Again he tried to call to them; his limbs were so numb by now and again a low sound erupted from his frozen lips. The whispering grew more fevered. Like an eye, the light now cast out into the darkness in a sweeping motion, searching for the source of the sound.
Marcius let loose a sigh of relief when the light came to rest on his beleaguered form.
“By the Gods, is that a person?” the gentle voice called out in amazement, “We have to help him!”
“Careful, might be one of their traps. They’re clever like that,” again the gruff one interjected.
“Nonsense, Torbad. We would be lower than rats if we left this person out in this cold. Come, we’ll just set up camp near here.”
“Bah, you’re too soft. I don’t like it. We’re still too close to the forest.”
“Torbad, do as he says. Start breaking down, I’ll help David with this fellow,” Marcius finally heard the third voice, a quiet one used to having his orders followed. There was a grunt and a grumble, but the movement could be heard leading away. The light moved closer, causing Marcius to shut his eyes.
There was a brief shuffling and suddenly two pairs of strong arms were grabbing under his pits and legs, lifting him easily as the gentle glow of a fire could be seen flickering into life a dozen yards away. Marcius couldn’t get a good look at his rescuers, catching brief glimpses of metal, leather, and skin here and there between the dancing of the lantern light.
“So, got a name?” the one who he identified as David asked, grunting a bit.
“M-m-Mar-Marcius.” He couldn’t stop shivering.
“Marcius, huh? Well, it’s nice to. . . by Avalene’s mercy, Lenard, he has the shakes!”
“I felt that. Let us hurry up and get him undressed and into something warmer or it’ll be the death of him.”
They gently set Marcius down in range of the fire and finally something clicked. The crisp efficient way they moved and the speed at which the camp was set up should have given away that these men were from the military. Only now, bathed in the orange glow of the fire, could Marcius see the weapons they wore, along with armor, which showed signs of recent use. Emblazoned on upper right area of their chest plates was the Morlian three-headed lion.
What were soldiers of the Morlian army doing on a desolate shore? The question was one Marcius had to leave unanswered as the spasms rocking his body only got worse. David, blowing a blonde strand of hair away from his face, started pulling off Marcius’s wet clothing, ignoring the sickening squelches they made. He worked with single-minded ruthlessness, and before long, Marcius was unclothed in all his glory.
Marcius figured he should be embarrassed, but he wasn’t in any condition to do anything. The third man, Lenard, threw over a fur blanket that David caught without even looking back. “Alright, we have to warm you up,” he said, wrapping the blanket around Marcius. “You were at Dryken’s door there, lad. Hey, Lenard, make something warm for him will yo-“
David was cut off by a tin mug being thrust in his face. “Way ahead of you.” Gentle bits of steam wafted off it alluringly. The man took the proffered drink and held it up to Marcius, now snugly wrapped up, gently easing the apprentice’s fingers around the cup. He would have dropped it without assistance. The first sip was tentative, but the liquid was warm and tangy, blazing a trail of heat down his throat that erupted into a sunburst in his stomach that drove the shivers back to the recesses they came from.
“Thanks,” Marcius said after a few minutes passed. His voice sounded alien in his head, “What is it?”
“Ialre tea. Straight from my mother’s garden,” Lenard responded.
Marcius never heard of such a brew, but nodded his head in thanks anyway. He took another sip, delighting in the taste and the way is seemed to spread through his body. “I owe you all. Thank you.”
“You’re lucky we got here when we did,” David said, his brown eyes serious as he plopped down, unbuckling his armor with a slight sigh of relief, “Any longer and the shivers would have gotten hold of you and the damage might have been permanent.”
Minutes passed in silence, just the gentle crackle of the fire to fill the air, along with the sound of rolling waves. Marcius was pleased that warmth had crept back into his extremities and that the shaking was now manageable.
“Care to tell us what’re you doing out here?” Torbad broke the silence as he threw in another stick into the fire. The man’s distrust was evident in the coal black eyes that hid behind a curtain of stringy filthy brown hair.
Marcius considered the question, and the hypocrisy was blaringly evident. What were they doing out here? His thoughts flickered back to Faerill and his friends, and he made a decision. He would continue on his path, maybe it was all for naught, because if he had lost his familiar. . . Well, the thought was too unbearable to even fathom. Faerill was more than just a familiar, more than just a conduit for his nether manipulation. The tiny wyvrr was a constant friend that shared a bond that could never be replicated.
Marcius tried to remember the events that led him here, but couldn’t. His mind was like a flock of birds, diving and weaving, diverging off course. The best he could remember was falling off the ship, though the events that led him there, in that predicament, were frustratingly vague.
Again, he searched his mind, looking for the familiar ball of consciousness that had resided in his head. He forced himself calm down, trying to fight off the vestiges of panic that had caused him to give up in the first place. After several heart dropping moments, he located the faintest wisps of what reminded him of his familiar. It was too weak to contact though their emphatic link. Was it enough to guarantee that the familiar was alive? He wasn’t sure, and if the familiar was alive, it wouldn’t remain that way long, since Faerill needed blood from Marcius to survive. He had three months to find his familiar; he remembered that much from his training.
Still, the discovery gave Marcius hope. “Boy, did you hear me?” Torbad barked, breaking Marcius from his thoughts.
“Oh, I fell off my ship during a storm.” The excuse was weak, but Marcius just had the feeling that normal everyday people wouldn’t appreciate his trade, and he was still a bit shocked at his discovery. Still they seemed to buy it. “What about you three?”
“We’re soldiers, lad, can’t you see?” said David, throwing Marcius a smile that had the apprentice smiling back, albeit weakly.
“We “were” soldiers, you mean,” Torbad spit, still eying Marcius with suspicion.
“Torbad. . . ” Lenard said, his quiet voice managing to carry an implicit threat.
Marcius studied the three of them, finally really looking at the trio. Their armor was worn, having seen obvious use, yet professional soldiers from Morlian never did such a thing, at least according to the stories he read. That would indicate that they didn’t have time to clean their gear. The apprentice finally took in their appearances, about how haggard they looked, how the darkest shadows sank into the pits of their eyes, and yet they were in constant state of alert.
“You’re deserters,” he said, just as surprised to reach the conclusion as he was to say it out loud.
The look of astonishment, which was quickly replaced by fear and distrust, even from David, was all the confirmation he needed. “Now, that’s a bit of a stretch-" David began, before going silent as Lenard raised his hand.
“No sense in lying to the boy, David. He got it right. Smart lad. We,” and he gestured to the three of them, “are the only survivors of an ambush.”
Marcius gasped. “What happened?”
This time it was Torbad that answered, his voice grave. “Elves, that’s what happened, boy.”
Yes, Marcius thought, rumors of the beginning war between Morlia and the Selenthia elves had indeed trickled down to the Rhenford. Still he had a difficult time imagining the normally aloof elves fighting, though he could admit his own experience with elves was rather limited to just Ken and brief blurbs in Antaigne’s books.
The disbelief m
ust have been evident in his actions. “You ever dealt with elves before?” David asked.
“I’m from Lorinia. I’ve seen them around.”
There was a sharp bit of derisive laughter from the three soldiers, “Well, boy, let me tell you that’s a bit different than what we’re talking ‘bout. What little bit you’ve seen is nothing compared the Selenthia elves. Nor have you ever seen them fight,” Lenard paused, collecting his thoughts as he stared into the fire.
“It’s something else. They aren’t mortal, at least in the sense of you and me. I’ve seen my share of bloodshed and battle, lad. Trust me when I say that nothing a human can do can compare to what elves are capable of. Beautiful they are, but don’t let that fool you. Killers they be.” The man’s eyes glazed over, as if he was looking at something distant.
“We spend our time marveling their beauty and fail to notice how dangerous they really are. The elves tore apart our scouting party. It wasn’t even a battle. It was slaughter. They butchered us and it was only through the grace of the Goddess herself that the three of us managed to escape. Call me a coward if you want, but I never want to see an elf again, for as long as I live.”
The other two grunted their agreement. Marcius didn’t know what to say, the darkness in the soldier’s eyes attested that they at least believed their words. It occurred to him just how little he really knew about the world. He allowed his thoughts to settle on the fight at the inn. Jared, as far as Marcius knew, never killed a human before. Yet the swordsman did so quickly and efficiently, defending the three of them against those assassins. Alicia was, well, Alicia. He still didn’t know her that well and had no clue as to her past, but she was always in the right place, doing the right thing, at the right time.
What did Marcius do? He only barely managed to not get skewered, while flailing around like a headless drake. He hated being useless, and yet he was afraid of it all. Even his willingness to die, to freeze to death only a half hour earlier, was just him running away from the problems life threw at him. When push came to shove, he just wasn’t up to it. He was disgusted with himself. He continuously left everyone down. Marcius just wanted to be left alone to do magic, and yet it seemed as if everything was conspiring to get in his way.
“Here, boy, eat up. It’s not much, but it’ll tide you over before morning comes and we can scrounge up something more. We’ll look at your head after you’re done eating. You had a close call.” David held a hard looking biscuit in front of Marcius’s face.
“I have a name, you know,” Marcius murmured, his heart heavy, but accepted the food anyway. His stomach grumbled its approval.
“I’m sorry, Marcius was it? Where are my manners, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. I’m David, that quiet man over there is Lenard, and that oggron disguised as a man over there is Torbad.”
“I gathered as much,” Marcius said softly, a heavy silence extending over the four of them.
There was a sound of something off in the forest, a branch perhaps, or the crinkling of leaves. The change in the soldiers was immediate. Their eyes became sharp and their hands went to their weapons as they stood. Marcius, his heart pounding, peered in the inky blackness beyond the campfire. He saw nothing but the shuddering shadows cast by the flames.
Still the soldiers stood silent, their eyes scanning for something, anything, in the distance. The moment extended, and Marcius was just beginning to believe that it was nothing, when there was a dull sound, like someone getting punched in the chest.
Torbad screamed.
Marcius had just enough time to see the shaft of an arrow jutting out of Torbad’s arm when the fire went dark and a shadow came flitting into the camp. There were curses and the unsheathing of weapons. Marcius, half falling from his seated position, scrambled for the lamp, which lay forgotten at his feet. His fingers stung as he fumbled to open the hooded latch. Finally, there was a click and it swung open, casting a beam of light that illuminated the scene before him.
Torbad was out of commission, either dead or dying, the ground beneath him soaked in blood. The remaining three paused for the briefest of moments, surprised by the intrusion of light. Time itself seemed to slow down as Marcius’s vision came fully into focus, painting a picture that would forever be burned in his mind’s eye.
Long, wispy, almost white hair cascaded around the face, framing it fully and accentuating the nearly alabaster flawless skin. She was sinuous and frail, but carried herself with a confidence that intrigued Marcius. Her lips, though tightly set, seemed inviting. As he moved closer, a pair of the most exotic, vibrant green eyes Marcius had ever seen captured his attention, drawing him in. It took a conscious effort to wrest his gaze from her face and then his focus shifted to her ears and he gasped.
An elf!
Then the moment shattered as the two soldiers exploded into action, taking vicious swipes that had Marcius wincing. Except that the elf was no longer there. Marcius’s heart pounded in his chest and he momentarily stopped breathing as the blows that should have connected missed by a hair each time. Her agility was inhuman. It wasn’t so much that she dodged, but she merely moved to where the swords were not.
The two soldiers were veterans and covered each other well. Where one left an opening, the other was there to pick up the slack. The ringing of metal filled the air and hope filled Marcius. They were pushing her back, making her give ground.
But then the elven warrior parried a blow, and with unnatural speed, the thin sword flashed. David staggered back, clutching his side. The elf didn’t stop her momentum, twisting under Lenard’s attempt to come to his friend’s aid, and coming underneath a surprised David. Up came the palm, slamming into his nose, and as the soldier’s head flew back the sword tore out his throat.
The elf rolled to the side reflexively as Lenard’s blade came down to where she had been less than a second before. She used her hand mid-roll to vault up to a crouching position. Lenard didn’t pause, doing a half-hearted swipe that was merely designed to get him close to her as he attempted to use his superior size to overwhelm her.
Instead of dancing back like he expected, she stepped inside his reach, grabbing his arm and pulling hard, throwing him off balance and causing him to lurch forward. The sword exploded from Lenard’s back. The look of surprise on the soldier’s face turned to one of grudging acceptance. With a savage yank and push, the sword came free and she let the soldier fall to the ground.
She turned to Marcius and reality of his situation battered him. It was like a bucket of cold water on his face. Everything had happened so fast! There was a groan from Torbad, and the brief flare of hope in Marcius was crushed as, without breaking stride, she silenced the fallen soldier with a single thrust. Out came the sword from the corpse, and she continued toward him, the blade dripping with the blood of the men that had saved him. Marcius screamed in terror, trying to stand up, to run, but his legs wouldn’t move!
He didn’t want to die! No, not like this!
Desperation called to something in him and his vision glazed over with the familiar glow of the nether. But instead of the normal comforting wave, this was bright, vibrant, and full of energy, a veritable river of nether, crashing against the recesses of his mind. If the normal power he wielded was a trusty flame, then this was the sun itself.
What was going on? He did not have his familiar nearby. He should not be able to do this.
No words formed the spell, no archaic signs to the guide the energies. It was primal in the rawest form, laid bare, roaring through his body and pounding through his veins.
He felt calm and collected, though he sat within the eye of a raging storm. It was as if his mind had settled and knew what it had to do. Marcius just had to go along for the ride. The power demanded freedom, straining against its mortal constraints, and he could do little but obey. He pulled it in, tight, like a bowstring begging for release.
Then he pointed at the elf and the flood came, bursting forth, washing away everything in its path.
<
br /> An explosion rocked the campsite, sending dust and debris shooting into the air, only for it to fall down like Faelon itself was crying. He stared at his hand, amazed at what he had done. But the power was leaving him as quickly as it came, slipping through his grasp like water as his vision returned to normal. What had he done? Well, it was magic, he knew that. It was a certainty that Faerill was still alive. But this was different than anything he ever known about magic. What had he done? He needed to get to the Academy.
What about the soldiers that had died? Marcius swallowed thickly, sorrow filling his gut. They didn’t deserve this. They were nice people who helped him out. He could still see the expression on their faces when the life left them, and he just took the life of another being. He shuddered involuntarily, feeling sick. Bile rose in his throat and he threw up.
He was wiping his mouth when a sound in the dust cloud grabbed his attention. No way! She couldn’t have survived! And yet, as the dust settled, there she was, crouched down, battered, but still alive. Somehow the elf warrior had dodged the spell. She was looking at him with those vivid emerald eyes, widened in surprise. It occurred to him that she was really beautiful. What a silly thought considering she was now going to kill him.
Strength had left Marcius. It was a struggle to keep sitting upright and he was helpless as the elven warrior cautiously walked up to him. He dropped the lantern in fear, the small device rolling on its side, still stubbornly casting light to barely illuminate the area. She lifted her sword and Marcius closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. He heard the sound of metal to scabbard and cautiously opened a single eye, tensing himself in case he was wrong.
No, it was as he heard. She was gazing down at him and seemed at a loss of what to do. “Human,” her voice had just the slightest exotic lilt of an accent, “are you capable of walking?”
Marcius gave an honest effort to stand, but found he couldn’t. It was like every last bit of energy in his body had been sucked dry, either by the magic or by his near suicidal brush with death. He shook his head. The elf hooked her hand under his arm and hoisted Marcius easily, as if there was nothing to it. She led him slowly, blindly, to the forest edge, beyond the lanterns glow, then pinned him roughly face first against a tree.
A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Page 32