Marcius dried himself off, throwing on only a pair of pants from his, thankfully now inanimate, clothing chest, and he dived under the covers with the weariness of one who had done a hard day’s work. The bed was as soft as he initially assumed, but despite being tired, sleep eluded him as he tossed and turned, unable to feel comfortable.
His thoughts kept turning to the empty spot on the bedroom floor where the cage had been. It’s really happening. . . the impending ritual that would culminate in him becoming a wizard. It’s really happening. . . Marcius could feel the familiar creeping of nervousness in his stomach. What if it failed or he was not good enough to become a wizard?
There were a multitude of things that could go wrong, and Marcius went through all of them, one by one, in his head. After what felt like an eternity of agonizing and listening to the sounds of the surreal clearing, Marcius eventually started fading off into sleep.
❧ ❧ ❧
“Okay ye dolt, get up. Time fer the ritual.” Antaigne had somehow managed to time his entrance to the moment that Marcius’s eyes began closing. The stout dwarf’s frame was a dark silhouette in the open door, through which the gentle cracking of the fireplace could be heard. Marcius groaned, but knew better than to keep Antaigne waiting. He groggily put on a shirt and followed the dwarf outside, his body still so sore that he limped most of the way there.
Marcius's weariness left him as he blinked a bit in surprise at the sight in front of him. It would seem as if the dwarf had indeed been busy. In the middle of the clearing, where there had previously been nothing but grass, the wood that Marcius had cut lay in a big stacked pile like a funeral pyre. The wood was situated behind a complex looking rune drawn with some material Marcius couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it glowed with a purple fluorescent light in the now darkened clearing. The moon and gentle evening stars were the only other witnesses to the dwarf’s artistic creation.
At each corner of the mystic rune, a torch, rapidly shimmering through the colors of the spectrum, burned brightly on holders impaled into the soft earth, giving Marcius a minor headache just from watching them. Beyond the first rune, Marcius could see two other identical but smaller runes drawn, perfectly parallel with each other, with a smaller set of torches as well. A steel cauldron bubbled with some unknown viscous mixture on a small fire pit situated within the large rune. The smell made Marcius feel peaceful, not at all as unpleasant in that regard as it was in sight.
“Get in the middle o’ the one small doodle; I’ll place yer wyvrr in the other one.” The dwarf gestured, the cage held firmly in between his hands. Marcius complied, and the magic in the air twanged, sending heat wave like disturbances throughout the clearing. Small shivers ran up his spine as he waited.
“Here take this,” Antaigne instructed, handing Marcius what appeared to be a small stick wrapped up with cloth and coated in an unknown substance, “Put it in yer mouth an’ bite down on it.” The trepidation returned full force. He could only nod and comply because if he tried to do anything else, Marcius was afraid his voice or his actions would give away his fears.
Didn’t Master Antaigne say this would hurt? Marcius gingerly put the stick into his mouth and bit down as instructed. Whatever the stick was coated in tasted faintly of vegetables and left a thick trail of numbness down his throat. Gradually Marcius felt his muscles relaxing and the gnawing unease in his stomach abated.
He felt detached, as if he viewed the world through a window, and he became dimly aware of a dull throbbing behind his temples as Antaigne took the wyvrr cage over to the small rune opposite of Marcius. The thought of spitting the stick out crossed Marcius’s mind several times, but for some reason it seemed like too much effort.
Antaigne mumbled something to Marcius, who swayed a bit as he simply nodded to whatever the dwarf said. Marcius found he didn’t really care about anything anymore, and with a blissfully vacant expression, he watched Antaigne free the wyvrr from the cage. The dwarf cast a spell that caused the struggling animal’s muscles to lock up, and then with a solemn expression he held up a finger coated in the same stuff Marcius had taken, forcing it down the wyvrr’s throat.
He released the paralysis spell as soon as the appendage left the needle toothed mouth. Antaigne then unceremoniously dumped the wyvrr on the ground, causing a brief sound of protest from the animal. The intelligent green eyes were quick to glaze over and, with his head drooping in a vaguely drunken manner, the wyvrr now sat complacently staring into nothing. Must be what I look like. Marcius found the thought highly amusing and chuckled. . . or at least he meant to, but the sound felt stifled and twisted.
Antaigne ignored him, instead taking up a post over the cauldron, shaking unseen kinks out of his arms. Various materials were taken out of the ever voluminous pockets of the robe as the dwarf’s hands wove intricate patterns in the air, dropping a component into the bubbling cauldron at the apparent completion of each design. At the end of a pass, the contents boiled and sizzled as if the wizard’s actions angered them, though the hue never changed from the bright green color the mixture had assumed.
Marcius was not sure how much time he spent watching the dwarf weave his spells, but he vaguely noticed that the patterns now had a slight visual tint to them. They left slight trails of energy as the dwarf’s casting grew more hectic. The throbbing in Marcius’s head grew more pronounced, matching the crescendo of the wizard’s work, becoming unbearable as the cauldron started to glow.
The pain in Marcius's head became stronger and stronger, and a warm liquid started trickling like a gentle stream out of his ears, Marcius knew exactly what it was.
Despite the drug, he almost felt motivated enough to protest, when suddenly the sensation stopped, the abruptness causing him to lurch. He cautiously glanced at the cauldron, only to be rewarded with a painful, yet exquisite sight. A light bright enough to cause the drugged Marcius to squint in distress emanated from the pot.
Antaigne calmly reached in with bare hands, the sleeves of his robe rolled up his arms, and took out two pulsing white objects. The light from the cauldron vanished as if swallowed up by some unknown beast, leaving only spots that danced in front of his weary eyes.
Wordlessly, Antaigne stuffed the small glowing item into Marcius’s hand then stuck the other object in the wyvrr’s mouth. It felt like a hard crystal that warmed Marcius’s entire body, and he found himself tightening his grip over it. Antaigne reclaimed his position between the sigils on the ground, his eyes closed.
He began weaving a spell, his brow scrunched up in concentration. The purple glowing material that Antaigne had drawn the runes in started to glow brighter with every pass and word that the wizard performed. The cauldron had somehow vanished while Marcius was distracted with the stone. The world began to blur and spin simultaneously. Marcius felt his grip on reality slip and a feeling of floating pervaded his senses, though his arms and legs were like lead, heavy and unable to move. The stack of wood burst into flames, flooding the area in heat, and Marcius began to sweat immediately.
The feeling began as a slight tingle on the back of his neck, something that was as noticeable as a trickle of water down a parched man’s throat, and it felt just as good. The pleasure moved like a current through his body, ebbing and flowing in greater amounts and intensity.
This must be what the deadlands feel like, Marcius thought drunkenly, referring to the place of happiness and peace faithful followers of Avalene were promised upon death. A slight shudder ran up his spine amidst the bliss that was quickly robbing him of what little senses he had left. A strong compulsion to look at the wyvrr suddenly interjected itself in his head.
With a disproportionate amount of effort, he managed to crane his head. The wyvrr was no more than a crumpled heap on the ground and seemed to be going through much of the same experiences Marcius currently was. As Marcius’s eyes found the wyvrr, the piercing green eyes locked onto his, and it was as if they shared the same mind.
The heat was heavy now, maki
ng it difficult to see the wyvrr, and the salt from his sweat stung his eyes. Marcius shook his head violently, trying to clear the liquid from his face, feeling immediately better for doing so.
The glowing crystal still in his hand gave a violent shudder and the sister shard encased in the mouth of the wyvrr responded visibly in kind. A particularly strong wave of ecstasy hit him and Marcius closed his eyes momentarily, as the threshold between pleasure and pain was thinning.
The wyvrr solved that problem, for somehow in the few seconds that Marcius had taken his eyes off the creature, it managed to hobble its way to Marcius’s side, and with a low warbling sound, the beast opened its fanged mouth, dropping the shard, and struck.
All illusion of pleasure vanished as the teeth sunk into Marcius’s leg, replaced by a sharp jolt of intense pain that stole his initial breath. His panting came out in forced rabid gasps through teeth still clenched on the wooden bit as the ache intensified. Each long second stretched on forever, time was marked only by each new wave of pain. Marcius’s mouth opened to scream, but all that came out was a low rasping sound as he danced on the edge of unconsciousness.
He was dying! Marcius could not run, could not reach down and tear the creature off him; he couldn’t even curl up in pain, for his body still betrayed him, inert as it had been since the ritual began.
As Marcius writhed, his body finally gave out, and little by little, unconsciousness took over. His vision rapidly fading into black and his senses numbing, he was aware of a final, and most painful, sensation. The feeling of something being ripped violently in two, something that seemed to pass from his body and go elsewhere.
We. . . are one, he found himself thinking, his tone echoed by another eerily similar sounding voice.
Then the blackness came and he knew no more.
Chapter 07
Marcius ran down the worn pathway of a temple. The damaged stones beneath his feet and shaking behind him seemed familiar. A déjà vu that he couldn’t shake off.
Torches embedded in the wall flashed by the edge of his vision as he hurried past, the rich tapestries on the wall were similarly ignored. A roar sounded behind him as a large jolt that shook the very ground sent him careening to the floor, his only witness being a beautiful statue of the goddess Avalene.
He was soon staring into the eyes of her decapitated head, as the beast chose to shatter the image, claiming the pedestal she had rested on as his own. As the dust settled, expecting some huge vicious beast to emerge, Marcius could only stare at what came out instead. Four scaled limbs, a serpentine head, and a wingless supple form came into view, only the creature sporting them was the size of a large cat.
Their eyes locked and a sense of completeness washed over Marcius, and had he been standing, he felt that his legs would have given away at that moment. The emerald orbs had a depth that belied the size of the creature. This was his equal and the animal knew it. “Who are you?” Marcius said, his voice bouncing around awkwardly through the ruined temple; the dust was just beginning to settle.
I am. . . me. . . and I am. . . you. The words came unbidden into his thoughts, hesitant as if the concept was foreign to the creature. The voice, a near perfect mirror of his own. Eyes narrowed as the beast stalked off the platform, eventually coming face to face with Marcius.
Up close he could smell the sweet sickening odor of rotting flesh on its breath. Its scales, dark bronze in coloration, rustled together like autumn leaves. Marcius had the distinct feeling he was being sized up, measured against some unspoken standard the beast had set. He kept his eyes locked and eventually the beast relented his inspection. The animal turned away, either satisfied or at least content with Marcius. As an afterthought the beast turned his head back, his eyes once more claiming Marcius’s.
I am. . . Faerril.
Marcius hadn’t the time to digest the proclamation, for the temple floor rudely chose that moment to crumble beneath his feet. He tried to run or at least throw himself out of the way, but his body wasn’t up to par with his desires and he fell into a bottomless chasm. The inky blackness surrounded him, the sickening feeling of falling took over his stomach and he opened his mouth to yell. . .
❧ ❧ ❧
Marcius felt the clammy sensation of sweat around him as he awoke, wrapped up snug within the soft blankets of his bed. His unkempt brown hair was sickly wet around his face, and he felt a brief twinge of panic as he tried to remember where he was, the events of the previous night slowly trickling back like a bad dream.
He felt okay, physically. None of the pain he had experienced during the ritual remained, though there was a slight throbbing ache in his head, along with something else he couldn't identify. It was akin to a gnawing sensation just barely on the edge of his consciousness. Not entirely unpleasant, but more like an itch that he just couldn't scratch. He felt a bit annoyed at not being able to do anything about it, and he briefly associated it with the sensation of 'knowing' he had in his dream.
His dream. . .
As the images came crashing back, he noticed that some weight was on his stomach was making it hard to draw breath. His mind flickered back to that voice in his head. Dreading the sight that would await him, he slowly peeked over the edge of the covers, his arms glued to his side.
An inquisitive lizard like head greeted him, and after giving a small twitter of recognition, the wyvrr curled up in a ball and went back to sleep. A feeling of contentment poured over Marcius, something which baffled him, because it didn’t seem to be his own feeling. In fact, the 'itch' seemed to react in coordination with the wyvrrs actions. At least it wasn’t something bad. Marcius remembered the pain of the ritual intensely and shivered reflexively.
Gathering his courage, he reached a sleep weary hand slowly over to the creature’s head. After a brief moment’s hesitation, his mind flickering back to the bite he received the night before, he decided that perhaps he had set his goals too high. Instead, he opted to softly pet the creature’s side. The wyvrr gave no outward appearance to either encourage or discourage Marcius’s attentions, but as he continued, the familiar foreign sensation of gratification filled him.
Puzzling over it, Marcius barely noticed a certain dwarven wizard enter his room. “How’re ye be doin' today lad?” Concern etched the old dwarf’s face as he sat down on the edge of Marcius’s bed, throwing the wyvrr an apologetic look as it gave a small rumble of irritation at being woken up. “Normally ‘snot supposed ter knock ye out that long. . . ”
Now it was Marcius’s turn to be worried. “Knock me out long? Exactly how long have I been out?”
❧ ❧ ❧
Marcius spent the next couple days bedridden from the effects of the summoning, and he fretted every minute of it. Master Antaigne was resolute about him staying in bed, so he passed the time learning all he could about his familiar. He found that the little creature was able to impart the most fundamental of emotions to him, whatever it was feeling at the time usually. The bond seemed to work both ways. "So've ye decided on what're goin' ter name him?" Antaigne asked one day as he brought Marcius's food. It was a thick pasty soup, rich with herbs and spices. He felt his stomach rumble in approval at the tantalizing smell.
Truly it was a question that had not crossed Marcius's mind. He lay there tenderly stroking the soft eye ridges of the wyvrr, and a feeling of happiness was imparted to him from the creature. His mind briefly visited the dream he had after the summoning; it was still fresh in his mind. Faerril? Not really a bad name. "I think. . . I'll name him. . . Faerril," he answered, rolling the name around his mouth. It felt strange, yet somehow it fit.
Agreement flooded his mind, surprising him.
Antaigne nodded his own approval. "How're ye feelin' today?" There was a hopeful glint in the old dwarf's eyes as he asked the question. "If ye be feelin' up ter it, we can start yer official trainin' t'morrow."
Marcius's own eyes lit up. "You mean, I'll finally start learning real magic?" His excitement must have been passed on
to Faerril, because the wyvrr gave a start, popping his head up in alarm. Seeing nothing amiss, Faerril curled up, resting his head on Marcius's stomach and closing his eyes, though he made sure to impart his annoyance to Marcius before going back to sleep. Marcius couldn't help but to grin in response.
Antaigne gave a snort. "Well, we've got ter make sure ye know what needs ter be known about yer familiar there first. So the first couple've days will be about that, then we can get ter the good parts, eh?" Antaigne chuckled again, "Though, I think ye'll learn that the best part o' bein' a wizard is the familiar!"
Marcius nodded, he could already begin feeling himself becoming attached to the little entity sleeping with him. It was strange, he would never be alone, and here was someone that could honestly understand him. It was like gaining a best friend, someone who knew everything about him, but only at the cost of his deepest secrets and desires. No longer would his mind be a private place. The notion both relieved and frightened him.
Antaigne left the food on the table next to bed and excused himself. Marcius found he was once again in the gloomy room. Alone. He was starting to really hate looking at this ceiling. Marcius sighed deeply as he laid back, the food forgotten. His mind swirled with thoughts about the familiar on his stomach and all the implications it brought along with it.
No, not alone.
❧ ❧ ❧
The two masked figures circled warily, foot over foot, each breathing heavily. Their swords were sheathed in leather, but the thin layer did little to suppress the sharp ring of metal as they met once again. There was a flurry of action, the intermingling of steel and strength, as each sought to find that subtle opening in the others defenses. The heavier-set one did a quick series of jabs, putting the thinner one on the defensive. Higher and higher went the thin man's sword in his attempt to stave off the assault, his opponent's blade then took a low, quick swipe at his midsection, forcing him to leap back, barely avoiding being sliced in half.
A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Page 10
