A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (3 page)

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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, kno
cking 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. H
e 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 som
ething 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 someone 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 handwr
iting 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 m
ade 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 mu
ddy 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 awai
ted 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 custo
mary 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 t
eased, 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, Mar
cius 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.

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"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 t
hat 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 bluste
ring, 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 b
ar.

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 ra
re 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 amiss, 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 t
o 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 hin
t 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.