A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (11 page)

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 ma
naged 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, making 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

M
arcius 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, th
e 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 aw
ay 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 th
at 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 c
ontentment 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 cre
ature. 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 onto 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 kn
own 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 cou
ld 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 i
n 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.

             
It was something that the smaller man expected, but what he didn’t account for was the elbow that followed. Connecting squarely with his jaw, a resounding snap of bone hitting flesh rang out. Reeling from the blow, the best he could do was flailing his sword out in front of him to hold off the inevitable follow-up. There were two stinging blows to the back of his knees instead, causing them to buckle, sending him face first into the slowly browning late summer grass.

“
Really boy, in that fight, you would’ve been hamstrung twice and at your opponent’s mercy.” The sturdier man took off his protective mask, throwing it onto the ground in disgust.  His gray eyes were as worn as his face, and his short blonde hair and beard were just starting to give way to the inevitably of age. He had the bearing of someone with complete confidence in himself. “Had this been a real fight, you would’ve died. Learn to think outside the constraints you place on yourself.”

“
Yeah, yeah, I know father,” the thin figure took off his mask as he also stood up, revealing the sweaty face of Jared Garalan. His typically long blonde hair was matted to the sides of his face and his breath came out in ragged gasps. The day was as hot as the nights were cold, but his shortness of breath came equally from frustration as it did from the blistering heat of the midday sun.

Damn it,
he cursed his stupidity under his breath. He should have not fallen for that
.
He brushed an annoying strand of hair from his face as he turned to face his father once more.

To realize his dream of one day becoming a famous adventurer, Jared had started training in the art of swordsma
nship at the tender age of twelve. His name would be sung in ballads, known by every man, women, and child in Faelon. Likewise, it would invoke fear in every monster and beast that considered itself a threat to the honest people of the world.

There was ju
st one problem. The man in front of him.

Gary Garalan was perhaps the most feared man in the country of Lorinia, perhaps even more so than the King. He had forged his reputation with a tenaciousness and intelligence that was, even to this day, legendary am
ong the thief guilds and brigands that still operated in the country. The name Bloodhound was given to him many years ago, both for his relentless pursuit once he caught the scent of crime, and for his skill in arms. The aging, portly man in front of Jared was probably still one of the best swordsmen around. And it frustrated Jared greatly. How could he claim the mantle of a famed adventurer if he couldn’t even beat a man way past his prime?

Jared was startled out of his reverie by a stinging slap to the fa
ce by the flat end of his father’s still leather covered sword. “Quit your dreaming, boy. You can rest assured that your enemy would run you through if you pause to smell the roses. Adventurer indeed. . . ” The last part was said in a flat, derisive tone; testament to his father’s thoughts about the chances of that dream ever becoming reality.

“
Father. . .
” Jared responded through gritted teeth, “. . . I do have a name.” He bent over, feeling the book that inspired his dream flop about lazily inside his tunic, and picked up the training mask. Slipping it on, he took his stance and gestured his readiness. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth, mixing with the sweat and grime that had accumulated.

Gary smirked, “
Fight like that and your adventuring career will be short indeed, boy.” Putting on his mask and poking Jared with his sword in the exact spot where he also knew housed the boy’s treasured book; the next words were a bit muffled. “Prove me wrong and earn it, boy.”