A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  Slowly the song began to pick up. The boy had found his calling, that of a soldier. As the boy grew braver, so did the music. Battles were outlined and won, and victory accompanied every step. Except now the boy had grown into a man, and he quickly moved up the ranks, becoming, at last, the successful general that was no doubt his future. It reached its frantic crescendo as the man marched to the roaring applause of his fellow countrymen. They had won the war!

  Simon's fingers moved on their own accord now, for he had lost himself in the depths of his song. Was he playing the song or was the song playing him? Such questions were lost in the siren's call as his fingers flitted over the strings unerringly.

  One day the man falls in love, and now the music took on the bittersweet melody of burgeoning romance, the feeling of a rapidly beating heart taking pleasure in the sharp pang of new love. The delicate notes rang around the details of the courtship, fluttered over their unending vows to each other, before finally coming to rest ever so delicately on the shoulders of the final result of passion: a child.

  The plucking was slower now, tentative like it had been earlier, as Simon related the beginnings of the happy family; of the baby's first steps, of teaching the child the necessities of life, and even the arguments with someone who had no experience with the outside world.

  Then, when it seems as if life was perfect, disaster struck! The music became ominous as both the mother, and then eventually the man's child, is stricken down by the swift hand of Fate. Not by a sword, and not in anger, but by the inevitably of age and sickness.

  And now the man is once again alone, his loneliness reflected by a haunting timbre that hung about the air like a heavy shawl, obscuring the view of everyone. Each gentle note expressed his sadness, for the found man is lost once again, as lost as he was when he first set out on his journey. Only this time, instead of hopefulness of youth, he is directed by jaded cynicism of one who had seen too much, one who had lost too much. And as the final notes thrummed in the air, the man dies.

  Alone.

  Simon opened his eyes; in fact, he didn't even remember closing them. He was greeted to the spectacle that makes any musician's heart leap with unadulterated joy. Every expression that he saw was one of pleasant surprise. People mid-drink as the words had taken hold of them, paused as the song took them for a journey though they never left the bar.

  The clapping began slowly and cautiously, the lone noise in the tavern, before it escalated quickly into a fevered pitch that shook the very walls. There was not a single dry eye in the room.

  Simon glowed, his own heart soared, inspired by the sheer truthfulness of their excitement. This is what life was about! It was the confirmation to all his choices in life that had led him here. Cries for more drink filled the air, for the song had set the mood to one of contemplation.

  Now everyone was reflecting on what had gotten them to where they were; most just also chose the reflection at the bottom of a mug to accompany them. Looking over at the table of three, Simon saw that even they were affected. The woman's bottom lip was trembling and she looked on the verge of crying, while her two companions wore expressions of utter seriousness.

  In other words, the time was ripe in which to move in.

  Ignoring the claps of congratulations he received as he walked between the tables, he stopped at the table of three, waiting until he was acknowledged. The man with shoulder length, curly blonde hair was the first to look up from his inner thoughts and notice him. "That was. . . amazing," he said, the words escaping his mouth in a single rush as if he had to get it out before it was lost.

  "Thank you.” Simon bowed graciously. "It is nice to know, even in places such as this, one can still find those who appreciate music."

  "Yes," the woman seemed taken aback, as if praise was something she didn't do often, "the song was truly beautiful."

  "My name is Marcius," the other man, with sloppy muddy brown hair, held out his hand to Simon.

  His companions were obviously not ones to be outdone. "Alicia," the woman said with a nod of greeting.

  "And I am Jared," the blonde man held out his hand after Simon had finished with Marcius.

  "Care for company?" Simon leaned over the table and dropped his voice as if divulging secret information. "I'd rather sit with some people who might carry intelligent conversation, you know, something beyond how many women they bed a'night or how their boss screwed them out of pay."

  The grins he received told him he was welcome, well before they had said it. "Sure, we wouldn't mind the company of a bard. Perhaps you could entertain us with your travels?" Jared said after Simon had sat down.

  Simon's astute eye noticed something that was of far greater importance than their immediate questions. "What is this? Your cups are empty! This simply will not do!" Before they could protest, Simon turned around in his chair toward the bar. "Hey Barry, a round of beers for this table!" turning back around, he was awarded with a shocked look on three faces. He merely winked. They didn't know how profitable the work had been this morning for him. "Don't worry, it's my treat."

  "Thanks for the show of kindness," the woman said before regarding him critically, "I'm afraid I didn't catch a name, master bard?" Alicia asked, sitting back in her chair.

  Simon chuckled. “My name's Simon and I'm not a bard."

  Jared didn't seem to believe him, shooting him a shrewd look. "Come now. . . uh. . . Simon, you're trying to tell me you play like that without any training?"

  "Yeah. . . come on. You were brilliant up there," Marcius chimed in meekly.

  "I never said I never had training. I just don't consider myself a bard, that is all."

  "Well, then, what do you consider yourself?" Alicia raised her eyebrow questionably, a coy smile gracing her lips.

  Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Well, if I had to pigeonhole myself as anything, it'd probably be a priest. I do a bit of everything." He had to resist the temptation to wink at her in regards to the last statement. He doubted such a woman responded to such crass flirting, though he made a mental note of that pick-up line for future use. You never know when such things might come in handy.

  The looks of surprise he received at the proclamation were genuine, if a bit suspicious. "You're kidding me," Jared said, leaning over the table towards Simon. "What priest would sing songs like that?" The blonde man pointed at a table that was still singing, rather badly by Simon's experienced ear, the words to the "Man with a Hundred Hands and a Thousand Wives".

  Hey, was it his fault that it was such a catchy ditty? Simon’s professional side grimaced anyway. There was a point where enthusiasm was overridden by drunkenness.

  "I would agree," Alicia piped in, redirecting Simon's attention back to the conversation. He liked her lips, they were nice and pink, and they looked soft to the touch.

  He should probably correct their views. Simon sighed, forcing his mind once again to the conversation, though he hated the amount of explanation whenever someone asked him what he did. Why couldn't he just agree with their initial assumptions? He'd done it often enough to other people to not feel guilty over lying. It'd be so much easier, but some annoying itch within him prevented that simple route. He felt that he should at least be honest with them.

  Simon chalked it up on being in service of a god. Inspiration or something like that. Yeah, that sounded plausible. Perhaps this was his purpose? Simon found the idea of his fate predefined as positively frightening.

  "Now wait a mom—" Simon's half-hearted protests were cut off by the immense presence of Barry, the barkeep holding a tray heavy with beer. The big man looked back and forth between Simon and his "friends," as if the two ingredients together were too much for him to fathom.

  "Here is yer beer, Simon," Barry said as he gently plopped the mugs down, and then his face took on the face of utmost humility. "I hope yer not done with yer playin' yet?" Simon had to bite back a laugh. It was a turnaround from when Barry was asking him for his rent.

  "Of course no
t, Barry. I'm just taking a bit of a breather. I saw a couple of new faces and I decided to make their acquaintance," Simon finished with an elaborate gesture towards his drinking companions.

  The man's head bobbed with understanding. "Ah, not a problem, Simon. This round's on the house, just 'member to play again. My customers love yer twiddlin's." And I love their money. Simon had to resist the temptation to voice the unsaid addition to Barry's words.

  The whole situation would have been amusing if it wasn't so blatantly obvious, instead it was just kind of sad. No doubt the pockets of Barry would jingle from the efforts of Simon. He could afford to give them several rounds of beer. That scoundrel. "Not a problem, Barry," Simon said with a brief inclination of his head, betraying none of the small flecks of anger that he felt inside.

  Now reassured, the big barkeep left with a noticeable extra bounce to his step. Smiling to hide his annoyance, Simon turned back around to his companions. They seemed to have lapsed back into their self contemplative moods, something which annoyed Simon greatly. "Drink up, my friends. The night is too young for such long faces!" he raised his mug. Jolted from their private musings, they were quick to echo his statement, tapping their own mugs gently against his before taking a deep gulp of beer respectively.

  "So, Simon," Alicia was the first to put down her mug. "What god or goddess do you hold allegiance to? I assume, from your. . . ah. . . 'twiddlin's' it certainly isn't Avalene?" The tone of her voice suggested that she still didn't believe him.

  Setting his mug down, he regarded the distractingly beautiful woman. The alcohol, coupled with the warm tavern, had made her cheeks flush a most exquisitely rosy color. "Well, my lady, I don't recall this being 'question the minstrel night'?"

  "I apologize, I didn't mean—" Simon held up his hands to forestall the protests that were already starting to spill from her mouth.

  "No offense taken, good lady. I'm happy to answer your question. After all, what priest wouldn't like to speak of their god or goddess to those who wish to listen?" He shot her a smile to disarm any resentment to his earlier comment.

  Everybody conceded that point with a nod. He couldn’t put it off any longer. "I follow the teachings of The Broken One," he said, standing up and pushing his chair back to give colorful bow, which he did to hide the slight flush of embarrassment from his statement.

  His habit for the dramatic caused the back of the chair to slap against someone sitting at the table behind him, introducing Simon to a few choice words from the person sitting in it. Well, until the person realized who had bumped into his seat, then the obviously drunk man just raised his mug in toast to Simon, before quaffing the drink, spilling most of it down his front. The man looked down at the spilt beer with groggy disdain, as if it had somehow deliberately slighted him by missing his mouth, before he called for another drink, already completely forgetting Simon's transgression.

  Smiling ruefully, Simon was quick to sit back down and return the man's apathy. He looked sheepishly at his companions, who grinned back.

  "The Broken One. . . " Jared and Alicia's voices trailed off as they tried to place the name.

  Simon waited patiently. His god wasn't someone commonly worshipped, so it came as no big surprise that they didn't immediately recognize it. Hell, most of the temples refused to even recognize the existence of his God. But Simon knew better. The Broken One was as real as the mug in his hand. He knew this because the God had saved his life, and had shown himself to Simon in all his terrible glory and might.

  To see a god was an incredibly humbling experience, one that instilled both fear and love, among a whole gamut of emotions that ran unerringly through his veins like fire. Simon, who up until then had been someone who had never held much stock in religion, instead preferring the more tangible belief in oneself, had groveled like a little child before the all encompassing might of The Broken One.

  Damn it! He had prostrated, wept, writhing his hands together like a nervous wench at the bared power before him. The very memory caused a tick of anger in the recesses of Simon's chest.

  "Oh, come on," the brown haired lad, Marcius was his name if Simon remembered correctly, interjected with a sigh. "You two have never heard of The Broken One? Didn't you guys study your Pantheon?" The numb look they shot back at their friend did much to answer that question for both Marcius and Simon. Simon's respect for the boy grew at the words. He liked intelligent people. They were far more interesting than the general rabble he was forced to wallow with.

  Simon couldn't help but to comment. "Oh? And you know about him, Marcius? Tell me exactly what you think you know, and I will tell you if you are correct. Far too often the few that do know of him are full of preconceptions that are utterly false."

  Taking it as a personal challenge, Marcius assumed the practiced air of a scholar, unconsciously straightening himself as he eyes glazed over with memory of texts read long ago. "Triundral, also known as The Broken One, was the supposed father of the Pantheon. He was wild, capricious, and unpredictable, all symptoms fitting for a God of Chaos. Legends speak of him leveling whole cities in his rage, only to repent his actions and bless the people that so angered him with gifts for generations. Good and evil had no bearing on him. In fact, early scholars speculated that he did things merely for amusement. Eventually, his children, our current gods, rebelled against his rule, unable to take the chaos that followed all he touched. They craved order, and after a mighty battle that shook the heavens, they attained it. Triundral was injured; forever bereft of the use of his arm and eye, and thus became known as The Broken One. He has disappeared since then. Whether or not he is dead, or even if gods can die, is something known only to the gods themselves. Most religions in Faelon choose to strike the existence of him from their records, for such a god could not be followed, for he had no real laws or rules to follow. Most find the mere existence of such an irresponsible god abhorrent." Marcius licked his lips, seeming satisfied with himself as he finished.

  Simon was dumbfounded. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Never before had it been put so. . . so. . . eloquently? Some measure of his astonishment must have passed to Marcius, for his smile just got wider as his apparent success. Letting out a low whistle, Simon searched for a response. "Well, I am impressed!" he said truthfully after a couple of seconds, "Not many know what you have said, and even less could put it so. . . succinctly."

  Marcius's smile reached his ears. "Thanks, Simon. Though I can't really take all the credit. I'm just merely reciting things I have read. Things I have read far too many times!" He gave a dry chuckle at some inner dark humor.

  "Scholar, I take it?"

  "Ah—" Marcius started to respond, before Alicia interjected.

  "Yes," she said, "Marcius and myself are journeying scholars, and Jared is our bodyguard."

  Simon didn't miss the discreet looks exchanged between the three. The sense of something wrong grew stronger; they were hiding something, he could feel it.

  Even if they were scholars, which he believed to be a lie, what would they be doing in the most dilapidated tavern in Harcourt? The more he tumbled such thoughts in his head, the less it made sense. Well, like he always said, when smoke obscured the truth, one merely had to prod the flame.

  "Excuse me for my bluntness, my fair lady, but I don't recall your name as being Marcius," he shot her a disarming smile to soften the reprimand before turning back to Marcius. "Now, Marcius, what is it that you do? Are you a scholar?" Simon put on his most innocent face.

  It was a useless gesture, and Simon knew he had erred when he saw all three jaw lines tighten and the general temperature of the table seemed to drop drastically. The formerly relaxed faces were now guarded and wary.

  "We're going to retire for the night," Alicia said tersely, standing up, "Thanks for the conversation, master bard." Simon didn't even bother to correct her, his mind was too busy racing to find a way to hastily patch up whatever line he had crossed.

  "Oh, please stay for a couple more drinks?
It is awfully lonely here, with just a bunch of working men to talk with," and figuring he should throw them the benefit of the doubt, "It's not often that I get to talk with scholars."

  Jarrod shot him an apologetic smile as he stood up and pushed in his chair, "Sorry, Simon. Alicia's right, we've got to hit the hay. Thanks for the song. May your God watch over you."

  It was only Marcius who stayed at the table with Simon. Both Alicia and Jared shot him puzzled looks. "Marc?" Alicia asked.

  Marcius nodded. "I feel like staying here a bit longer. It'd be nice to relax with some music."

  "Come on, Marc." Jared prodded, "We have an early day tomorrow. It'd be wise to catch a few winks."

  Simon recognized the internal struggle going on within Marcius, and he was wise enough to also see an opportunity when one presented itself. "Come on now, if he wants to stay, let him stay. He's big enough to look after himself, plus I'll be here to watch his back if I am wrong."

  "I don't recall invi—" Alicia began sharply, before being cut off by Jared.

  “It’s alright, Alicia. He's right, Marcius is his own man. G'night to you both," Jared spun on his heel, dragging a protesting Alicia by her arm as he led her up the stairs.

  "Hmmmm. . . " Simon threw Marcius a suggestive eyebrow and a lewd wink, "Wonder what he was in a hurry for?"

  The dusty-haired boy chuckled nervously, dismissing Simon’s thinly veiled innuendo. "It's not what it looks like. It's just that they worry and have a habit of trying to coddle me."

  Simon shot him a disarming grin, “Ah, well. Let us drink then?” he said, pushing a mug toward the man before picking up one for himself. “You’ll stay to chat and hear me play, right?”

  “Of course.”

  And get drunk as you wait. Simon grinned into his cup. It was fortunate for him that it also happened that drunks have loose tongues. There was no mystery that a little beer couldn’t solve.