A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (34 page)

Oh the irony of life.

Denician rubbed his temples. “Selenthia,” he disliked the name, though it was the fate of all elven rulers to inherit the name of their homeland, “Please, now is not the time. Things are getting worse and we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

The image nodded. “
The Council wishes to eradicate your Kingdom for daring to attack unprovoked. We, of course, believe that we were right in the trade dispute. There are hints of wanting to return to the warlike people we once were.”

“
I can’t allow that to happen. For either side, win or lose. This isn’t what Faelon needs. I swear there is a puppet master behind these strings of war, but whoever they are, I haven’t gotten wind beyond my suspicions.”

“
What about the prophet?”

Denician nodded. Shortly before the war started, a nameless prophet appeared, clad in simple white robes and black mask that hid his features, and everything he had said came true. Famine, births, disasters. He came to the King, telling him of a path
he must take to lead Faelon to an era of prosperity. There had been great civil unrest in Morlian at the time, mostly from a great plague that had swept through, leaving a trail of misery behind it. Then a trade caravan containing a highly sought after metal got robbed and both sides claim the other was behind it.

The news was convenient enough to take Morlian
’s focus off its problems. Too convenient, by the Headmaster’s reckoning. Denician immediately suspected the robed man, but no matter the security and surveillance he placed on the masked prophet, he couldn’t prove anything.

He felt as if he was just a nameless pawn dancing along to the tune of an unseen piper. The feeling of hopelessness infuriated him. He knew there had to be more to this, but despit
e his best efforts, all he got were shadows flitting about the dark.

“
He’s still clean. I’ve got my best men watching every move he makes, and yet, nothing. He gets up every morning, meditates, consults the king, eats, and then meditates some more. That’s it, every day, without fail.”

The willowy figure huffed with frustration. A very unqueen-like action that reminded Denician of the woman she was before. It was hard to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “
We are missing something, love. Both of us realize there is more to this war than meets the eye. But neither of us can prove it. Are you sure your men are trustworthy?”

The Headmaster bristled. “
Of course. I’d not trust anyone but my best men for such a task. And what about you, is anyone not being honest among your elves?”

“
We are different than the newer races, with a longer view of the world. I do not see anyone of us betraying our kind.” There was a brief moment of hesitation. “But I do not discount it, just because I trust my people. I have been looking into it, though I have to be subtle. We do not distrust easily, amongst ourselves. It would be a great affront to openly bring the suspicion to the forefront of our politics.”

Denician snorted. “
With all due respect, from what I remember of the goings on within your courts, the inner workings of our own ‘newer’ races seems tame in comparison.”

“
That is a bit different. To us it is like a game. We live centuries and must find ways to amuse ourselves. The intrigue and wordplay interests us. It is mostly posturing and harmless in intent.”

“
So how do we lesser lived races know that one of your people isn’t viewing this like a game? Poking and prodding and instigating for his, or her, own sick, twisted, amusement? Are you saying your people are incapable of evil? Or maybe that they might not view things differently, somehow believing what they are doing is for the greater good??”

“
I don’t like your implications, love. We have not instigated a conflict for centu—”

“
But just because you haven’t doesn’t mean you can’t, am I correct?”

“
I’m not sure why you are attacking my race. . . but yes, you are correct. Anybody is capable of malicious intent, even the longer lived ones that should know better.”

The Headmaster sighed. It was always like this. He was always lookin
g for ways to fight with her. He hated the social customs of the elves. The pomp, the strict caste rules, the nitpicking. Furthermore, navigating the murky and lengthy list of what was proper was painstaking at best. One had to live for centuries just to get anything done!

He blamed a large part of the frustration on not being able to have what he desired. If he was so great, why couldn
’t he just take what he wanted? Social norms be damned! At the thought, he mentally shook his head. Go down that road and he’d be the one pushing for war.

“
I’m sorry. . . Ashe,” he breathed an apology, her birth name rolling off his tongue, bittersweet.

The image twirled lightly, the happiness evident in her movements. Denician found an unwitting smile grace his lips. It was a
lways so easy to make her happy. Underneath the pretense of a ruler, still beat the heart of the carefree woman that stole his heart. “I understand, love.” The image finally came to rest. “We have all been taxed rather hard. When may I see you next?”

It wa
s an abrupt change of topic, and had Denician not been used to dealing with the capriciousness elves, he’d have thought her uncaring for her people in this time of war. He wished they would take the threat his nation posed seriously. Morlian was a slow to awaken beast, but changes were happening within that he was powerless to stop, despite his best efforts. The beast was stretching out its claws, and Denician saw trouble in the future of anything that got in its way.

But the elves, with their long view of
the world at large, refused to believe that anything could really threaten them. This was just another bump in the road of time. They didn’t see the war machine slowly gearing up, as Denician did. They believed they had a chance.  Denician hoped they were right. All the elves had seen were skirmishes and smaller battles with Morlia. What would they do when the beast was fully awakened, fangs spread, bearing down on their homeland?

He wasn
’t exactly an elven advocate, but he didn’t want them eradicated or absorbed into Morlia.

He considered her question. Despite what he told himself to the contrary, she would always hold a place in his heart. Like a drug, he found himself always going back to her under some pretense or another. They could never be overtly tog
ether, but it didn’t stop them from seeking solace from everything in each other’s arms when they could.

It was dangerous
. . . if they ever got caught. . . Still. . .

“
I don’t know, Ashe. It’s hard, with the war and all. But I’ll come under some pretense of Academy work when I can.” He paused, and it took him a few moments to get the words out. “I miss you.”

“
And I miss you. I’ll look into matters more closely, at your suggestion. The dishonor it would bring to my people to have a traitor among us wouldn’t even be close to how history would judge us if we allowed this to happen unchallenged.  Now I must go. This spell taxes my energy. Until we meet again, my heart.”

The ghostly figure kissed her fingertips, touching them to Denician
’s lips gently before vanishing, now nothing more than a swirling mass of nether to his eyes. And so it was, the Headmaster all alone again in his office. The ache in his chest grew at her absence and he let himself slump down in his chair with a groan, the leather lining protesting his sudden intrusion. Reaching into a secret compartment in his desk, he pulled out a flask of the strongest brandy he had

Later on he planned to rotate the men he had watching the prophet. He
’d never admit to being wrong to Ashe, but it didn’t hurt to give her suggestion a shot, no matter how much he didn’t want for it to be true. He also had to go contact and bribe some of his spy network, searching for that something that he was missing. He had a lot of work to do, and that didn’t even include his Academy duties.

But that was for later. Right now he needed a drink.

Chapter 20

T
he assassins entered the room silently, having picked the lock with a speed that indicated dedication to a craft that depended on perfection.

Instead
of the two pompous wizards and a bodyguard they were told resided there, they opened the door to an old crone, her husband, and a young waif. The two parties paused, unsure.

The moment of confusion was all that was needed A sword appeared in the old man
’s hand, and the blade flashed. One of the five fell dead, his throat sliced into the crude facsimile of a smile. The deadly weapon struck again, but this time instinct took over and the assassin got his sword up in time, deflecting the blow.

A crackling ligh
t of energy sprung from the woman’s finger tips, following the slicing motion she made with her fingers. Off went a man’s hand and as the man opened his mouth to scream, the old man took the opening, silencing him with a back stroke of his sword.

Things st
arted off badly, but they were quick to fill in the holes. One broke off to occupy the spell caster, forcing her to concentrate more on dodging than spellplay. Her quick cast ball of fire almost charred his face as he ducked. It impacted against the wall, igniting like a match to tinder. Smoke began to fill up the room.

Didn
’t the information say two mages? The last one was confirmed as the boy gestured with his hand, a solid pocket of air ramming into the one that approached him. The man let out a grunt and rocked back on his heels, but doggedly moved forward against the pain, his sword cutting trails above the boys head as the boy ducked and rolled.

The old man was now on the defensive, sorely pressed by two expert swordsmen who had worked together before.
When one left an opening, the other was quick to fill it. Expertly they worked the man’s defenses; high, low, from the side, the sound of three swords ringing together in terrible harmony.

Disguising his move with a risky attack that went up and over the
man’s sword to duck down and stab at his chest, the assassin reached into his tunic and whipped a knife at the old man. The wicked dagger stuck in the man’s thigh and the man’s defenses stuttered, allowing the two assassins to score minor blows.

Simon bur
st into the room, the bard’s sword swinging madly at the closest assassin. It was clumsy and untrained, but the simple addition of another was enough to cause a respite for the beleaguered defenders.

The assassins took the betrayal in stride, splitting off
to attack separately.
Finish the wounded man quickly
. It was an unspoken agreement between the pair.

The old crone
’s opponent was frustrated. Every time he thought he would hit her, his sword seemed to pass through nothing. How was she so old and yet so agile? He growled as his sword seemed to go through thin air yet again, though he was sure she was in reach.

No, he was letting his frustration get hold of him. Think. Assassins were heads and shoulders above mere grunts because they thought about their tar
gets. They fought as much with their mind as their body and weapons. This time he did a measured lunge for her head, watching as his sword again passed through harmlessly.

And he saw.  The outfit was a disguise. Her clothing and face were dirtied and hard
to discern, but the skin at the base of her neck smooth and tight. Nothing like what an old woman would have. So they knew the attack was coming. His mind flickered to obvious betrayal of the bard. And somehow this mage, this witch, was making some spell to cause all his attacks to miss.

What would happen if he deliberately aimed wide? With a feral grin he swung his sword wildly and was rewarded with the split-second feeling of resistance as the edge
nicked her arm. Well, it was a start. With his comrades pressing in and gradually tightening the noose on the others, things were very grim for his targets.

He did so enjoy his job.

“Alright guys, let’s get out of here,” The bard yelled over the din of battle. At his call the woman surged forward and grabbed the surprised assassin’s sword, ignoring the deep cut it created on the inside of her hand. Yanking him forward and stepping inside his reach, she struck him dead in the chest with the flat of her hand. A noiseless shockwave echoed from the point of impact, knocking only the assassins to the ground, leaving her friends upright and completely unaffected.

Colors danced before the assassin
’s eyes, his ears rang, and the entire world turned upside down. He was fleetingly aware of hitting the ground and the sound of feet echoing away from him. Damn it! They were getting away. He had never failed the organization. He was considered one of the best!

The assassin gritted his teeth against the pain as he forced himself to stand up, the rest of his team doing the same.
He grunted with effort, coughing as he willed his legs to move forward. Every step was agonizing, pinpricks of fire erupting along his body, and it was only through sheer determination that he crossed to the door.

He had just reached the door when he saw h
is teammate flying at him. His eyes widened in fear as realization dawned on him. His teammate wasn’t jumping; he was being thrown, picked up by a massive explosion that washed over them before they even had time to scream.

❧　❧　❧

“Take it slow. Remember, don’t draw suspicion,” Simon hissed under his breath as they took yet another turn down some dark alleyway.

“
Where are we going?” Marcius asked.

“
Don’t worry about it. I told you three I’d get you out of the city, and I shall.”

“
There is one tiny problem,” Alicia said, clutching the dirty brown dress closer to her arm as the gash she received continued to bleed. The wind was picking up, a precursor to a large incoming storm. “Jared’s hurt. We have to stop and treat the wounds.”

Marcius glanced at Jared wit
h concern. A bright red stain was creeping its way down his friend’s leg, matching the one that blossomed on Alicia’s arm and hand.

There was a brief moment where Marcius could see the bard debating with himself, but in the end, Simon nodded reluctantly. “
Alright, dress it as fast as possible. We don’t have the time for anything beyond making sure you two don’t bleed to death. Those cuts will be the least of your worries if the Blackguards capture us, and I’d rather not get caught outside in this weather if I can help it.”

The relief on Jared
’s face was obvious as he slumped against the wall, sliding down to a sitting position in front of Alicia. The mage tore off a strip of her sleeve, wrapping it around the wound with little gentleness. “Oh, stop squirming. Not like your leg got cut off,” she admonished with mock sternness.

Marcius noticed that the bandage was quick to darken with blood. Guilt seeped into the edges of his thoughts. If he hadn
’t had blurted out who they were in the tavern while he was drunk, Jared wouldn’t have gotten hurt. If had been a bit better with magic, perhaps he would have been able to help his friend out more.

“
Marcius, it is not your fault,” Jared whispered, startling Marcius out of his thoughts.

“
How’d you know what I was thinking about?” Marcius asked, finding the toes of his boots very interesting.

“
Come on, I’ve known you for how many years? You’re not very good at hiding your thoughts. Plus, you’ve always been the type to blame yourself for everything. Remember that time when you were a kid and your father got sick from saving you after you fell into the ocean? You sulked for weeks over it.”

Marcius chuckled for a moment at the memory, but his face fell again at the thought of his father. Another person that he had failed. “
Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I can’t help but feel that this is entirely my fault.”

“
Probably because it is your fault. Blabbering that we were wizards and all,” Alicia said.

“
Stop it,” Jared was quick to interject before a stunned Marcius could respond. “We get nowhere by pointing fingers at each other. Let’s just concentrate on what to do next and be grateful we are all alive still.”

Yes, Marc. I agree with Jared. It is best for us to look at the positives. Everyone is alive and we are continuing our journ
ey toward the Academy.
Faerill intoned from the rooftops,
it could have been far worse.

With a grimace, Jared pushed himself up, using the wall for support. With one final glare of warning at Alicia, he turned to Simon. “
Well, my priestly bard savior, care to lead the way?”

“
I thought you’d never ask,” Simon said, quickly assuming a pace that had the others scrambling to keep up. The flight through the twisting maze of endless alleyways had begun again. “Be happy that we managed to escape with only a few scratches.”

“
So, where are we going?”  Jared wheezed, echoing Marcius’s earlier question.

Simon looked up at the sky for a moment. “
We are going to a friend’s place. He’s a trader I know that owes me a big favor. I already set up a ride out of Harcourt with him. Right under the noses of the witless guards that are likely to be paid off by the Blackguards to look for us. From there, we can travel to Yaeren, a little coastal town that is a stop for a lot of ships that go to Arian. We can probably hitch a ride all the north from there. The town is too small to be worth the effort for the Blackguards to have a lot of contacts in. So, with a bit of luck, we’ll get away without any repercussions.”

“
Repercussions?” Alicia asked, disapproval evident in her voice.

“
Aye. Their reach is lengthy and with this little stunt, we basically slapped them in the face, insulted their mothers, and made off with their daughters in one single stroke. We made them look like idiots. They aren’t going to just take that lying down. No doubt they are scrambling to lockdown the city to prevent our escape while trying to spin what just happened into a benefit for them.”

“
Great,” The mage, well versed in the backstabbing politics of the Academy, muttered under her breath. “Let’s just hope that you are wrong.”

“
I’m not, but I can say one thing,” Simon said with a grim smile, “it was a spectacular way to say goodbye. They’ll be talking about this for years.”

❧　❧　❧

Smoke seeped out from the rubble that was once the Black Rose tavern. The explosion left a nice sized crater that leveled the rickety establishment to the ground. For the first time in years, the Lowtown district was still. No street waifs looking for an easy handout searched through the remains, no curious bystanders loitered about. Lowtown was a place of survival, and opportunity was not something easily given up, but one didn’t live long without knowing when to look the other way.

A gloved hand struggled out of the wreckage, reaching toward the sky for a few moments before falling t
o the side, strength spent. Silence reigned. Slowly the wind picked up, dark clouds rolling in. A storm was forming.

Rain fell, gradually at first, washing away the dirt and forming muddy puddles in the street. As the rain thickened and the fires ceased, t
he occupant seemed to draw sustenance from the incessant beat of water, the fingers flexing, straining, as the rest of the arm forced itself from the debris. A human form emerged, freeing itself from the prison of wood and stone.

The assassin ripped off hi
s mask, tossing it aside as he coughed up the contents of his stomach, trying desperately to clear his lungs and suck in air at the same time. There were flecks of blood amidst the contents of his stomach. After the dry heaves stopped, the assassin rested his head on his forearms, exhausted. The rain continued to fall, heedless of the man’s plight, drenching him.

With little warning, the man screamed, leaning back on his knees as his rage took over. He had failed! There were no other survivors; instinctuall
y the man knew this. His comrades in arms were all dead. He was the only one left. The team he trained with since he was a child, the job he was given, the expectations of the powers he served, all of it was covered, tainted, with that wretched word.
Failure!