River Of Life (Book 3) (42 page)

The wind blasted both armies with blinding sand, so that for a
moment, all fighting ceased.  The siege towers were blown apart, turned into
chunks of lumber, and giants had to duck, pulling their shields low to protect
their allies as well as keep the wind from ripping the shield from their grip.

The wraiths' army felt the disappearance of their leaders. 
Their pain grew more acute.  The power that held them together, that kept their
minds from racing in panic, disintegrated, and the entire army began to break
into a backward retreat, fighting among themselves as they began looking for
their own clans and tribes.

The skeleton warriors began turning to dust.  The bones fell
once again to the ground without life as their glowing eyes died.  The beasts
constructed from magic unraveled, their minds closing into darkness.  Their
tissues unraveled into a pile of fleshy fibers, into a pile of worms that was
quickly destroyed by the blazing sun.  The dragbas swept through the sky,
disappearing as they looked for the caves from which they had been summoned.  They
looked for relief from the sun which now blinded them as the shadow of the
wraiths no longer protected them.  They had become a squalling pack, a chaotic
mess as they slammed into each other in their blindness and confusion.

“Charge now!” came a loud call.

Every member of the wizard’s army charged into what was left of
the wraith’s army.  It was a massive onslaught as wizards using magic plunged
up the center with their own military.  The dwarves pushed into the wraith army
from one side, and elvish and Sirus cavalry pushed from the other flank.

Auri picked up a spade from a fallen soldier, no more than a
farmer with a leather jerkin.  The spade had a sharpened edge.  The weapons
master had seen Iriote coming, trying to slip around the outer edges of the
battle.  Auri smashed the shovel into the face of one goblin, jerking the feet
of his enemy into the air from the force of the impact.  Auri jabbed the
shovel’s edge into the throat of another and then swung it before him like an
axe, splitting another goblin’s chest open.

Auri leapt over a small mass of goblins, boosting himself over
as he pushed down on the shoulders of one.  As the weapons master came back
down, only one charging goblin stood between Auri and his long rival.  Auri
threw the shovel like a lance, stopping the goblin’s charge as it slammed into
his chest, spilling him head over heels backward.

Iriote looked at Auri through laughing eyes.  Coming toward
Auri, Iriote cut the legs from several soldiers, each in the same location,
just below the knee.  Hestler, who could never be separated from Auri, tumbled
over a pile of dead bodies.  Auri screamed something that none could understand
above the roar of battle.

Hestler’s body fell, and Iriote’s scimitar sliced upward.  Auri
rushed toward his friend, but Iriote’s blade already had swept a clean stroke
through the body of Hestler.  The giant man was dead before the blade cut
through the other side of his body, and he fell heavily upon the hard earth,
his mace falling out of his arm’s reach.

Iriote seemed to have no knowledge of who he had just destroyed
as he stepped up to Auri and said, “I’m going to live forever because of this
battle.  I’m going to be known as the one who killed the greatest weapons master,
the one who killed Auri, a prince and warrior.  And once I am done here, I will
make sure the legacy of your family ends, as well.  I’m going to be one of the
few survivors of the wraith army.  In the legends, I’ll live long after I’m too
old to hold a sword, long after I’m dead and my body has rotted away.”

Auri said no words.  Instead, he walked in, producing two
shotels, weapons built almost like an extended scythe.  Both sides were bladed,
the arched side facing Auri.  Both shotels arced downward, meeting Iriote’s
upward swing with his large scimitar.  Auri cleared his mind, taking deep
breaths and focusing on the one before him, putting Hestler’s death in the
deepest part of his mind.  Now was not the time to cloud his mind with anger. 
Both blades moved gracefully in the hands of Auri, a dance of ribbons as they
floated through the air.

As Auri twisted, he found himself behind the assassin.  Both
blades held horizontally, he cut through Iriote’s back muscles.  The cuts were
so deep that blood was immediately dripping to the earth.  Iriote jerked his
back forward as if branded.

Auri did not rush in for the kill.  He had seen too many
impatient soldiers die in that manner.  Thinking their enemy all but dead,
soldiers would rush in expecting to easily impale their enemy with that last
fatal blow.  They would find that they had in fact impaled themselves on the
blade of an enemy only playing the part of an almost dead adversary.

Auri respectfully waited for his opponent to stand alone for a
moment.  Iriote had to regain his wits.  Very seldom had he felt pain and his
own blood oozing down his back.  Slowly the burning numbed, and the assassin
turned, trying to avoid disturbing the lacerated muscles.  As Iriote’s eyes
looked into those of Auri, the pain, the wounds, were forgotten as Iriote
charged, his hatred growing with every step.

Iriote’s scimitar was already descending as he reached Auri. 
Quickly a blade came up, blocking the scimitar.  The other came in, cutting
through the top pair of Iriote’s abdominal muscles.

Again Auri backed off, forcing Iriote to make the next move. 
The assassin stood with his back to Auri, looking downward.  The bottom half of
his body was soaked in his own blood.  Both men knew that Iriote had to finish
the fight fast.  Iriote was quickly loosing blood.  Auri was not going to allow
the assassin to bandage himself, and if the assassin did not stop the red flow
soon, he was going to be dead without another wound.

Weakly, the assassin charged back in, his scimitar being easily
deflected by Auri.  Three blades, all delicately curved, danced together like
deadly snakes, a dance that could only end in the death of one or both.  Iriote
finally understood, Auri was playing games with him.  In an open battle, Iriote
had no chance.  His skill was in the shadows of the dark night, and his lack of
a conscience.  Iriote’s entire body had gone numb from the deep cuts inflicted
on him.

One of the shotels came down through Iriote’s chest, the other
up through his abdomen.  Both were forcefully removed at once, tearing his
chest cavity open.  Auri stepped back to watch the assassin drop.  Saliva mixed
with blood ran from the corner of the assassin’s lips.  Iriote’s eyes grew huge
as the pupils dilated.  The assassin went face first into the earth.

“No, you will not live on forever,” Auri stated as he passed the
body of Iriote.

Auri spoke seldom of the assassin after the battle.  Auri did
not wish for fame for the killing of Iriote, he did not want the assassin to
live on forever in legends.  On this battlefield, as the assassin’s blood
poured out of his body, Iriote’s fame, his story and legend, died with him.  He
was lost in the great battle, for without Auri to tell the story of Iriote,
there was nothing else that the assassin left behind in his trail of death. 
The people were simply content that the shadow that killed had disappeared. 
Men who knew of the assassin left the story alone, fearful that speaking about
him might bring him back.

For the first time in two decades, Hendle raced down the paths
and roads of the monumental tiers of the Wizard's Keep.  His army chased the
disintegrating army of the wraiths up through the gates.  Hendle's army hacked
at the flanks of the opposing army, pushing them across the top tier.

Buldure watched as the last few retreating goblins fled past
him.  The retreating army had long left their weapons lying behind in their
desperate attempt to escape the flow of the angry army behind.

With Buldure was over a thousand goblins and a scattering of
ogres, all that Buldure could convince to stand with him.  The goblin leader
wished to give what was left of his army a chance to flee and escape into the
mountains.  Buldure wanted to seize a little dignity left to his race by nobly
facing the rushing enemy.  A courageous fight and an honorable death.  He stood
in much the same place Erelon had decades ago in the rain, mustering his army
to stand for one last defensive maneuver before escaping.

The army of the wizards swept over the last plain.  Buldure’s
eyes grew huge.  Buldure’s group of soldiers was only a small band compared to
what raced toward them.  A few in the back of his band fled through the gate,
and the entire group shifted nervously.

Hendle’s army saw the group of goblins, but never hesitated as
they swarmed.  Buldure charged forward a few steps as he brought his lance
before him, shoving it into the closest enemy.  An axe came down, shattering
the shaft.  Buldure went to a short sword.  The goblin toppled over as a leg
was cut from below him.  Buldure’s vision was cut off as his blood poured over
his face.  There was a tug at the sinews of Buldure’s neck and, then, for the
goblin, the world ended.

The small band of goblins was thrown back by the force of
Hendle’s army.  The goblins were run over by a stampede, their futile attempt
to stop the enemy lost in the massacre.  Hendle burst through the gates, Bahsal
beside him.  The dwarves had proudly fought in the front during the length of
the battle.  Bahsal would not have seen his race fight any other way.  Hendle
proudly looked toward the Keep, the actual fortress itself.  Mortaz.

“I want the wraith army tracked and forced from the mountains! 
Don’t stop until they no longer offer a threat!” Hendle bellowed to the officer
beside him.

The officer led the army around and past Hendle, a rush of
soldiers sweeping into the Keep and up mountain paths.  Yalen quickly was
behind Bahsal and Hendle.  Bahsal and Yalen were remembering years ago when the
Keep had been decorated, the world of wizards seemingly perfect, the time when
they had been summoned to the Keep as friends.

Hendle remembered the gardens, courtyards, where he had lost his
leg, where friends had died.  As Auri came up behind, he tried to imagine the
Keep as it might have looked when Erelon had lived there.

Slowly Hendle walked toward the building, stepping below the
porch, his fingers gently brushing the pillars.  The brass doors still lay on
the ground, warped, remaining as Erelon had left them.

Hendle sighed sadly, “Grism didn’t get to see us again in
command, in victory.  He didn’t get to see the prize.”

“Many didn’t get to see this moment,” Yalen reminded, “Many die
in war.  Such is the cost.”

“I think, maybe, he did,” Bahsal replied, “Grism knew the
warlocks were defeated before even I felt their presence die.”

EASTON watched as the bubble began to unravel.  The funnel that
fed it lifted upward.  The clouds and wind began to grow calmer, and the rain
finally moved into the West.  The first drops of rain to be felt in the prairie
in over two decades finally fell from the sky to hit the ground with a hiss.

As the bubble completely disintegrated, small piles of already
decomposing bone turned to dust and blew away, eloping with the wind.  Nothing
remained where the bubble had been except the stone itself.  Easton grabbed a
cloak and slowly approached the Stone of Combining.  There was a hissing and
crackling in the air, and from out of it appeared Rivurandis falling to the
earth, branding the stone table.  Only a few feet away, the sheath also
appeared.  Easton jumped to the sword and quickly forced it into its sheath,
the power of the blade shrieking in protest at being once more subdued.  Easton dropped the cloak over the stone and left the sword there as well.

Easton walked over to the wall of King’s Time.  The wizard
rummaged in a small leather pouch, pushing aside leaves, feathers, bones, and
miscellaneous other items.  Locating a chunk of coal, Easton wrote an epitaph
on the stone.  He outlined each letter of the runes.  Then, casting his hand
out before him, the runes began to glow gold.  Slivers of stone fell from
within the outlines, disintegrating into dust as it dropped to the stone.  As
each rune was magically carved, it turned from gold to black.  Easton stepped back as a few tears dropped from his eyes.

The stone read, “Here remains Erelon, master wizard and warrior,
friend to all races. Always alone and never alone.  May he find the rest and
peace he deserves.”

Easton turned and picked up the stone and sword, both artifacts
too great to take back to the wizards.  Too great and powerful to be kept where
any ordinary man could easily reach them or any wizard with no self control and
large dreams.

Easton tied both artifacts to his pack horse, mounting his own
horse and gathering the reins to the other two.  Draos tugged against Easton's grip on his bridle.  The old horse looked towards King's Time, as if begging for a
few more seconds as it mourned the passing of his long time friend.

There were many places in the far reaches of the world that were
unknown to any man.  Easton had seen much while in the Humban world, many
corners that could only be reached by those with enough magical power, enough
will and desperation.  First he would care for the magical artifacts.  He would
hide them someplace few men could find them.  First to see Ahzmad as Erelon had
asked.  And then past the flying city, past the Desert of Fire.  Easton's mind traveled on down the road that he was choosing.  Past the Desert of Fire, that's where he would take Rivurandis and the Stone of Combining.  But should
he stop in Sine first, Easton asked himself.

Easton led away to the East as Draos tossed his head once and
then quietly followed.

Hendle stood alone, looking out across the dark night.  A shower
had passed through, settling the dust.  Behind the wizard, huge bonfires had
been started, and music could be heard playing.  A few mourned, a few partied,
and most did not know how to respond.  They had won.  Many of those who had
fought did not know the world before the wraiths; many others debated the cost.

Hendle and others who were strong with magic, like Yalen, had
felt the disappearance of the warlocks and the cloud that had fallen over
Erelon.  Erelon had left an empty hole in the world as his presence had faded. 
He had truly been one of the most powerful wizards seen by the world, and his
fading left a void in the minds and hearts of all who controlled magic and
lived by it.

Those who had known Erelon and had felt his disappearance had
themselves disappeared into the night.  Each dealt with the pain in their own
way.  Only one characteristic did each friend have in common, and that was they
dealt with it alone.

Hendle looked up into the sky as stars jumped and spoke to
Erelon, “You did it.  You really did it.  You won.”

The new leader of the wizards turned from the wall to wander
randomly through the night, chasing shadows and avoiding people.

Piers had been built, and in the darkness, they had been lit, a
signal seen for miles honoring those who had died, the cost of the battle. 
Those such as Hestler and the giants, who had died and could not be taken home
for a funeral, were cremated upon the fires.  Auri swore that none of his army
would be buried on a foreign field of battle and instead allowed the wind to
carry the ashes home.

Hendle began having the pieces of the siege towers collected,
the timber used to construct crude houses on the foundations of a couple of the
old villages.  None had stayed in the Keep that first night, instead sleeping
in the open, throwing up tents and sleeping on the hard ground.

The army began to dissipate.  The first to go were the giants
and mud trolls.  They stopped by Hendle, who was watching the brass doors that
Erelon had blown down being packed into a wagon.  The dwarves had promised to
fix and return the doors.  The members of the giants bowed to the new leading
wizard before loping off through the gates and into the prairie, beginning
their long trek back to the northern mountains.

Hendle stepped into the Keep.  Before moving farther in, Hendle
looked around for traps and began surveying the damage.  Other wizards also
began to follow Hendle into the castle.  The rest of the wizard’s army
respectfully stood outside watching as the wizards returned from their
banishment.

Many of the returning wizards looked around in tears,
remembering when the halls had been decorated in colorful banners and precious
items.  Those returning remembered times when prestigious visitors walked these
halls.  Now the building was empty, it echoed.  The building reeked of feces
and a horrible body odor of thousands of sweating men cramped into small
quarters.  Huge chunks of stone were missing, leaving huge holes in the stairways
and walls.

A few other young wizards were stepping into the Keep for the
first time in their lives, or for the first time since they could remember. 
The young ones stood and stared in awe, amazed at the eccentric structure with
stairways leading in all directions, balconies appearing in random places,
irregularly shaped walls, floors, and ceilings.

The returning wizards wandered the halls, speechless, almost as
if they were ghosts.  It was the younger generation that brought new life to
Mortaz, as they did not remember and see how it was before the warlocks took
control.

The centaurs and the cavalry from Sirus were the next to leave. 
The centaurs were going back to Pendle to resume control; the men from Sirus
were going home to help rebuild.  The dwarves of the Broken Mountains also left, although those from the Rusted Mountains remained behind.  Soon all that
was left were the men under command of Auri, along with Bahsal and Yalen and a
few elves and dwarves.  A few days later Festor arrived to help oversee
rebuilding and offer advice.

“As I once was a friend and ally of Erelon, so I will now be to
you,” Yalen told Hendle as he mounted his horse and led the elves from the
Keep.

Only a few days later Bahsal also marched. “Don’t be afraid to
visit or ask for help,” Bahsal told Hendle.

As the last of the dwarve's army marched from the gate, dust
obscuring all but the peaks of their helms, Auri looked at Hendle and said, “It
is time I returned home.  My fiancé waits.  If you find an opportunity, come
down.  I do not know if I will ever be this far north again.”

As Auri left, Mortaz emptied to a handful of wizards and men who
had originally lived in the Keep’s villages.  They were left to rebuild, to
bring life back to the ancient home of the wizards.  As days passed, a slow
trickle of men, women, and children came into the walls, coming from
Suragenna.  Still it would be years, decades, before the Keep returned to the
power and significance it had once held.

Even as the Power of Ages could destroy, it made those who
controlled this power invulnerable to physical attacks, kept alive those who
should die, and gave knowledge of the past and future.  It also had the ability
to heal.  Through the passage of time, the world would heal itself.  There
would be scars left from the horrible, unnatural decaying that the wraiths had
forced upon the land.  Yet, again, the grass of the prairie would grow, swamps
recede, a form of equilibrium set on the environment.  The races would try to
live in peace.  Many will look to the previous times when life was not so
peaceful, look back on those people who had been lost during those times and
wish that they were in the present.  However, the Power of Ages forces time to
continue on.

Though it had taken almost a century, as the River Fallas
finally cut the prairie in half, it brought green to the Desert Prairie, which
was no longer a desert.  A horse flew through the flat land.  The tall grass
made a path for the flying beast as it pushed on through.  Its brown body
rippled as its muscles moved with graceful ease.  An object in the distance
pointed upward.  The horse seemed to flee toward this landmark.  Its brown body
was brushed by the long green grass as it swished with the light sound of a
woman’s skirt.

Its hooves hit the ground with a steady, heavy rhythm.  The
beast’s hooves tore into the sod, ripping through it and turning it over.  A
rider dressed in brown leather sat astride his beast’s back, prompting it
onward.  Both of them felt content as the wind whistled by.  The man also wore
a wide brimmed hat, his short, washed out, sandy locks drifting below it.  His
eyes peered around the landscape.

Although there had not been any observation of goblins upon the
prairie for decades, none knew when they might reappear.  His horse splashed
through water that foamed up angrily.  It was a cool, wide creek, its water
jumping up on the man and beast, causing whatever it hit to turn to a darker
shade of brown.  A saber slightly curved down to the man’s knee, and a quiver
contained many arrows as well as a short bow.  These were the only visible
elements of defense.

The peaked element which the man and beast ran toward continued
to grow larger, bursting from the ground.  The prairie grass, green with recent
rains, ran right to the landmark’s walls. He smiled to himself and patted the
beast with a friendly hand.  The landmark grew larger and larger until it
looked down upon both of the creatures with a unfriendly stare.  The rider
slowed the horse, which snorted, whinnied, and started to shy away from the
area and only turned back for the compelling voice and arm of his rider.

The grass continued to swish against the horse and roll on by. 
The man was looking for shade during the afternoon hours, where he could watch
the day pass in comfort.  The horse stepped onto a table of rock, its hooves
clicking coldly against the stone.  Pillars of rock encircled the table like
silent guardians, sentries, posted to keep watch over holy ground.

The man grabbed the pommel firmly with one hand and swung from
the saddle as it creaked.  The sweat upon the surface quickly dried and
evaporated.  His boots thudded against the ground and dully marked his passing
as he crossed to sit in the shade of the rock.  He leaned back against the wall
and slid down with a sigh, gravel following his every move.

He laid a sword at his feet.  It was a plain sword given to him
by his father, who claimed to have received it from some great warrior who
fought in wars a century before, one who had fought in the wars for Mortaz.  His
father claimed it had been given to him when he lived in a valley not far from
here.  The man had always thought that if a great warrior and wizard were to
give someone a gift, it should look much more extraordinary than this simple
blade.  But it had freed his grandfather from the dungeons of Drull.

Removing the hat, he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. 
His eyes slowly began to close, but the man tried to fight it.  Here was not
the place to sleep.  A landmark like this would be easy to spot.

The sound of sand being quickly shaken brought the man’s eyes
slowly open.  He muttered and again mopped his forehead.  A hiss followed the
rattle in a warning of impending danger.  The man now completely awake was
aware of a snake, its tongue darting from within its mouth where it boasted a
set of bleached fangs.  The sun caught each, glaring.  The man sucked in his
breath and held it.  The eyes of this nemesis with a diamond design painted
down its back glared back into his with hatred.  It hissed again, and then both
man and snake struck.  A knife leapt into the man’s hands, and quickly, he
severed the head of the reptile as it darted forward.

Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes and turned to find his
horse.  It stood stiff, not moving, both ears laid back.  Between it and his
rider stood a transparent figure of no real mass.  Through it, the man could
see his horse.  The man rubbed his eyes again in an unbelieving manner,
expecting it to simply be film covering his eyes.  Then the man looked the
unearthly being in the eyes.

There was a hiss at the rider’s feet.  He jumped up and was
moving backward while watching the snake do the same as it swung its lithe powerful
body in a circular motion away from the man.

The stranger looked around, trying to find the snake which he
had sliced, but there was no evidence of another, dead snake.  The stranger
smiled to himself in bitter resolve and turned again to face the wraith.  The
stranger could see a figure of a man within the wraith.  A light robe flew
around the wraith’s form, the insignia of a staff on the back.  It wore a sword
and had dark wavy hair that dangled around its neck.  The wraith had one
bandaged eye while the other blazed with a red glow.