A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (28 page)

Frustrated, he set his head back on the pole a
nd stared longingly at the gray sky above. A bit of movement along the left edge of his vision brought to his attention that he wasn't alone, something which he must have missed during his preoccupation with being tied up. Slowly he turned his head, and right before him, sitting on a log next to the fire that had, whether by plan or circumstance, kept Jared and Marcius warm during the cold night, was the very oggron that had tied him to the pole in the first place. Jared felt a surge of fear at the sight, which also made him wonder if Alicia had managed to bargain with the bandit leader. Judging from the intense glower he received from the oggron, the beast wouldn't mind being the one to execute him and Marcius. What he wouldn't give to have a sword in his hands right now. . .

Marcius! The thought caused an intense chill to run down his back. Dreading what he would see, Jared then shifted his head to the right, to where Marcius was tied up. He took note that his friend's eyes were closed, and for just a seco
nd, entertained the illogical notion that perhaps something tragic had happened before the telltale rise and fall of his friend's chest soothed those fears. He was only asleep! Breathing a sigh of relief, Jared returned his attention back to the sky. All he could do was sit and wait while a myriad of thoughts swam drunkenly about his head.

Judging by the slowly brightening sky, an hour or two had passed when the sound of footsteps roused Jared from his withdrawn stupor. A red haired man had arrived, and lea
ning over, seemed to be intently whispering some instructions to the oggron. Somehow, and Jared didn't think it was a physically possible, the oggron's scowl only grew more twisted with each passing second. Whatever the man was telling him, the grey skinned beast didn't like it.

Finally, after seemed an eternity, the oggron gave a snort of anger and stood up, leaving the red-haired man alone with Marcius and Jared. Smirking in apparent victory, the man stepped up close to Jared, as if scrutinizing him. Jare
d stared back. After a bit, the man pulled out a thin strip of cloth. "Congratulations," he said, reaching over to wrap the cloth around Jared's head and eyes, ignoring the flinch of surprise from Jared. "Seems as if the Boss accepted your friend's deal, so you and your friends get to go free. Consider yourself fortunate, we're not usually so nice. The woods are littered with the skeletons of our past victories. Literally. Oh, and understand the blindfold is for our safety, and yours."

At that, the now blin
ded Jared could feel the ropes tying him to the pole being undone, the tingling and burning sensation of circulation pulsing throughout his body at the newfound freedom. Yet the bindings keeping his hands together remained. "Again, for security." The man tugged at the ropes on Jared's hands as if reading his mind. Jared's ears picked up the presence of yet another person, and judging by the sounds, they seemed to be rousing and untying Marcius.

Relief flooded through him. They must be god-blessed to escape
such an encounter intact! What deal had Alicia struck? Stumbling, he allowed himself to be led toward what he hoped was freedom. Freedom! Ah, what a noble concept! One never appreciated such things until the threat of being denied them was so very real.

❧　❧　❧

Gregory held his hand up to his face, shielding the early morning sun from his eyes. The musty scent of moist morning earth rose up and about the air. Off in the distance, three figures, all walking, could be seen wearily picking their way through the trail. No one would have expected that two of those figures were wizards. Hell, he would have never thought that only a few hours ago they had been his prisoners. It was even harder wrap his mind around the fact that he had let them go.

He felt euphoric,
glowing even. The previous night had rejuvenated him from many, many nights spent in solitude. The wenches in the cathouse in Harcourt couldn't hold a candle to the performance of that woman last night. He didn't fool himself into thinking it was anything more than physical release, nothing more than an outlet for his ardor, but it became a shelter from his loneliness.

That woman, that wizard
,
had done something for him that he could have never guessed was possible. It was such a simple act, really. But it was a simple act not readily available to someone in his position. And it was so easy for him to write it off as a meager deal, and the guilt that should have accompanied such an act simply did not exist.

Time and circumstance had done much to wear down
that armor called conscience.

He could still see her writhing on top of him, still hear the deep simultaneous breathing with every rocking motion, and the sweat that had clung to the contours of their bodies. That would be a mental image he would treasure.
The best part about the whole ordeal? It gave him a valid excuse in the eyes of his men to let those wizards go. He could still hold onto that part of him that wished he was still that honorable knight, one looked upon and revered. Lewdness was perhaps the one defining trait in all men who skirted the law; they would merely clap him on the shoulder for such an action.

Anyway, his band still had all of the spoils from the raid. The wizards had come prepared for their journey with a bit of gold, enough to q
uiet the few people who might have grumbled about the possible risk of allowing survivors.

To kill people in cold blood, to kill people who couldn't defend themselves
. . . Well, that was the one thing he had yet to do, other than that wizard many years ago. But that was a valid exception, or at least that is what he told himself.

"So Boss," Rorian said, coming up to stand next to him. Both of them were standing on the lip of the forest, where the trees became thinner and smaller, eventually melding gently
into the flat, expansive rolling hills of the Golean plains. "Was she worth it?"

Gregory's mind flashed to the previous night, images of skin and curves laid siege on his mind. It was an easy question to answer. "Yes," then, because it was a valid concern
he added, "and there was another reason to let them go."

"Oh?"

"Do you know that blonde one? The one who wasn't a wizard?"

Rorian nodded, he did. Gregory let the thought settle a bit before continuing. "Well, what would you say if I told you that blonde ma
n was the son of the Bloodhound?"

The man rocked back on his heels, obviously surprised. "I would ask why you didn't kill him. Surely the lands would be a bit friendlier to those of our profession if it was denied one sired from the loins of that man."

Gregory chuckled, off in the distance the trio was barely more than a pinprick. Both Rorian and Gregory wordlessly turned back on their own accord to go back to camp. "Don't you see, Rorian? That is precisely why I couldn't kill them." The look on the man's face was questioning, so Gregory elaborated. "Think about it, my friend. Last thing I want is to make a personal enemy out of the Bloodhound, something which killing his son would most assuredly do. If you think that man is tenacious now. . . "

"Well couldn
't you. . . I don't know. . . just keep it a secret?"

Gregory snorted. "Keep it a secret? Nothing that gets swept under the rug stays there. The bigger the lump, the easier it is to spot. I'll not have that man's death under my rug. For all I know, he coul
d be on a personal errand for his father. Let something else bring the boy down, I'll not do it."

They were navigating through the underbrush now, toward the camp. Green branches, tinted lightly with the coming autumn, slapping them in the face. "So, when
did you realize this?" Rorian asked, fast stepping because his shorter strides made it a bit difficult to keep up with Gregory.

"When? Probably about halfway through the questioning. Sleeping with the female wizard was just a rather convenient excuse, bit
more fun than the alternatives. I'll let her think she saved them all."

"That good, eh?" Rorian threw him a wink.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure whether to envy the guy that lands her or pity him!"

They both got a laugh out of that. "The men ar
en't going to like moving so quickly. They'll blame it on the fact that you let them go," Rorian pointed out. He always enjoyed being the naysayer, something which Gregory didn't mind. It's always good to have someone who questions your actions.

"They know
that we always move camp after every raid. Keeps the Guard off our rears. If they complain, I'll have their heads."

The red haired man threw his arms up defensively. "Hey Boss, you're preaching to the converted. Trust me, I know." Then the customary grin
found itself on his face, "What I do want to know is why did you give her that gold?"

Gregory gave Rorian a hard look. "You saw that?"

"Of course."

Gregory rolled his eyes, he should have known better than to expect otherwise. When he had escorted the thre
e prisoners to the end of the forest and let them go, he had slipped a small pouch, jingling lightly with gold coins, into the woman's hands.

There was enough in there to support the three of them for a time, certainly enough to find some other way to ear
n enough to make their way to Aralene. It just didn't seem right to leave them hanging out on the wash, even if they were wizards. He just couldn't bring himself to compare them to the Academy ones he had grown to hate, as these were just kids. They still had so much more to live through before Fate decided to chew them up, like it did to him.

When had he grown so soft?

"You'll keep this quiet, I hope?" It was a half-question laced with just the faintest trace of a threat. Bandit loyalties were fragile enough as it was.

Rorian smirked. "Of course."

❧
　❧　❧

Simon Harkinell stepped outside onto the rickety porch of the Black Rose Tavern, stretching and deeply breathing in the crisp morning air. The deep intake of breath quickly turned into a sputtering cough as the pungent stench of filth assaulted his nostrils instead.

Harcourt was indeed a city of majestic beauty, as long as one turned a blind eye to the squalid portion of the city known as the Lowtown district. Truly, it was more accurate to call it a city
of contrasts. On one side, elaborate temples and proud mansions stood in splendor. On the other, dilapidated shacks and homeless people wallowed in dirt.

It was just Simon's bad luck that it was only in the Lowtown and the adjacent trade hub referred to as
the Bazaar, that he was able to ply his trade with any modicum of success. Then again, the exact definition of his trade was also in constant flux. Simon considered himself, ironically, a jack of all trades. He dabbled in a little bit of everything. The only problem was that his dabbling wasn't usually appreciated by the local authorities.

Was it his fault that they couldn't recognize or appreciate genius? He decided it was their loss. Artists were always under appreciated. He mulled over it a bit, tuggin
g at the bottom of his lip with his finger. Yeah, Simon concluded that he liked that thought. He'd have to write down that epiphany in his journal.

"Hey, going to move yer skinny ass or will I have to move it for you?" a gruff, portly man, breath heavy wit
h alcohol, was waiting impatiently for Simon to vacate the doorway of the tavern.

"Oh, my good man, I am truly sorry! Last thing I would want is to impede your progress into our fair city!" Simon was all apologies as he stepped aside, and with a gesture an
d a flourish, indicated for the man to proceed him. Such manners were lost as the dirty man pushed rudely past him and onto the street, eventually disappearing into the shuffling morning crowd.

Simon just smiled, completely nonplused as he turned around to
close the door the rude man left open. He was stopped by a hand on the door. Barry, the rotund, bald tavern keeper and owner, poked his shiny head out. "Hey, you, Simon. Got to talks to you." He opened the door further so that the full extent of his body, blown large from endless nights of drinking his own wares, blocked the doorway with far more efficiency than Simon's.

Simon threw the man his best, and most innocent, smile. "Ah yes, Barry, what is it?"

"Yous haven't paid yer keep fer last night." Barry's eyes narrowed suspiciously and the man leaned forward aggressively on the old rickety door as if daring Simon to contest his claim.

Simon had been renting out one of the rooms above the tavern, but business had been rather slow as of late, for both of the
m, and the wizened old tavern keeper was eager to get more. . .
reliable
. . . customers. Simon knew this required a delicate hand, for Barry was a volatile man, at least when money was concerned. "My friend, truly you have hurt me! Do you believe that after the last few months that we have known each other, that I would seek to deceive your prominent business by leaving a debt unpaid?"

Barry's black inset eyes warily flickered back and forth at that, no doubt looking for any perceived slight. Calling the me
ager building that housed the Black Rose Tavern 'prominent' was a stretch in and of itself. But besides that, Barry couldn't really find anything, so he just gave a noncommittal shrug. "Whatever, do as you want. But I'll not let you back in here unless yer payment be with you."