River Of Life (Book 3) (13 page)

Erelon raced onward, oblivious to what was under his feet. 
Several times he almost tripped.  Finally his body tumbled forward, slamming
into the rock floor, shoving the air in his lungs out every pore.  Something
had grabbed his leg, its talons biting deep.

Erelon rolled over to find out what had caused him to trip, yet
what greeted his eyes was a troll swinging a mallet.  Another roll saved the
wizard from being completely crushed; blood splattered over half of the
wizard's face.  A sharp sense of pain sprang up from his left hand, paralyzing
and deadening all feeling through his entire left arm.  There was no time to
find out what had afflicted his left side. Pulling his sword free, Erelon
severed the arms from the body of the goblin that had tripped him.  Its legs
had yet to form, but its hands had still been able to claw at the wizard,
pulling itself along, trying to tear into the man's body.

Erelon went to roll to his feet when he felt the tissues and
fibers in his face tear and shred, fibers popping as they were torn.  One eye
went completely dark, all sight gone within it as the talons of a goblin ripped
gullies.  Erelon plunged between the legs of the troll, swinging at the tendon
of the heel.  As the great beast plunged downward, Erelon thrust his sword
through its groin and into the abdominal cavity.

Limping, Erelon raced for the exit, unconsciously forgetting
about the left arm that hung limply at his side and the darkened eye.  To live
was most important at the moment.  More goblins reached out for the wizard like
damned souls in hell grasping for any chance of escape.  They were partially
formed, missing feet or arms, some even missing their skulls, or their skulls
having empty sockets where the eyes would still form.  Erelon only looked down
at them with contempt, hatred filling the eye that could still see.

The wizard entered a better lit corridor.  Light streamed in
through openings in the ceiling.  The sun’s rays were broken and so came in
segmented.  Nothing impeded the wizard’s path, yet he knew that the battle was
not over.  He had turned the offer down; he had insulted the enemy; and they
would not repay him with kindness.

Erelon stopped for a moment.  Several fingers on the wizard’s
left hand had been badly mangled, yet as he gripped a knife, he confirmed that
it would still work in a fight.  He wrapped them, hoping to stop the blood, and
sprinkled a white powder in the bandages.  The powder was made by drying herbs
and grinding them in a bowl.  It was designed to numb pain.  He did the same
for the side of his face.  The one eye, Erelon had already assumed, he would
never see out of again.  He had looked it over as well as he could in the
reflection of his bloodied sword.

Carefully Erelon chose his path.  He knew all the ways in which
to reach the front doors, yet he wanted to avoid those best suited for ambush. 
Yet he was not truly ready to face any of the paths, so each one he felt
carefully with his mind.  Each felt like a black hole.  He trusted none of the
paths, and so finally he simply chose one.  He had thought about using one of
the secret passages.  However Erelon was no longer sure of how secret they all
remained and that also meant possibly leaving Draos behind.

A rustling and silent patter of feet behind the wizard alerted
him that he was no longer alone, and his mind alerted him to what awaited
before him.  The force behind was not near as great as the one that waited, but
to go back meant to retrace his steps and have to fight through a different
path later.  Might as well fight to the exit now, was the thought that ran
through Erelon’s mind.

Pulling two knives, Erelon rushed into the passage before him. 
It was extremely wide, a main avenue within the Keep.  Pillars were lined up on
both sides, holding up a balcony.  Behind the pillars, on the balcony, and
covering the walls were goblins.  Like an infestation of spiders, they turned
the walls dark with their clustered bodies.  The moment Erelon appeared; they
rushed in, eager for the kill.

Erelon brought one blade through the throat of one victim and
left it buried in the temple of another.  The other knife, held low, slipped
through the abdominal muscles without a sound.  Quickly Erelon used the short
stabbing and throwing blades, leaving them embedded in the body of his enemies
when it was easier to simply grab another knife from one of his belts.

Something struck the wizard in the side of his body.  The shaft
of an arrow glared at him.  Looking up, Erelon observed archers taking
positions along the balcony and releasing the missiles most likely laced with
poison.

Quickly Erelon emptied his sheaths, his blades flying like
missiles through the air.  His muscles tensed as each blade was clutched and
flung.  Bright shining streaks of silver, he looked like the human form of Samos’s weapon they called The Porcupine.  He shoved one blade through the temple of a
goblin and then pitched it.  He did not even wait to see if it struck the
goblin he had aimed for.  He twisted around and dodged two goblins, knowing he
did not have enough blades to kill every goblin in the room.  He had to get
out, Erelon’s mind began to yell at him.  Leave Mortaz to the goblins.  This
fight is over, his subconscious continued to scold.

He brought one knife down, popping a hole in the skull of one
enemy with the butt of the handle and then brought the same blade up and jammed
it into the throat of another goblin.  Spinning, Erelon finally released the
knife into the air, gently turning and twisting like it was dancing until it
stopped, imbedded in an archer, dropping the enemy into a pile.

Erelon whipped out a couple of hatchets and started chopping at
those that got too close.  They were not beautiful weapons of finesse.  They
were meant to destroy.  They did not fly with grace, but instead whipped around
and stumbled.  They did not enter the enemy without sound; instead, a dull
splattering thud accompanied each attack.  The hatchets were not the weapons of
one who crept through the night looking to assassinate a powerful target.  When
they hit, all knew it as bones cracked and split, the sound of death piercing
the air.  At moments they would catch in the body, hooking bone and tissue.

The wizard slammed a hatchet into the throat of one goblin, the
other chopping down into the skull of another.  He twisted, bringing both
completely through, pieces of goblin spiraling through the air.  Using his
momentum, Erelon brought the hatchets through several more bodies.  He lurched
forward, embedding one in the hip of another enemy, severing its leg before
slamming the head of the other hatchet into the bowels of another goblin. 
Erelon left the hatchets behind, one buried in the ribs of a goblin, the other
flying through the air as it reached into the balcony for an archer.

Erelon kept reaching for knives in his belt.  Finally his hand
felt no more of the small knives and daggers.  The last hatchet left his hand
as he threw it horizontally.  The wizard’s hands touched nothing.  His eyes
dilated, and sweat poured down his face even though his body went ice cold. 
Beads ran down his face, dripping off his beard and seeming to hiss as they
dropped to the hot stone.

The goblins wasted no time charging.  Erelon’s arm quickly
reached for his sword, yet before it was half free, he was submerged below a
wave of gray bodies.  Each blade wished to pierce the wizard’s flesh, as if it
was for this moment alone they had been forged.

The wizard felt the heat of his enemies’ bodies, their sweat as
they worked to destroy him.  The moist heat of their breath held the hint of
something dead and rotting as each panted eagerly and with the effort of the
fight.

As blades began to sink into Erelon’s body, each felt like it
had been held into the fire until glowing.  Each blade felt as if not only did
it cut his flesh apart, but also branded it so that it shriveled from the pain.

Their bodies weighed down Erelon’s arms and legs.  He could not
move.  The weight crushed his lungs so that he could not breathe.  His fingers
barely touched the leather handle of his sword.  It was barely out of reach,
though it was partly free from its sheath.

Hope soared through his body as he felt the heat of his magical
weapon.  A contracting in his stomach that reached into the wizard’s throat
assailed his body every time his fingers could no longer feel even the cold
metal pommel.  Erelon was saved from being torn into pieces to be distributed
across the Keep by the goblins' own eagerness to destroy him.  Very few of
their blades could bite into Erelon's body as their weapons were pressed
against each other and against the floor.  The goblins tore into each other
more than the wizard.  They swung their weapons with disregard for their
friends around them.  Erelon grabbed a goblin's knife pinned between him and
the goblin's body and turned it around, shoving it into the beast's neck.  He
grabbed a chain hanging from the goblin's neck and pulled its body close, using
it for a shield as his other hand reached back for his sword.

Suddenly, Erelon’s free swinging hand firmly grasped the handle
of his elvish weapon.  The heat was of a greater intensity than the wizard had
ever felt before.  It seemed to become part of his hand, fusing to it.  An
intense pain screamed through the wizard’s hand as it was burned by the elvish
fire.  As the sword finally came free of its sheath, white flames licked at its
edges.  Never had it blazed white.  Erelon did not know if Arlum knew that such
power lived within the blade.

Erelon brought the blade across himself, swinging it wildly and
completely cleaving those on him in half.  Where the blade touched the flesh,
it was completely incinerated.  Erelon’s attack with the sword of Arlum looked
like a large flash below the pile of goblin bodies.  Goblins or pieces of them
went madly flying through the room as if a small explosion had occurred at the
center of the pile.

From it, the wizard rose, his sword gripped firmly.  His whole
body seemed to be blazing, yet he did not burn.  The flames whipped around his
body.  No goblins approached him, none wanted to.

The wizard stumbled from the room.  The sword gently dropped
downward as the magic started to go dormant.  Erelon’s adrenaline was starting
to die, and he could feel the extent of the wounds he had suffered.

Everywhere, it seemed, blood drained from his body, completely
soaking his clothes.  He was not sure that he had much more to spare.  The
Keep’s walls moved in and out, distorting, pulling and pushing.  Erelon
stumbled over his own boots and plunged down the passage awkwardly, almost
dropping several times as the world began to turn black as he saw spots flying
towards him, filling his vision.

Only by unconscious will was he able to continue forward.  Below
crossing stairs, the wizard staggered into a large half circle area filled with
staircases that crossed several times in their effort to reach their
destination.  Light for a moment completely blurred the wizard’s vision and
sent screaming sensations into the front of his skull.  His mind pounded until
he dropped to his knees groaning in agony, sweat pouring from his body, which
was quickly dehydrating as his fluids poured out.  His entire body felt as if
it had been made of some heavy material.

Slowly Erelon’s vision adjusted as he peered from below squinted
lids.  The Keep still seemed to twist and turn, falling and rising.  Rocks
spilled over, but the walls never cracked or broke, as if they had become
elastic.  As Erelon had gone down, his heavy body falling quickly, he felt as
he would never again arise.  Gravity’s power was too strong for him to
overcome.  He felt his body bounce once and then rest against the hard stone
floor.

Setting his feet below his body, Erelon forced himself up.  The
stairs seemed to twist and turn before his wavering vision, daring him to try
to pick out a path among them.  He turned towards a huge door with glass
windows framing it, the exit.  It was the main entryway and exit.  Years ago it
had stood open, inviting many visitors to enter.  No one had dared to attack a
Keep filled with wizards, the greatest of the heroes, soldiers, and nobles of
all countries who brought armed guards with them.  But now the door stood shut.

It was made of brass panels that had been cast with scenes of
the greatest stories of wizards and the deeds they had done to become
immortal.  Their names lived on down through the ages of history.

Erelon stumbled over to them, placing a hand on each and
pushing.  Neither budged.  Erelon’s mind, working slowly, left him staring up
at them dumbfounded.  His eyes were wide, as if asking why they worked against
him.  Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, Erelon placed both hands
against the door and tried pushing, yet again they did not move.  It was as if
they had become part of the wall, immovable unless taken apart.  Erelon allowed
his body to fall against the door in a pathetic attempt to make it budge under
his weight.

His confused and tired mind retreated to the emotion it knew
best, anger.  These were his doors, and someone who did not have the authority
had locked them from the other side.  A magical or physical lock, Erelon did
not know, but they did not have his permission.

Standing back, Erelon stared at the door and then struck the
palm of his open hand towards its base.  An explosion filled the air with
splinters of rock and turned it into a foggy, murky atmosphere as dust billowed
through the room.  A hole appeared in the floor where both doors had stood. 
Now the doors were freed and gliding through the air as paper in the wind. 
Finally they crashed to the earth, the heavy metal causing a puff of dust to
come shooting from under each.

Erelon stumbled through the hole he had made and under the
circular awning.  The rock floor below was cut into blocks that continued out
well beyond the awning, turning into a patio where, in better days, esteemed
visitors could have descended from their ride on a firm stone path, avoiding
the possibility of getting their clothing soiled.