A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Read online

  "I apologize about that. She just sort of showed up. Would have been rude to turn her away. Somehow she had known we had connections to the dwarf. I only meant to deliver a message from Master Antaigne. He says, ‘Here’s the list o' ingredients. Also, ye didn't leave yer homework fer me te check. I will be expecting ye in a few days.’" Lian smiled at his reenactment of the surly dwarf and handed Marcius a scroll bearing a simple red wax seal. Marcius mentally smacked himself, the scrolls he had stayed up most of the night to complete were still in his pack, and they had been essays he was to write about magical theory. No doubt the dwarf would punish him later for forgetting them.

  Mistress Minerva cleared her throat, causing Marcius to jump in surprise. He had forgotten she was there! The old lady was wearing an amused smile, "I trust that you'll heed my words, Lian. Also don't worry about Antaigne Steelbrow. He's been a resourceful one ever since I had known him. I'll be taking my leave now, may Avalene watch over you, Lian and Marcius Realure." At that she shuffled herself over to the open door, taking care to shut it behind her before Lian could pay his respects.

  "Well that was interesting, Father. Next time warn me when you have such nice people as guests." Marcius ran a thin fingered hand through his dull brown hair, still in disarray from the long trip.

  Lian gave a great belly rumbling laugh, reaching behind the desk he pulled out a bottle of rum. Taking out two glasses, he poured one for himself first, and then his son. Marcius gingerly accepted the glass as the sailor merchant leaned against his desk. "Truth be told, Son, I didn't expect either of them today. Minerva is a wily old cat, but good hearted. She was an old acquaintance of both mine and Antaigne, one whom I have learned to respect and I suggest you do the same. Now that Mage," Lian spat the word out with the vehemence of a curse, "was quite the catch, eh? I saw the way you were looking. No doubt many a man panted after her before."

  "Perhaps, Father, but if only her personality matched her physical charms. She's uglier than any street wench in those terms!" Marcius found the comparison strangely amusing and spent the next few seconds entertaining the notion of a cross between Minerva and the Mage.

  This elicited another belly wrenching laugh from his father, who drank the remainder of his glass in a single gulp while Marcius sipped at his. It was a rather harsher version than what his palate was used to. "Aye, Son! If there is anything I pride myself in, it's a son that I've raised to think more with head and less with his loins! Now, tell me what exactly you're doing back so early from Master Antaigne's place."

  Marcius outlined the entire encounter, leaving no detail unsaid, including the proposition put forth by the dwarf. He concluded the story from when he left the wizard snoozing in his cottage. "Ah, I knew this was going to happen, Marc." Lian gave a sigh, "Do you want to be a wizard? Though I started the training, I want you to know you could end it anytime you want. And have you considered all the complications that it entails?"

  "Well, Father, no doubt there are things I have not considered," Marcius took a deep breath, "but I can't really see myself following your ways. I feel as if I need to aspire to be something more than a merchant, something not mundane as a typical trade skill. I want to see the world at some point, to see with my own eyes that which I have only read about. I really enjoy the time I spend with Antaigne, despite his habit of using his staff as a means of teaching. And magic is as interesting to me as managing a ship is for you." Lian gave a whimsical smile, the one he always gave when Marcius spoke of that. His eyes would always haze and become unfocused, as if he was reliving something.

  "Ah speaking of staff, I almost forgot this. . . " Lian shook himself back to the present and bent over to pull out his walking stick. Before Marcius could react, there was a new bump on his head.

  Marcius jumped up to his feet in indignation. "Hey! What was that for-. . . lemme guess, Master Antaigne told you to give me a smart rap on the head for leaving so fast?"

  "Aye, and what Master Antaigne says, it is best to do!" Lian chuckled and clapped his son on the shoulder, guiding him to the door. "Well, I have faith in you. I give you my blessing in this matter. Just carve a path for yourself, whatever the road that you decide, and I will be proud. Now, excuse me, I’ve the figures to this season’s shipment to work out." He indicated his desk, which was full of reports. The look in his eye indicated, however, the reports were the last thing on his mind.

  Giving his father an awkward hug, Marcius excused himself, shutting the door gently as to not disturb the now busy merchant. Rubbing throbbing lump on his head, Marcius gave a slight grimace as he made his way to his room.

  The hallway was dimly lit, and the curtains were drawn about the windows. Marcius had to feel his way around his room until he happened upon the half-used candle that made its home on his dresser. Fumbling, he lit it with a simple can-trip and set it down.

  First order of business was to change his clothing. He realized halfway through changing that he still had Antaigne's scroll clenched firmly in his hands. After he set it down on the dresser, he decided to hazard a glance behind the curtains. The midday sun practically blinded his sleep deprived eyes. With a sigh, he wrote a note asking Lars to wake him up early in the morning and stuck it on a peg next to the outside of his door. Yawning, he puffed out the candle and flopped down in his bed. It took very little time for sleep to claim him.

  ❧　❧　❧

  A dark shape chased Marcius down a narrow corridor, and he could feel the shaking under his feet as it closed in. The searing heat of flames scorched his cloak as he rounded a corner, just scarcely ahead of the labored breathing of the creature as it threatened to overcome him.

  The shaking was closer now and he could hear the scrapping of sharp claws on the worn stone floor. Marcius dodged between two pillars, but the ground gave a violent shudder, knocking Marcius off his feet. He found himself staring at a temple statue of the goddess Avalene, and her stone eyes bored into him, as if asking for help. He reached up toward her face, but as if in response, the statue shattered into a thousand pieces, blasting him with dust.

  The statue’s head landed in front of him, rolling over to stare into Marcius's eyes. In the settling dust, the creature roared. Marcius could make out a deadly mouth full of bristling ivory teeth, and ridges framing cold reptilian eyes. A muscular scaled arm came into view, sporting a hand with razor claws that gripped the side of the statue's base, the fingers flexing as the emerald green eyes scrutinized the now prone Marcius. The rest of the form came into view, scales the color of bronze lined the body like sturdy chain mail.

  Unlike the drawings he had seen in books, this creature had no wings. Though it looked far more agile, far more real than the drawings. There was dignity here, and Marcius watched the tail whip back and forth. He was unable to do anything, barely daring to breath.

  So this is how I will die, he thought. Strangely, considering the circumstances, he found himself comparing the beast to a cat ready to pounce, which would make him the mouse.

  Surprisingly fast for something so big, the dragon was above him, its talons gripping his shoulders tenderly. Its mouth opened up and Marcius could see bursts of flame flickering within the depths of its throat, preparing to roast the flesh from his bones. "Get up Master Marcius!" the dragon hissed. Marcius blinked.

  What?

  "Get up, Master Marcius!" the green eyes bored into his, voice barely a whisper. Thin trails of smoke escaped the flaring nostrils with every word. The beast started to shake him. Marcius felt his bones being jarred in his body. It was reaching the point where his physical form wouldn't be able to withstand it much longer.

  "Master!"

  Marcius opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed in the room and Lars was an outline above him. His mouth was dry and a rather unpleasing taste was present. Overall, it wasn't one of his better mornings, and the presence of Lars shaking him did little to rectify that. "Alright, Lars, I'm up. Now get off me!" The butler bowed and hurriedly exited the room, not wanting to be around someo
ne who had just woken up so irritable.

  Yawning, Marcius stood up and picked up the scroll from the dresser, rubbing his eyes to clear the last vestiges of sleep from them as he broke the wax seal and unfurled the paper. He recognized the neat, overly inked handwriting belonging to Antaigne. As Marcius skimmed the list, it became apparent he should make a basic plan of action for the next day or two.

  He glanced outside. It looked to be about noon, judging by the position of sun, so he was already behind. He also made a mental note to talk to Lars about the definition of the term 'wake me up early.'

  #2 vial of sacred ash

  3 phoenix plumes

  Gryphon tears

  A vial of Minotaur blood

  Several cut logs of wood

  Half dozen crab apples

  2 jugs of dwarfish stout

  A host

  A clove of Ministera

  Root of Fortune's Bane

  P.S. If you be having a hard time with finding the materials, look for the elf on Cobble Street. I hear he deals a bit with such things, despite your town's habit for being stupid.

  Marcius read the note several times, still not totally believing it. There was someone within the town that had magical ingredients? It boggled the mind. Even more so when one factored in the prejudice that magic generally had, especially around this town. He ran through a mental list and believed he knew where he could get everything else.

  He used the hot bath Lars prepared as a reprieve from all the heavy thoughts and self doubts he had concerning this magic business. Marcius stayed in until the water had lost its warmth, and he shivered as he scampered over to the dresser.

  Marcius threw on a dark pair of trousers, rummaging around until he located his favorite red silk shirt. He finished it all off with his black traveling cloak. Looking in the mirror he saw a lanky youth with gray eyes, his muddy brown hair was in customary defiant manner. He tried to imagine himself in wizard robes. With a derisive grin he made his way downstairs.

  Clarissa was already up, as usual, and this time a piping hot slice of venison with a dash of gravy and herbs awaited him. The enticing smell already playing havoc with his stomach. There were fresh rolls on the table as well, accompanied by a cool pitcher of grape wine. Pouring himself a glass, Marcius sat down to eat.

  "A've Master Marc!" Clarissa said in their customary greeting, "Someone came to see you during your slumber."

  "Oh?" He couldn’t think of anyone that would want to see him so early.

  "She was a most pretty young thing. She asked to speak specifically to you. When shall I make the wedding cake?" Clarissa teased, a demure smile played across her face.

  Marcius sighed, "Truth be told Clarissa, if it is who I think it is, her personality does not match her looks.

  Clarissa frowned, but didn’t say anything else. It was one of those meals that one wished lasted longer, but before long he was mopping up the last of the gravy with a bread roll. He thought about how he’d managed to stay alive before Clarissa started cooking at the household. He decided it wasn't a very pleasant thought. Lars was a good butler, but a terrible cook.

  "Well, she did leave a note, Master. I received her, since Lars was waking a certain grumpy person up." The tall butler happened to be walking by, and at the mention of his name, he came in and gave a flashy bow. He also quickly sampled the venison that was cooling on the counter, drawing a frown from the cook. With a slight bow that indicated he wasn't sorry at all, he beat a hasty retreat before Clarissa could react. "Well! I swear the older he gets, the fewer manners he has!"

  Laughing, Marcius stood up. "Note?" he inquired as he wiped the food from his lips with the back of his hand. Clarissa absently reached in the folds of her dress and pulled out a lavender slip of paper. Handing it to Marcius, she continued to fuss over the supposedly ruined haunch of venison. He unfolded the paper carefully, and he couldn't help but notice a familiar perfume scent, his knees wobbling at the memories it induced.

  Master Marcius,

  I apologize for the rude behavior, I was tired from a rather long journey and my temper was a bit frayed. I am staying at the Dragon's Roost Inn, please stop by, as there are a few questions I wish to ask of you. I mean your Master no harm. I hope we can reach a conclusion that is beneficial for both of us.

  Signed respectively,

  Mage Lady Alicia Wendeline

  He never thought she would be one to apologize, but he was still wary. Maybe, just maybe, he impressed her with his social awkwardness to the point where she fell irrevocably in love with him.

  Yeah, that sounded plausible.

  Smiling, Marcius stuffed the note in his pocket and went outside. De decided that he would let Ruby rest today, so he hailed a coach. It was going to be a long day, and things had a knack for piling up when it was most inconvenient.

  ❧　❧　❧

  "What do you mean he isn't in?" Marcius asked, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. He hadn’t even been in town for an hour and was already experiencing setbacks.

  Raggor, the owner of the only dwarven brewery in the town and sole proprietor of the key to the cellar that contained his goal, was off at some bar drinking. "He runs a damn brewery! And you’re trying to tell me he couldn't just drink some of his own wares?!"

  "Sorry lad," the dwarf in charge mumbled. "Raggor has a strict policy ‘bout nev'r mixing business wit’ pleasure."

  "I thought dwarves loved their own brew? ‘Strong enough ter clean dirt I thought the saying went?"

  The dwarf shifted around on pillar-like feet for a moment before leaning over and saying in low voice laced with secrecy, "Aye, just between ye an’ me, me husband has a weak spot fer the human drink!"

  Marcius blinked in surprise, not because of a dwarf liking human drinks, since that wouldn't be too out of place in a town like this. He was more amazed at the fact that this bearded dwarf in front of him, with arms as thick as two of his own, was a she! He realized there were a great many things in the world he was ignorant about, and, more importantly, he needed a drink.

  He asked the dwarf where her husband was, and after a healthy amount of blustering, he managed to wring the name out of her. Fortunately, Marcius knew its location, though he had never physically been to it. He often saw the sheriff or one of his deputies making their way there to break up the fights that spawn from the mixture of sailors and alcohol. It was one of the more popular taverns, after all.

  He thanked her and, after promising several times to never let the other dwarves know Raggor's wandering ways, he was soon walking around the streets in a very roundabout route to the bar.

  Unlike most nobles, he enjoyed the streets of Rhensford. They were vibrant and constantly busy. Vendors of all wares, races, and types littered the streets, offering would-be-buyers everything from minor baubles supposedly blessed to bestow luck, to rare fruits imported from distant lands.

  The whole situation had a sort of skewed beauty to Marcius. So many people, with their own tales and motivations, all mingling together in a cacophony of colors, smells, and sounds to create a rich tapestry of stories. His mood had brightened and before long his feet had carried him to the entrance to the tavern. He didn’t believe it was exactly the best place to hide your love of human alcohol if you were a dwarf, but who was he to judge? With an apathetic shrug, Marcius opened the door and walked in.

  The pervasive smell of sea salt, sweat, and alcohol hung about the air like a blanket and threatened to overwhelm him. He longed for the fresh air outside.

  After he became used to the smell, and his eyes gradually adjusted to the lack of light, he saw that the tavern was little more than a dimly lit room, with several rickety wooden tables that lined the bar. It was smaller than Marcius expected. There was the hushed atmosphere of people drowning their sorrows with the drink, and a familiar seafarer tune was being played from a piano next to the bar.

  The tavern quieted further as the occupants stopped to consider the newcomer, and finding nothing ami
ss, everybody resumed their own devices.

  Marcius didn't see any dwarves around the bar, nor did he see any occupying the tables. Well, why not just start with the obvious and ask the guy behind the bar? The bartender was a burly bald man with a dirty apron and leather breeches. He was pouring a drink when Marcius sidled up to the bar. "What've want?"

  "I'm here looking for a dwarf, goes by the name of Raggor. Have you seen him?"

  "I can't say I have, now're gonna order? If not, get yer ass off the bar. Holdin' up business you is." Marcius looked behind him. There was nobody around.

  "May I talk to the owner of the bar?"

  "Yer looking at 'im." Name's Anthony."

  "Well Anthony, are you sure that you don't remember a dwarf? It is of utmost importance." Marcius was irritated at the cold shoulder the barkeep was giving. It was a struggle to bite off several trite remarks that came to mind.

  "Well, me memory is a bit foggy. Lil' coin would prob'ly clear it up, I thinks." The bartender made a big show of rubbing his head in feigned ignorance. Marcius prided himself in his ability to take a hint and reached into his pouch. Pulling out two silver pieces, he laid them down on the worn bar, but kept his hand covering them.

  "Okay my semi-forgetful friend, the location of the dwarf?"

  "Well rumors say-" A loud noise interrupted their business exchange as a young woman burst into the tavern, her shoulder length black hair disheveled and her round face flushed with terror. She wore a dirty dress that was frayed around the edges, and the petite feet that flashed out from underneath were noticeably bare, as if she had gone straight to the tavern without time for shoes. Everybody was deathly quiet as she rushed to the bar.

  "Father! Help me! Camden is drunk again! He. . . he. . . he thinks. . . I. . . I am cheatin'. . . oh Goddess, there he is!" The bartender encircled his arm around the girl as another form pushed its way into the tavern. It was a very muscular man, Marcius guessed he was a sailor judging by the uniform he wore; numerous tattoos decorated him, making him seem like a painting that had come alive.