A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (12 page)

Jared responded with a
swing of his sword. The sound of metal upon metal could be heard ringing once more. Somewhere, in the back of Jared’s mind, he hoped his friend Marcius was alright and was training just as hard. He’d show them
!
He’d carve his own destiny with this very sword. It was the last cognizant thought before he gave himself fully to the intricate dance of swords.

❧　❧　❧

A certain blonde swordsman wouldn’t have been happy had he known that leagues away, a certain wizard apprentice was lazily lying on his back in the middle of a grassy field. Marcius was woken up at the crack of dawn, but instead of learning magic like he thought he would be doing, Antaigne kept his promise, much to Marcius’s chagrin. They had spent the last three days learning about his familiar.

“
              Wait, what do you mean my
blood
?” Marcius sat up with a jolt when he digested this information. He had been mindlessly listening to the dwarf prattle on for the past hour over the history of familiars and their importance to famous wizards when his ears picked up that minor tidbit.

“
Yeah,” Antaigne sounded annoyed at being interrupted during his lecture “Since a familiar is part of yer soul, in addition ter food, ye need to give it a portion o’ yer blood every three months or so.”

Marcius blanched, his mind going back to the summoning ritual incident. “
Uhhhhhh. . . exactly how
much
do I have to give him?” Faerril was basking on a large rock next to the pair, thoroughly enjoying the midday sun. He seemed to sense Marcius’s stress, turning an idle eye to regard the young man.

“
Oh. . . ’bout a teaspoon or so,” Antaigne paused, his eyes unfocused briefly, “Fanrir says it can vary a bit, but usually ‘round there.”

Marcius let go a breath of relief. At the mention of his master
’s familiar, a question popped into his head. “So. . . ummm. . . master, why can’t Faerril speak to me like Fanrir does to you?”

“
Easy there, lad.” The dwarf chuckled a bit, reaching over he picked a stalk of grass and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. “Yer familiar is like a newborn child. It’s something he’ll learn naturally. Just give ‘em time.”

Marcius nodded numbly. Now that he gave it some thought, he was hoping for
that day to come quickly. He could feel the tingly sensation of the wyvrr’s consciousness, just barely out of reach in the back of his head. He was anxious to see how much he could share with what was quickly shaping up to be his new best friend. At that thought, his mind turned to the subject of Jared Garalan. He felt a bit guilty, as if he somehow betrayed his blonde friend with that thought.

“
All right lad, I think that be enough needless talk fer today. Time fer some hands on experiences, eh?”  The dwarf dusted off his robes. He wore a deep crimson one today, adorned with his trademark plethora of pouches. His equally scarlet hair went unbraided, it was the very image of organized chaos. A bright green pointy hat lay ignored on the ground, next to a plain looking staff.

“
Fanrir, show yerself.” The dwarf’s voice was quiet, tender. Once again, the catlike familiar faded into view, safely hidden within the curly red beard of Antaigne. The fluorescent eyes fell upon Marcius’s and he could have sworn it winked at him. “Time fer a lesson on the real reason familiars be essential fer bein' a wizard.” The dwarf’s tone had the air of someone divulging secret information, his dark brown eyes glanced around warily. Marcius unconsciously shifted himself so he could give Antaigne his full attention.

“
A familiar’s sole contribution ter a wizard is that they allow us ter see inter the nether realm.” The confusion must have been evident on Marcius’s face, because the dwarf elaborated. “Wizards are like artists, and the nether is our canvas. As ye know, spells are created by meshin’ both the energy o’ our bodies and the chaotic energies o’ the nether, then twisting them into the confines of what spell we want. For whatever reason, the only way we are able to see our “canvas” is due ter the unique ability granted by a familiar. Without a familiar, the hand signs, spell components, and incantations we use ter shape the nether would be useless babble. Without ‘em, we would be blind people drawin’ paintin’s.”

Marcius
’s face crinkled up, the explanation had a few apparent loopholes. “Well, what about can-trips? I can do those without a familiar.”

The stout dwarf threw him a grin. “
That’s like askin’ a blind man ter draw a line. Ye don’t need eyes fer that! Can-trips are so simple ye only need the ability ter use magic ter do it. Real spells be much more complicated.” Antaigne gently untangled the familiar from his beard, cupping his hands he held it up to Marcius. “See the eyes? That’s how ye can tell he be lookin’ into the nether.”  They were swirling in the recognizable eclectic patterns of varying colors that Marcius had seen before.

“
Now. . . ” The familiar faded out, seemingly into thin air, Antaigne clapped his hands together for emphasis. “Get ter training.” He flopped down, covering his eyes with his green wizard hat. He crossed his hands on his chest, already snoring.

“
Wait, how can I train when you didn’t tell me what to do?!” Marcius exclaimed, annoyed at the abrupt ending to the session. The dwarf seemingly had already drifted off to sleep, and Marcius knew better than to disturb a sleeping dwarf.

He sighed, dusting himself off, he picked up Faerril. Ignoring the chirp of displeasure the familiar gave him at being disturbed, he set off a bit
to try to do whatever it was that Antaigne had told him to do. He felt very confused, but he figured it was one of the dwarf’s inane training methods at work. Antaigne always preferred to teach by practical example, not by book or theory.

Antaigne watched from the bottom of his hat. All in all, he felt a bit in the wrong at having to do it this way. But the best way for an apprentice to learn how to tap into nether sight was sheer frustration or a similar strong emotion. He figured with how stubborn the boy was, it would be a while before it got to the point where it just “clicked.”

With an inaudible sigh, he shifted into a more comfortable position. He might as well use the time to get a bit of rest. Once the boy discovered how to tap into the powers the f
amiliar granted him, the real training would begin, and Antaigne would get very little time to sit back and relax. Antaigne went through the very same training his apprentice was now doing.

Fortunately, Marcius didn
’t know that and the dwarf was in no hurry to tell him.

❧　❧　❧

To say Marcius was aggravated would have been putting it mildly. It had been five days since Antaigne had given him the leeway to learn nether sight by himself and he had made little to no tangible progress. He still sat on the big rock behind the dwarf’s cabin, grasping for things he wasn’t sure existed.

Marcius reached up to brush away a strand of wet hair out of his eyes; throwing a derisive glance over at the dwarf who was safely out of the rain. A little water wasn
‘t going to stop him, but he couldn’t help but grumble at the fact that Antaigne got to take refuge from the rain from the safety of a stout oak tree, not to mention that it was still early in the morning.

Why the dwarf forced him to train outside in the current weather
conditions he would never know. He gave another small sigh as he closed his eyes, willing away the chill of the morning rain, searching for whatever it was he was supposed to be looking for. Faerril was next to him, the icy cold didn’t seem to affect him at all. Marcius could feel the confusion of the familiar in the back of his head.

Relax Marcius, don
’t let it get to you
.
It was the mantra that had kept him sane the past couple days. He ignored the droplets running off his nose, down the locks of hair, the gentle dissonance of the storm in the background threatening to distract him. He searched his mind, looking for the secret he didn’t know was there, or if it even existed. He had done it a million times over the past days, staying up from dawn till dusk. This time wasn’t any different. He still found nothing.

He hated the rain, it smothered his senses and made everything seem a dull gray color. He hated Antaigne for making him go through all this, and he hated the fact that he was stagnating here for the past couple days. Right now, he found that he hated a lo
t of things. His indignation settled on the only thing that he could take it out on. His familiar.

Come on you damn lizard, do something
!
Marcius made sure to impart all his agitation and discomfort into the message. He imagined it as a tightly packaged ball which was forcibly shoved into the wyvrr’s consciousness. It had the anticipated effect, a feeling of surprise then distress came back to him from the diminutive creature, although a chirp of alarm was the only material physical effect Faerril displayed.

Marcius felt a morbid sense of pleasure at the sight, misery loves company after all. He was aware of the familiar
’s desire to help in the back of his head. Already starting to feel bad for taking it out on the wyvrr, he reached over to gently stroke Faerril’s eye ridges. The wyvrr sighed, arching his back like a cat at Marcius's ministrations. If only you could speak Faerril. . .

Suddenly Marcius
’s eyes lost their vision, causing him to stagger a bit. His mind’s eye overlapped his physical one, and he saw an image of himself as seen by Faerril. It was as if he was looking out of the familiar’s eyes. He could feel acutely how much the familiar wished to help him.

He watched himself struggle with the task the dwarf gave him. He had a tired haggard look in h
is sunken eyes and his shoulders were set in a detached, defeated manner. The normally defiant brown hair of his was matted thickly to his head by the rain, making him look like some wet animal. It was surreal and Marcius felt embarrassed looking at himself in that condition. Suddenly it hit Marcius; he was going about this all wrong!

Faerril thinks in images
!
Grinning, he pictured himself casting a spell, he wrapped up the thought with a sense of pleading and plunged it into Faerril’s mind, it was a bit rougher than he intended. Uncertainty answered him back and, just for a second, Marcius thought perhaps his idea had failed.

Something in his head snapped at that moment, causing Marcius to wince in pain, and then his vision was flooded with colors. It was i
f he was viewing the world from the bottom of a lake, except this water was practically awash with pulsing energy. Every strand of grass, pebble, and tree was saturated in it, a stark relief in his mind. He could see it flowing around objects, ebbing, surging, and then receding. Green, purple, red, among countless other variations filled his eyes.

Is this the nether
?

It was then Marcius realized he had fallen to his knees from shock, his pants were wet, making them uncomfortable, and he was resting his fore
head on the cold grassy ground. It was a sensory overload.

Marcius looked up and practically swooned for his effort. The energy was particularly strong around the dwarf wizard, wrapping around him, swirling lovingly. Each ring that adorned his finger was a
bright pinprick of color, as well as the staff the dwarf always carried. He could see every individual rain drop. A ruthless explosion in his mind’s eye when they hit the ground, it was like being smacked repetitively.

Marcius had collapsed once again, hi
s world was spinning, and he found himself staring at the ground. Somehow he must have cut his head. Blood was trickling from his brow into the corner of his mouth, giving it a coppery aftertaste. Marcius panicked, his body was betraying him. It took all his deliberation to focus his thoughts.

“
Master. . . h-help!” he managed to shriek, between forceful gasps as the world spun around him. His eyes were shut, unable to handle the sheer amount of images bombarding his mind. He was aware of the wyvrr right next to him, letting loose a high pitched call of distress. Faerril kept trying to convey soothing images in an attempt to calm him, but Marcius’s terror stricken mind just cast them away.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him up to his feet. His bo
dy convulsed but the hands held him steadfast, unwavering, despite Marcius’s efforts. “Lad, think fer a moment! Calm down! Breathe! Breathe. . . ”  Antaigne’s voice penetrated the haze, and Marcius grabbed onto it.

Using it to regain control, he focused o
n the slow calm measured tones of the dwarf, and slowly his breathing returned to normal. Marcius kept his eyes closed, wary of what would happen if he opened them again. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

“
Marcius, dismiss yer nether sight,” Antaigne said simply. Marcius’s hands still held the dwarf’s own arms in a steely grip.

“
H-h-how?” Marcius’s voice sounded muffled in his head.

“
Ask Faerril,” came the dwarf’s brusque reply.

Nodding, it should have been obvious, Marcius imparted an imag
e of himself, sitting down, resting to Faerril. He encased it with the same sense of urgency he used to unlock the nether sight, though it was difficult, his mind still swirled with the influx of data. Thankfully, the little wyvrr understood immediately, and Marcius felt what seemed to be a wet rag being removed from his face.