A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (15 page)

That seemed to satisfy her; apparent
ly just noticing Lian, she sidled up to the merchant's side, curiosity framing every step. After a few moments of inspection, her eye turned to Erinaeus, the question evident in her face.

He explained it to her, how the spell dug through the very depths of the merchant's mind, finding new and unique ways to kill him, all from Lian's deepest and most secret fears. A death that was only real in the man's mind, an illusion that only Lian cou
ld experience, over and over again until the spell's energies finally played themselves out.

"How long until the spell runs its course?" Erinaeus smiled, leave it to Dahna to cut right to the heart of a mystery.

"This man is one of strong will and mind. I give him about two hours before his mind crumbles." Erinaeus started casting the sigils for a gate, his fingers worked with meticulous precision through the complicated motions. Time was of the essence, after all, and he had dallied here long enough. His body started to tingle as the icy grip of the spell took hold, Dahna's eyes narrowed into slits, causing her scar to twist nastily.

"You didn't answer my question." Once again, Erinaeus applauded the fiery wizard's intelligence.

He was already becoming transparent as the spell began to take effect, the edges of him being eaten away by an invisible wind. Any moment now, and he would be gone.

As the lower half of him slowly eroded, he looked directly into Dahna's green orbs, his glowing crimson eye the only th
ing visible as usual. "About. . . eighteen. . . hours. . . " The last half of the message eaten by the sharp snap of the spell going off abruptly, and then he was gone.

"Eighteen hours
. . . " Dahna mouthed, wincing a bit as Lian gave a particularly violent jolt in his chair, his knuckles still white from the force of gripping the arm rests and sweat poured from his face. The worst part was that the merchant's expression never changed, so deeply was he caught in the webs of the spell. Dahna almost felt sorry for the man.

No matter, it wasn't her business.

She, too, began the gate sigils, not wanting to be around the handiwork of the vengeful wizard any longer than necessary. It made her feel unclean, as if she was bearing witness to some tryst between lovers. She ignored Elrik, as usual. The man disgusted her with his constant posturing and cowardice. A moment later, Elrik followed suit, trying in vain to complete the hand motions with some modicum of dignity. He failed in Dahna's eyes.

Lian was alone. He sl
owly slid off the chair, joining the pool of alcohol and stomach fluid that had gathered on the floor. His only witness was the statue of Avalene, their stares equally blank in the other’s eyes.

Chapter 09

J
ared's leather scabbard gently slapped the side of his leg as he ran, his heavy breathing and hard footsteps on the forest floor filled his ears and the scraggly branches scratched at his face as he raced down the path, sword in hand. Gradually the thick forest began to lessen, and the light that broke through the thick forest canopy slowly increased. Jared could see his destination ahead of him, and the acidic smell of sulfur got stronger as he got closer.

He finally broke into the clearing, skidding to a stop as the scene overwhelmed him. Devastation. It was the only word that he could use to describe it. Jared wasn't entirely sure what Antaigne's place was supposed to look like, but he
doubted the craters that littered the landscape, rubble, and smoking wreckage that used to be what he assumed was a cottage, was part of the normal decor.

Please
, Marcius. . . be alive. . .

Numbly, he began to slowly tread around; taking care to avoid th
e few piles of debris still on fire. Books, papers, and other paraphernalia were strewn about indiscriminately, bringing a strange semblance of order within the turmoil. Gingerly, he searched for any sign of his friend or the dwarven wizard, each step came with the trepidation of what, or who, he might find waiting for him. His natural instinct was to hide. The person, or people, that did this could still be around, and judging by the aftermath, there probably wasn't much he could do about it. The sword in his hand seemed so pitifully small in the wake of such raw, bared power!

But, as his father was adept at pointing out, logic very rarely played a hand in Jared's decision making. A friend was potentially in danger, and despite the slight wobble in his step
s, he was determined to get to the bottom of it. After all, how could a future adventurer carve his niche in history if he couldn't even help out a friend?

Each second that passed, his heart plummeted deeper. His dream was slipping away right before his ey
es and there was naught he could do about it. His hands reflexively grasped the book in his tunic, seeking solace. Briefly he wondered what his father would think of his son searching through a wizard's property. The irony was not lost on him and brought some much needed levity to the situation.

He was nearing the completion of his third time around the clearing, beginning to feel the tugs of hopelessness slowly drag him down, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. It came
from behind a heavy slab of roofing leaning against the remains of what seemed to be a fireplace. Jared could easily see how he might have missed something from that angle. Foot over foot, he crept closer, nerves on edge. Gradually, he started to make out a crop of muddy brown hair. It was something he would have recognized in the darkest of nights. "Marcius!" he yelled, dropping his sword to the ground and leaning against the slab, attempting to push it off his friend.

No amount of preparation could have
readied Jared for the sight that greeted him when the heavy chunk of roofing was finally moved. Instead of his friend being hurt, as he feared, physically he seemed okay. There were a few minor scratches and cuts, but nothing serious that he could immediately see. It was nothing less than a miracle.

What he didn't account for was the blank st
are that greeted him. Marcius had a silver lion's head in his hand, the eyes were jeweled and, if he hadn't known better, it looked like it was decapitated. Jared assumed it must have been some decoration that belonged with the cottage. Rocking back and forth, Marcius just kept mumbling incoherently.

"Marcius." He put his arm gently around his friend's shoulder. "Are you okay? What happened here?" His priority was to get his friend talking, obviously he was in shock and Jared hated seeing him like this.

One could not have a sheriff as a father without picking up a few bad habits. Jared’s honor demanded to get whoever back for doing this to his friend, but first he needed information.

Of course he wasn't entirely sure how he could do that, considering the de
vastation caused. The idea was probably out of his league, and for all he knew, it could just have been a faulty magic spell or something. But that was something he could worry about when he crossed that bridge.

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead
. . . " Marcius kept whispering his mantra, slowly rubbing the one remaining deep crimson inlaid ruby eye of the lion. He completely ignored Jared.

Jared sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He had watched his father handle situations like this before, back when
a tribe of oggrons were attacking local surrounding farmsteads and villages. It had been rather commonplace to see, but the Bloodhound's methods weren't pretty.

Jared really didn't see any other option though, every minute that passed was one wasted.
Goddess, forgive me. . .
Without another thought, he punched Marcius as hard as could. His friend flew face first into the dirt, the lion head dropping to the ground with a dull thud. He had put all his weight behind the strike, and his hand stung as a result.

For a second, it didn't seem as if it worked. Marcius just lay there, unmoving
.
Perhaps he hit him too hard? With a roar, Marcius suddenly jumped to his feet, tackling Jared, knocking the wind out of the swordsman. They went careening to the ground, a tangle of arms and legs, each trying to get the upper hand in the ensuing scuffle. The tempo shifted frequently, but as quickly as it started, it had stopped. The participants lay next to each other, gasping for air and waiting for the rush of adrenaline to slowly ebb away.

"Thanks
. . . Jared. . . I needed that."

"No problem
. . . you were not yourself."  Jared looked up at the sky, the peacefulness of the ruined clearing at odds with what had just occurred.

He brought a hand up to his left eye at that though
t and grimaced. Marcius had clipped him good with a right hook, causing it to already start closing. He would most likely have a black eye for a while. A small price to pay for getting his best friend speaking again, he figured. "So. . . care to tell me what happened?"

At first, nothing but silence greeted him, and Jared was afraid the question might relapse his friend. Glancing out of the side of his good eye, he noticed, with a sigh of relief, Marcius wore not that blank stare, but seemed deep in thought,
as if he was searching for words that escaped his grasp. "I'm not entirely sure. . . " He finally admitted, pushing himself to sit against the wall where Jared quickly joined him. "Well, not sure except the fact that my Master is dead. I can feel that much."

Jared watched as the lanky Marcius stood and picked up the lion's head that had been discarded on the ground during the fight. He, again, began to gently rub the deep ruby eye. A look of extreme sadness graced his features for just a moment, so quick w
as it, that Jared was not sure he had seen anything at all. Marcius turned and looked straight at Jared, his eyes misty and glazed over, "Do you know what it is like to have your entire world turned upside down within the span of a single day?" he asked in a quiet whisper; a plain inquiry, but the weight of it was immense.

Jared was at loss for words to that simple question. He had a taste of it. Only half an hour before, he was wishing for an adventure and wondering what the very person standing before him
was up to, only to have fate unceremoniously dump it on his lap. But to have it put so bluntly, his friend could not have had a greater effect on the swordsman if he had belted him with a blacksmith hammer!

He understood far more keenly than his friend c
ould ever realize. His own dream was etched into his will, the urge to be recognized, to be needed, and respected. He responded in the only way he knew how, by not saying anything at all. What, really, could he say that wouldn't sound contrived and placating?

Seconds became minutes as they waited, content in the memories and turmoil within their own worlds, but safe in the company of each other. Both loathed starting the journey of piecing things together, because that meant accepting whatever just happened
. It was Marcius who broke the silence first. "Faerril!" it was a cry of one who had just found a long lost friend-or perhaps lost one.

Who, or what, is Faerril
?
  Before Jared could even ask, his friend bolted off as if guided by an unseen hand, with a confused Jared in close company. Past the burning wreckage they ran, and each step was a bit faster than the last. Marcius ran as if his life depended on it.

I
              t didn't take them long to move past the clearing, leaving the devastation behind for the quiet, but just as deadly, Fae’lorea forest. As they delved deeper, Jared could see that he missed this part in his initial inspection, for it was hidden from the view of Antaigne's ruined cottage. It seemed as if the fight, or whatever it was, must have extended into the forest itself. Here the destruction was different, but just as all encompassing.

Trees were uprooted and the ground itself was torn, as if by massive talons, exposing the soft brown earth underneath. The sickly smell of flesh and blood permeated th
e air; insects, drawn by the smell, seemed just as confused, buzzing around haphazardly in their search for the source. Strange, he could smell it, but didn’t see anything that would make that odor.

Maricus finally stopped at a small windfall of downed tre
es, cast aside like small twigs; they were piled chaotically, "Marcius, what are we doing?"

As if to answer, his friend start pushing against one of the trunks, straining with effort to push the downed tree off the pile. With a shrug, Jared joined in. Work
ing together, they managed to push several of them off, each one raising a small cloud of dust as it hit the forest floor, toward whatever mysterious goal Marcius was working for.

They finally managed to nudge a particularly large oak, when Jared noticed t
he apprentice wizard was no longer pushing, instead he had jumped into the wedge they had made with their work, and came back out, tenderly cradling something in his arms.

Jared lost his balance when he leaned closer to see what his friend carried. Of all
things he was expecting, the serpentine head that greeted him was not one of them. Bright green eyes took in every detail of the swordsman, and, Jared could have sworn, he felt as if he was being scrutinized with every pass of the emerald spheres. Judged and found insignificant, he shook the feeling away. It was a silly notion. "Marcius. . . what is
that
?"

"Faerril," he answered simply, as if that should explain everything. "And he is hurt
. . . please help him.” Jared wanted to say that he was hardly an expert, and that it would be best to grab one of the healers from back at town, but one look at the pleading eyes was all it took to strengthen his resolve to help. He would do what he could.

The Fae'lorea was not at all cohesive to seeing the small details r
equired to tend the injured effectively. Taking several minutes to gather what underbrush that was around, Jared took out a flint and tinder from his pouch, striking it repeatedly over the pile. Try as he might, the brush just wouldn't take to flame. He was about to give up when he heard a gentle chanting. Looking behind himself, he was just able to catch the crescendo of Marcius casting a spell.

The apprentice wizard pointed at the pile of leaves and underbrush, and a gentle flicker of flame came forth fro
m his finger, expanding to about the size of a large marble. It ignited the dried pile of leaves and underbrush with a gentle sound, like wind rustling leaves, A bit of coaxing later, and the fire was strong enough for Jared to let alone. They now had a roaring flame at their beck and call. He cast a questioning eye at Marcius.

"A simple fire spell, though I had to weaken it unless you enjoy a huge fireball. I think I over did it though?" Marcius explained sheepishly, a huge grin on his face. Jared smiled b
ack. It was the first time he had seen anything resembling his old friend since the blonde swordsman found him. Inwardly he was happy, but he had more pressing things to worry about.

"Now, let me see this Faerril." Marcius gently set the tiny creature near
by the fire, but far enough away to avoid being singed.

Jared gasped; the flickering orange glow of the firelight brought out the intrinsic beauty of the creature, but also revealed the vicious injuries it had sustained. The scales, though muddled by dirt,
took on a golden sheen that shifted with the rise and fall of each breath. The underbelly was a softer looking still, a lighter golden color extending from the neck to the base of the tail.