A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  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 his 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 with 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 journey 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 to 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, the 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 his 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; instinctually 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!

  The scream echoed across the empt
y streets, carrying his laments to those who would hear. The moment seemed to stretch unrestrained before being abruptly cutoff, ended, leaving a vacant silence in its wake. A conclusion had been reached, and with it, a peace that had calmed the inner storm that raged within. The assassin, now sated, calmly stood, water streaming down his face.

  Reaching down, he picked up his mask and leisurely slipped it on his head, the familiar feeling of the fabric across his face. The brief moment of weakness was gone and he was once again in the role he had known all his life. Noiselessly, he turned around and disappeared into the night.

  A cold wind blew.

  Vengeance.

  ❧　❧　❧

  “Hurry up, lad,” the gruff voice called over the sound of the breaking waves. “That sail ain’t gonna trim itself.”

  Marcius bit back several responses, instead reaching up to pull on the sail line. Straining, he managed to reduce most of the slack and tie it off around the pole before collapsing against the railing. The barest hint of an ocean breeze blew across the deck of the ship, cooling the sweat that coated his body. It felt good and the apprentice greedily reveled in the brief respite.

  The last few days had been difficult for the four of them. Simon’s “friend” turned out to be a smuggler, a fact that Marcius didn’t find surprising. He spent the next two days stuffed in a cramped secret compartment on the bottom of a hay cart.

  The road from Harcourt to Yaeren, as if to mock him, had been bumpy and full of rocks.

  Arriving at the coastal town did little to alleviate things. Yaeren was an apathetic and depressing place, beaten and worn by both the ocean weather and poverty. The ensuing hours were spent in intense negotiations with any ship captain they could find, trying desperately to find one that would allow them passage up north. Finally one accepted, but the bandit lord hadn’t given them nearly enough gold to afford such a luxury, so they had to work for the difference. But it got them on a ship, and hopefully, in the clear.

  “Alright, boy,” the gruff voice of Captain Olaff said, breaking Marcius from his trance. “Go help the galley cook downstairs. He needs yer to open up the barrels again fer dinner.”

  Marcius sighed, but nodded anyway. “Alright, Captain.”

  Olaff chuckled, the situation now closed, and turned back toward his maps. Now no longer the focal point of the captain’s attention, Marcius plodded his way toward the deck door that lead to the galley. He ignored the stares of the crew; he was beyond caring at their opinions of him. It wasn’t like he had a chance at breaking into the brotherhood that naturally formed when men risked their lives together day in and day out. He doubted that his current performance did much to change the sea-hardened crew’s opinion of him.

  As he reached the door, he found his mind wandering. Marcius was no stranger to the labor of the sea, being a trader that had lived in a port town, but it was one thing to be in charge and another to be the one being told what to do. It was a sharp culture shock for the ex-trade prince.

  He wished that he had a spell that would help him with such manual labor, but his Master had died before such a thing could be researched or practiced. Marcius did allow a brief smile to ghost on his lips at the thought of the dwarf reacting to such a request.

  But the memory turned sour as he remembered his Master. Whoever had attacked his father and Master had taken everything from him, and he was determined to find them. . . and do what exactly? Kill them? Punish them? Bring them to justice?

  Do not worry, Marc. We will find these people and they shall pay for taking our loved ones away.

  The apprentice sent the familiar a flare of gratitude, but inwardly felt himself a bit disturbed at the notion. He hated these mysterious people and what they did to his life, but was it enough to kill them?

  It was a question he had been wrestling with since they left. All he wanted was a simple life and to be left alone to his magic. Nothing made him happier than delving into the nether, using the Kra’nael to shape and form it to his will, and then seeing the tangible results of his efforts. It was thanks to magic that he met Faerill. The tiny familiar was the final piece to his puzzle. There was no comparison to someone that understood your every thought, felt your emotions, and was literally a piece of your soul.

  And yet, he felt as if he owed his Master and father, to get back at their attackers. He wasn’t very comfortable with the notion of revenge, but they were his family. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would do when he found these attackers, but he would find them.

  He didn’t consider himself much, but he was, above all, fiercely loyal. He would go to the Academy and use them to become powerful enough to find the ones responsible. Until then, it was a question that would be unanswered, though he dreaded the moment.

  Marcius was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t see Alicia as he rounded the corner and found himself with an armful of woman. He recoiled as if she had been on fire. “Oh, Marcius. . . ” she said nervously, ignoring his reaction, “I didn’t see you there.”

  Is Alicia alright? She seems. . . different than before, Faerill asked, using their link to see through Marcius’s eyes.

  That was kind of obvious, considering the normally volatile Mage didn’t rip his head off. He raised his eye critically at her. She did seem flushed, but paler than usual, and very distracted. Her clothing was disheveled and out of place, something very much unlike her.

  Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen her much of the time he had been on the ship. He knew that sailors, as superstitious as they were, didn’t allow women to work on a ship. It was bad luck. But she seemed to be avoiding everyone, which was definitely out of character.

  The more Marcius tossed it around, the more of a sneaking suspicion began to form in the back of his mind. “Alicia?” he said, the vestiges of a smile tugging the sides of his lips, “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were seasick.”

  For a few seconds, the Alicia he knew flashed in her glare. “I don’t know what you are talking about!” Marcius might have taken her a bit more seriously if she didn’t also chose that moment to rush past him, her hand over her mouth, looking paler than ever.

  So that was why she insisted going by land to Aralene from Rhensford! It took the threat of death to get her to go along with a sea route! The notion had Marcius laughing out loud for the first time in a very long time. It was a balm his psyche needed.

  Disgusting. Alicia is throwing green chunks all over the side of the ship. It is quite the sight. Do you want me to use our shared sight to see, Marc?

  I’ll pass, Faerill.

  Shaking his head, he continued down the hallway, ignoring the creaks and groans of the ship. “Heya, Marc! How nice of you to join us!” Simon said as Marcius walked into the galley. The bard and Jared had been here most of the day, peeling potatoes and generally helping the cook out.

  Marcius flashed the bard a half-hearted smile. “Well, I figure you two could use some help. It was taking too long.”

  The cook, a large, graying man, pointed a grubby thumb to the back, and Marcius nodded, taking the hint. No further words were exchanged, but none were needed. There was that comforting silence between the three of them, the stillness of a moment where all the grievances were passed and the knowledge that they were in it together made it not so bad.

  The barrels were large, easily half as tall as a man and half dozen hands wide. The top was a thick piece of wood, perfectly shaped and measured to fit snug within the entrance, and then soaked in water. This ensured expansion and an airtight seal, but proved to be maddening to remove after being set.

  Marcius’s hands, torn and sore from the day’s work, wrapped themselves around the rope that served as a handle. There was brief moment that the apprentice took to compose his body, and then he yanked with everything he had, muscles bulging. He ignored the sharp line of fire that lanced up his fingers and hands, and was rewarded with the gradual nudge of the top loosening. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore, but cont
inued to pull. A part of him wondered if his beaten hands were bleeding yet.

  With a large suction pop, the top came off in his hands, almost causing Marcius to lose his balance. Gingerly, he let go of the lid, his fingers white and throbbing, protesting every movement. But he didn’t have time to complain, instead reaching in to grab the pieces of salted pork, which he threw in a large kettle.

  The work after was monotonous, but not too physically demanding compared to the early part of the day. Eventually it was time for dinner and the three of them (Alicia hadn’t shown up,) along with the rest of the crew, sat to a quiet meal. It had the stillness that only working men, weary with a tiring day of labor, could manage. Marcius was glad for it, and he mentally counted down the days until they were supposed to have landfall.

  I am enjoying myself! You just need to sun yourself more! Faerill interjected the thought, no doubt trying to comfort, in his own weird way.

  Marcius didn’t bother trying to correct the familiar, instead turning in his dishes to Jared, since it was the swordsman’s turn to wash today, and wearily plodding his way to his bunk, which was shared with Simon. The bard wasn’t in, which was a blessing because Marcius wasn’t in the mood to deal with the talkative man tonight. With a sigh, he flopped himself on the hay filled mattress. It was the most blissfully pleasant moment of the day, and it didn’t take long for sleep to creep up on him.

  ❧　❧　❧

  Marcius’s eyes snapped open, the still of the night broken only by the gentle slapping of waves against the ship and the snores of his sleeping bunkmate. But something kept him awake, and as his mind cleared the fog of sleep, another shroud took its place; a song began to tap in his head.

  There was a pull in the air, something calling him forward, like a siren that silently beckoned with promises of pleasures untold. The noiseless melody grabbed and his feet were powerless to resist. He swung himself out of bed, ignoring the complaints of his sore muscles, following the noiseless beat. The ship was dark, but he followed unerringly, an unwilling passenger within the vehicle of his own body.