’t do anything to stop it, the people of this area just don’t speak
often about Ristene.  No one goes there anymore.  The place is left alone. 
Besides, many of the young never knew of the city; the old don’t discuss it;
and everyone who remembers is trying to forget.  Friends and family died in
that city.”

Erelon sat for a moment, silently digesting the information
before asking, “Any new information?  What has happened, what are the wraiths
doing now?”

Backer swallowed hard and then replied, “There isn’t much.  I
didn’t want to burden you, but Kintex has fallen.”

Backer’s throat swelled as he almost cried, choking his voice as
he sputtered, “The queen was killed by the general, Iriote.  No one knows for
sure, but the story goes that the king, in his grief, did something that
allowed the enemy within the gates to the city.  The remnants of Westeron fled
through tunnels below the city, tunnels they had been digging for months in
preparation of evacuating.  The king and many of his best warriors held the
wraith’s army off, giving the fleeing people time to escape.  The king died,
and so did his men.  The horsemen of Sirus came across the river and in a fight
that will find its way into many poems, managed to protect the last of the
fleeing citizens as they crossed the river.”

Some time passed as both men sat in revered silence for the lost
kingdom.  The room was still, but Erelon’s mind was going quickly as he blamed
himself for not destroying the assassin when he had the opportunity.  But something
had called to him, telling Erelon that the task to kill Iriote was not his, and
to do so would be disastrous.  Tears came to Erelon’s eyes as he remembered the
royalty of Kintex who had fought trolls beside him.  Now gone.  His generation
was dying, leaving him alone in his fight.

Pale light filled the world even though it was late morning and
it still rained.  Erelon again stood at his window.  Soldiers still lurked in
the corners, trying to look inconspicuous, but it was difficult for them not to
look out of place.  Nowhere else along the street was a soldier in sight.  But
in one small area, around Backer's house, a dozen armed men stood doing
nothing.