A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  The dwarf was on the run now, into the forest, leaving what was left of his home behind him. Faerril hurried to follow, flitting from branch to branch like a cat, eager to perhaps assist or at least bear witness for his master.

  Instead of two wizards, there were now four. One bore red, the other chose black. They had a different aura about them. These were a definite level above the other ones. They were obviously the ones who dispelled the summons.

  Antaigne's flight was careful and measured, not so much as one of panic, it was the retreat of someone running for a purpose. Away from the clearing he led them, deep into the forest. The nether was in turmoil here, forever churning and raging, invisible to the naked eye. The Fae'lorea seemed to have a life of its own that even extended into the magic realm. A rich source to draw power from.

  Finally, the dwarf skidded to a stop and spun around, hand already moving through the motions for a spell. With a small metal wire in hand, a spell component; he threw a quick cast arc of lightning as a distraction. It jumped from the red wizard, who already erected a shield in response, to the black wizard, only to be absorbed by an amulet in the wizard's hand.

  All five lapsed into their own casting, each furiously trying to complete it before their opponent did. Four energy trails streamed from the black robed wizard's finger tips, only to slam into a huge stone back.

  Another golem, this one made of solid rock, was summoned into fruition from the very forest floor the combatants stood on, the dwarf was quick to strengthen it with enchantments, weaving them into the body as one would knit an article of clothing. He made sure it would not be as simple to banish this creation. The skin of the golem took on a metallic, almost obsidian sheen as it hardened with each pass of the dwarven wizard's hands. It had the vague countenance of a dwarf, massive forearms, legs as thick as solid oak trunks; it held a mighty hammer in each hand, made of the very stone as the rest of its body.

  The wizard clad in full red held a similar notion, for he too summoned a golem from the nether to fight by his side. It stepped out of a swirling green and black mass of nether that he had created to serve as a portal to this realm. The wizard's golem was vastly different in stature from the dwarf's creation.

  It was made of rotting flesh, poorly sewn together, a seeming mismatch of parts and functions that were bloated and already turning purple. The one blood shot eye, in the middle of the mouthless face, swirled erratically, and the stench of putrid flesh decaying in the hot sun hung in the air like a blanket. The ends of the arms and feet tapered into bloody stumps. Sharp, talon-like shards of bleached white bone served as makeshift fingers and toes, held together and animated by the sheer force of the wizard's magic. It moved in a herky-jerky fashion, as if unsure of exactly what it was capable of. In this manner, it charged with a low moan, which was odd for it had no mouth.

  Trees were uprooted and the ground itself upturned as the two titans clashed, trading blows that shook the very canopy of the old forest. The pudgy flesh of the red wizard's golem absorbed much of the stone golem's strikes, making the seeming mismatch all the more even. The ground was torn, and their masters flung spells amidst the chaos created, both sides trying to garner an advantage while avoiding being trampled underneath the lumbering feet of their own creations.

  Antaigne created a pair of animated ethereal swords that sped off into the fray, slashing and dancing amongst the golem combatants, seeking the taste of wizard flesh. A cleverly placed fireball followed in their wake, the red wizard barely shielded himself in time. The swords weaved around and managed a glancing blow on the red wizard, a rather nasty cut along one arm. Anger fueled his retort, with a violent flick of one hand and a sharp sounding word, a patch of large old trees were forcibly ripped from their homes in the soft earth, sent flying toward the owner of the swords. Antaigne managed to raise an earthen shield between him and the trees, the energies that fueled the two spells collided, which, unfortunately, caused the trunks and dirt to go flying in all directions as the two forces negated each other.

  The feeling of falling and a gentle roar that filled the ears assaulted the familiar's senses. Blackness engulfed the wyvrr. The last thing it remembered was the gentle thump as his limp body hit the soft ground and the shaking earth of the automatons still fighting for their masters. Unconsciousness took over and Faerril happily accepted the warm enveloping darkness.

  Chapter 10

  Marcius took a deep breath as he finished. He fought back the tears that began to well up behind his eyes. Seeing the last day of his master's life was a humbling experience, and he was worldly enough to realize why the dwarf led the enemy wizards into the forest.

  Jared was looking at him with an expression somewhere between awe and disbelief. "Marcius. . . " Jared seethed angrily through clenched teeth, surprising the apprentice with the abrupt change in mood, "I'm not the cleverest man in Faelon, not by far. But, did you say that the wizards wore the colors of the Academy?"

  Marcius nodded. "The first eight did, and the latter two did not. Now Jared. . . " Marcius could see where his friend was going with this line of thinking, and he resolved to cut it off before he could go further, “There isn't anything I can do, really. The Academy is a sovereign institution, and, as such, is given full rights to handle their own matters as they see fit. The best I could do would be to submit a complaint with the King's court, which would be admitting that I'm a rogue wizard's apprentice. It would get me in more trouble than it would solve. Trust me, I've already thought about it." The edges of Marcius's eyes dampened a bit and his hand curled into a hard fist. “But believe me, if there was anything I could do, I would."

  "Then shut up and listen, I already realize that. I have a sheriff for a father, remember? I'm well aware of the law." Marcius nodded, the seed of curiosity was planted in the recesses of his mind though. What could Jared have come up with? "Don't you think it is an rather big coincidence that a mere two months after someone from the Academy visits you, your Master, a rogue wizard that has managed to evade being located by the Academy, is murdered by wizards most likely under command of said Academy? Now, I'm not sure what these two other wizards are doing there, but the Academy is involved somehow. If you want answers, you will find them at the Academy in Aralene."

  "Someone from the Ac-. . . " Marcius echoed, and then he realized who Jared was speaking of. "Alicia!"

  It was so obvious, but he had been so self-absorbed in his own grief and shock that he failed to even connect the two simple facts. His vision clouded and the blood began to pound in the recesses of his skull. How dare this woman, no, this pawn, come into his town, his life, and completely ruin it!

  All his desires, hopes, and future plans dashed, in part, by a single individual. Marcius could never get back the surly dwarf, a person he had begun to look upon like a second father. He could already feel the pangs of sadness as the absence of Antaigne began to settle in his stomach and mind. Marcius didn't notice that his hands had balled unconsciously into a tight fist, nor did he notice the crimson trail dripping off them as his fingers dug deep gouges into his palms.

  "Jared," Marcius's voice was eerily calm and collected, betraying none of the turmoil that bubbled and toiled under the surface. "We are going home.”

  ❧　❧　❧

  "Let me see my father!" Two pairs of strong hands gripped Marcius's arms, stopping him from getting any closer. The deputies of Rhensford were a rather burly lot, not exactly chosen for their people skills, and these two were a prime example.

  The moment Marcius had stepped onto the grounds of the Realure household he knew something was horribly wrong. The first thing that tipped him off, besides the feeling of strangeness that had made the hairs on his neck stand on end, was the fact that Lars was not there to open up the door like he always did. Instead, he was greeted by the grim visage of the town sheriff, Gary Garalan, the infamous Bloodhound. An imposing sight no matter the circumstance, his friend's father always had a larger than life aura about him. He could silence
a rowdy bar with a stern glare or make guilty men confess just by being in the room.

  Marcius never felt comfortable around him, and he wouldn't have been embarrassed to admit he went to great lengths to stay out of trouble for that sole reason. Though the sheriff’s presence pretty much assured trouble was afoot. The second indicator was Clarissa curled up on a dining room chair, eyes red and swollen from crying. It looked like she had been at it for a while.

  Marcius had rushed home after dropping Faerril off at the Healer's Guild. He intended to ask his father for advice and deliver the tragic news about Antaigne, before going to visit Alicia and wring some answers from the Mage. Whether she agreed to provide them or not. Jared, unfortunately, had went his own way as soon as they hit the outskirts of Rhensford, muttering something about needing a strong drink or two, though he did promise to meet Marcius over by the Healer's guild later on.

  Marcius knew better than to accept the apology at face value. It was obvious that his friend was scared of seeing him like this, and the worst part was that he couldn't really blame him. Marcius was terrified too. He was not one prone to allowing his emotions to control him, or at least that is what he kept telling himself. But every time he started to believe it, he could see Antaigne's accusing eyes staring at him from across the inky blackness of death, and the inner rage would build up again, stronger than ever.

  He realized, thanks to his friend's ability to point out the obvious, how the Academy most likely found out where his master lived, and he couldn't help but feel responsible. So he embraced that anger, sheltered it, nurtured it, all as a shield against the guilty feeling growing in his gut.

  But now here he was at the place he called home, being denied entry into to the one shelter he had that would protect him from the storm that had engulfed his life. The only place he could depend on. His father would know what to do! Lian Realure had an uncanny knack for making even the biggest problem seem as menial as what to wear when you went out on the town.

  He needed to see the weather worn face, to hear the baritone voice that would say comforting words to him, to feel the strong, yet caring hands clasp around his shoulders, forming a protective shell against the outside world. Yes, his goal was so close, and yet, thanks to the gruff man in front of him, it seemed so far away.

  "What is going on here?! I want to see my father!" he repeated desperately.

  “I've got a few questions for you," the Sherrif said, ignoring his plea. "You see, boy, I've a sneaking suspicion that's been brewin' in the back of my head for a while, and what happened here answers a few of my questions, but it seems to have opened a few of 'em as well."

  "What do you mean ‘what happened here’? What exactly did happen and where is my father?"

  "That's what I want to find out. Boys, if you don't mind, a little privacy?"

  The two deputies nodded, letting go of Marcius's arms. They tipped their hats in respectful condolence to Clarissa on the way out. "I. . . guess. . . I'll go take a nap," Clarissa said meekly, between sobs. She shot Marcius an apologetic look, which he returned with a subtle dip of his head. The cook just didn't want to be around the Sheriff.

  Not catching the real reason for her departure, Gary merely nodded his understanding, waiting until she was well clear of earshot before turning to Marcius. A well calloused hand gestured toward the dining room, where two chairs waited.

  This was the formal dining room of the Realure family, typically reserved for business occasions, special guests, and parties. Marcius felt a bit out of place in the ornate surroundings. It was obvious that Lian had spared no expense when decorating this section of the house. Which was understandable, the quality of your table was an unspoken announcement of your wealth amongst the upper class nobles, and Lian was one that always kept in good standings with all rankings. Marcius found it all trivial, really. He doubted he would ever understand why nobles had to complicate things.

  "I'll answer your question first, since I believe it will convince you to tell me the truth." Gary shifted around in his seat as if he was having a hard time putting what he wanted to say in words, or maybe he was just as uncomfortable in the room as Marcius. Either way, it was a sign that didn't bode well to Marcius. "Your father has been taken to the Healer's Guild, as is mandatory with these cases."

  "What? Why? What happened?"

  Gary held up his hand to forestall any further questioning. "He was found this morning, ill of mind, in a pool of his own drink and vomit. As we speak, he is being purged of any evil spirits by the healers.”

  The sinking feeling in Marcius's gut grew heavier. He felt as if all his breath was being squeezed out of him. "How did this happen? Why Father?" It felt as if his whole world was being flipped upside down, pulled out underneath him, then ripped up into pieces and cast into the wind.

  "That's what I want to know. I'd visited him the night before over an issue with a few of his rowdy sailors. You know how it is. Sailors, when bored after several months not at sea, have a tendency to find things to occupy their time. At the time, he seemed perfectly fine, nothing odd at all. In fact, he even treated me to dinner in this very dining room. Rather curious how a trader who is on the top of his world, suddenly goes completely out of his mind, isn't it?"

  "Then what exactly are you saying, Sheriff? I want to see him! He's my father for Avalene's sake! How do you expect me to take this? Do you somehow think I did this while I was away being tutored? How does one cause a person to go insane? I'm the victim here!" He had half stood up in anger, but a single piercing glare from the Bloodhound convinced him perhaps it was more prudent to sit back down.

  "Well, Freeman Realure, I've got a gut feeling."

  Gary stood up and started pacing back and forth. There was a common joke around the courthouse that the Sheriff would have worn grooves into the floor if it hadn't been made of stone. "Marcius, I've known your family for about twenty years. You've been a friend to that fool boy of mine ever since you moved here. As long as I've known you, you've been a law abiding citizen, which has kept me out of your hair and you within my good graces."

  Marcius nodded, as it was all as the Sheriff had said. Still, what did this have to do with his father? "Well," Gary continued, "My one deputy, Bronis-a rather nice lad who used to live in the slums, had a very peculiar story for me about two months ago. You see, he was off that day, and had gone to his favorite bar for a bit of drink." All the color drained from Marcius's face, which pretty much confirmed to the Bloodhound that he was on the right track. The boy knew exactly what happened that day. With a grin, the Bloodhound plowed forward.

  "Yes, I see you have heard of it. Well, you'll never guess who he saw stop a bar fight using magic, can you believe it? Some person had the guts to use magic in my town, knowing full well how much I dislike magic and those who do it. Any ideas on who this person was?"

  "N-n-no. . . ?" Marcius stammered. "Perhaps it was the drink speaking?"

  Gary laughed with little humor. "Well, that aside, I had another peculiar incident that week, one which still weighs heavily on my mind. Sort of like an annoying itch that you can't quite scratch, just sitting there taunting you out of reach. I don't think of it as a small coincidence, mostly because I don't believe in coincidences."

  "And what would that be?" Marcius had to save face, he could feel himself being pulled into the Bloodhound's web, and if he got drawn too deep he would never get out.

  "Mage Lady Alicia Wendeline." The Sheriff spit out the name. “Unfortunately, the King sees some sort of advantage with keeping in the Academy's good graces, so I had to look the other way when she came to town on ‘business.’ Now, what could a wizard want in a town like this? A town that I have personally managed to weed out all things magic related? Birds of a feather wing together, and magic draws magic I always say. I heard she came to see your father, Marcius. Where exactly do you go to get tutored? And what exactly are you being taught? Perhaps you can help me answer these, boy?"

  The rapid fire of the pointed
questions rocked Marcius onto his heels. He knew! Gary Garalan, the indomitable Sheriff of Rhensford, knew that Marcius was a wizard! Marcius's mind raced, he had to find some way out of this. He could feel his cheeks turning red under the Bloodhound's scrutinizing glare.

  Put on the spot as he was, he didn't have much time to think of anything. His instincts were in flight or fight mode; he chose the former. "Well, I've no idea what you are talking about. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go to visit my father. Please let yourself out." He shuffled past the Sheriff, anxious to just get out of the house.

  He had just reached the door when Gary's strong hand grabbed his arm, spinning him around so fast that he momentarily lost his balance. The sheriff had his face so close Marcius could count the individual graying strands on the man's blonde beard, the minute veins in the whites of the eye. "I know what you are Marcius, and if it wasn't for the sole reason that I don't have a single actual crime to hold against you, I would have you clapped in the dungeon. I would suggest once you have sorted out matters here, that you make yourself very, very scarce in this town. Trust me, I would love to find some chain bracelets to match the robes you lack, and I'm sure if I dug around enough, I would find reason to do so. Even if I have to say you stole an apple from some street vendor, by the Gods I'll find something!" The grim set of his face and the tone of voice left very little to imagination as to what the sheriff truly meant. And the sheriff, at the very least, was a man of his word.

  Marcius shirked off the arm, a little more confident now that he knew that Jared's father had nothing tangible on him, and walked out the door before his legs betrayed how scared he really was. Once he was free of the house, the full weight of his problems came rushing back to the surface.

  He looked back at what was most likely his house now, in both name and title. A place that had been called home for twenty years. The only thing he could wonder was what exactly did he do to deserve what had happened the last two days. First Antaigne and now this?