A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (8 page)

Marcius gave a nervous look at what he could only assume was the aforementioned dagger. The sapphire eyes of the serpent
handle now seemed to gleam hungrily at the elf’s words, as if daring Marcius to go against the elf's instructions and pick it up as he had the sword. “Please put the sword back, and remember what I told you: don’t touch anything. I would not want your death on my hands, especially since you are an apprentice to Antaigne. Would be most troublesome.” Marcius gave a nod, feeling silly when he realized Ken could not see him, as the elf had never turned around during the whole exchange. He was still moving the various components that were in the cabinet, mumbling occasionally at something he found before delving through the contents once more.

The sword slipped out of the hard stone as easily as it entered. It was completely unharmed. Marcius shakily laid it down
in its previous resting place. Admonished, he walked to the other side of the room, as far away from the dagger and sword as he could.

The type of magic this section contained was in sharp contrast to the previous area. Instead of weapons and armor, it en
closed what seemed to be everyday household objects. However, they appeared skewed, as if one was viewing them through a thin veil of water. It reminded Marcius very much of the shimmering heat waves given off during hot days. He got an uneasy feeling from these objects.

There was a map that showed all the weather patterns, clouds and storms moving across the surface like insects. A rag was cleaning a cabinet, seemingly propelled by an invisible hand or person. Marcius stared in amazement as a painting of a
battlefield acted out the fight from beginning to end.

It was disturbingly realistic, even down to the blood and gore. After watching the life fade from a skewered soldier's eyes, Marcius had to turn away, feeling sick to his stomach. There were numerous
chalices that shimmered with a ghostly glow. Marcius had not a clue what they did, nor was he interested or stupid enough to find out firsthand.

Next to a dresser with an ornate mug, there was a simple old wooden coat stand which held a forest green cloak
. Marcius was suddenly overcome with an urge to try it on. The fabric looked soft to the touch and as he drew nearer, it gave off a light metallic sheen. It’s only a cloak, and it looked so warm. The closer he got, the more compelling the cloak became. He could hear it calling to him, beckoning. All thoughts he had prior were replaced by images of him wearing the cloak. Oh, how everyone would admire him!

His hand lingered on the velvety softness, the sensation too much to bear as he rubbed it between his fi
ngers, feeling the richness of the weave. He went to free it from coat rack, fumbling as he tried to remove the poor excuse of a cloak he currently wore in the same motion, but something stayed his hand, startling him out of his trance. There was a strong but delicate looking hand holding his arm. “Easy there Marcius, this cloak isn’t something you want to mess with.” Marcius vaguely recognized the voice of Ken, but it didn’t matter. It was a trick! The elf wanted the cloak for himself! He was jealous of Marcius!

“
Unhand me! It’s mine! I—“ Marcius never got to finish the sentence, for out of the corner of his eye he caught a brief glimpse of a fist before it slammed into his jaw. He went sprawling onto the floor, lights flashing in his eyes. Rubbing his face, he shook his head and started to stand up, anger fueling his legs, only to be met halfway by a plain looking, but sharp, sword. He hadn't even seen the elf draw it.

“
What is your name?” The elf’s voice was oddly insistent, but the point of the sword was steady, gently prodding the skin under his throat, lifting him up, lest the sharp weapon pierce the skin and draw blood. Marcius felt he had to answer or be skewered, but he just couldn’t totally recall what people called him.

His brain felt fogged as he tried desperately to remember something, anything. He felt his head slowly become clear, the fog gently lifting to reveal som
ething solid concealed with its depths
. My name is. . . Marcius. . . I’m here for. . . items. . . from the elf for a. . . familiar. . .
then the realization of what he did came crashing in, unwelcome and not at all gentle.

“
Oh. . . I am so sorry!” he gasped. It was like a release. As if he’d been drowning and suddenly broke the surface, thirsty for air. The elf smiled and held out his hand to help Marcius up. “What. . . is that thing!” he asked, pointing to the cloak still on the peg of the coat rack.

It no
longer looked as alluring to his now much clearer eyes. Instead, it bore a resemblance to exactly what it was, a simple traveling cloak, such as one would buy from any tailor; nothing more, nothing less. Marcius felt foolish, dirty in the light of that fact. As if the obviously magical cloak had violated his integrity. The memory of how he felt made him shiver as he wiped a bit of blood off the corner of his mouth. All urges to try the cloak on were gone, instead replaced by disgust and shame. Marcius’s breath came out in ragged gasps.

“
This is no ordinary cloak. When the owner says so, the next person to see it feels an irresistible urge to wear it, upon donning it, the cloak will strangle the person to death. It will then disappear back to the owner, ready to be used again.”

“
Why do you have such a thing activated? Were you trying to kill me?” Marcius threw the elf a suspicious glance, only then realizing how vulnerable he felt.

Ken chuckled as he pointedly flexed the hand that had hit Marcius, “
No, I wasn’t. Elves are resistant to the effects of enchantment. The cloak was just made before it got shipped to me, so it hasn’t been bound to a master yet. So everyone is fair game. I just never noticed it because I’m an elf. Once one resists the effect of the cloak, it won’t bother you again. Such is the nature of magic. Although,” the elf looked at him critically, “I would have assumed an apprentice of Antaigne would have been able to recognize, or at least resist, such a simple assassin device.”

Marcius blushed
at the criticism, but a thought struck him. “Why would someone want something like that when they could have a sword that can cut through stone?” he said, gesturing back to the weapon that lay upon the ground behind them.

“
A dagger in the back can kill just as well as a sword from the front, Marcius. A lesson I hope you learn in your studies,” Ken answered cryptically. When Marcius didn’t seem to understand, he continued, “There is always more than one way to do something. Some ways are better than others. Why throw a fireball to kill someone when you could just burn the bridge he stands on? The end result is the same, not always is the direct approach the correct one, Marcius. Most wizards learn to guard against rudimentary magic applications. There will come a point where you might find yourself facing down another wizard, and victory often comes not to who knows the most powerful spells, but to who uses the spells he or she knows in the cleverest application. A simple sleep can-trip that causes the wizard to become dizzy and relax his guard can be just as important as the stroke of lightning that finishes him off.”

Marcius nodded, it made sense. Antaigne was always telling him to look beyond the base of what a spell does. And the usage of the object summon
ing can-trip in the bar only reaffirmed what Ken was saying. Thinking about what happened yesterday at the bar brought up another, more personal question that Marcius thought the elf might be able to answer. “Ken, can you answer something for me?”

“
If I can.” Ken pushed a small black vial and two hard clear rock-like objects in Marcius’s hand. “Here take these, that is the vial of ash and two Gryphon tears you’ll need.” He gestured for Marcius to follow as he headed back to the entrance of the room.

“
I tried performing a sleep can-trip on a drunk in a bar. He was trying to fight me because he thought I was having an affair with his wife,” Marcius explained. “It failed rather miserably, but I’m sure I did it correctly.”

“
Well, I am no expert on actual magic, but I could take an educated guess.” Ken waved his hand at the cold wall of the room, the portal opening again in its swirling fashion to the elf’s home. “The sleep can-trip strengthens the recipient’s urges to sleep, so a person angry and drunk probably doesn’t have much to work with. That’s my guess anyway.” Perhaps it was trick of lighting or his own mind, but the thin set of the elf's lips and darkened eyes suggested that Ken wasn't really guessing.

Nothing is what it seems. Marcius mused darkly. Then a
gain, isn't that the way of the world?

Ken stepped through first, with Marcius following close behind, the latter throwing one last furtive glance at the cloak that still hung all alone on the rack. The familiar tingling sensation flooded through him and t
he pressure on his chest lifted when he emerged. He deeply drew a breath of fresh air, only realizing now how stagnant the air in the magical room had been.

So he failed the sleep can-trip because the man
’s anger shielded him? He would have to learn the exceptions to spells as well. The picture sewed onto the canvas continued to stare at him as he was led from Ken’s house, and Marcius agreed that "Pact of Jaylynn" was an appropriate choice.

Silently resolving to learn the intricacies of magic in depth, he b
id Ken goodbye as the elf started setting up his fruit stand once again. The feeling of being totally controlled haunted him as he slowly rode Ruby through the quickly emptying streets of Rhensford. Up until then, he had never considered magic seriously.

U
sually when one mentioned the word, it conjured up thoughts of exotic creatures and flashy spells that shake whole cities; not daggers that steal souls and assassination devices in the guise of a harmless articles of clothing. Despite all of that however, the pull that initially lured him into the field was still there, something which made Marcius both smile and tremor.

Curiosity was one of the gifts supposedly given to the human race, both an advantage and a weakness, and Marcius was blessed with ample am
ounts of it.

❧　❧　❧

He was just rounding the corner of Minos Street, absorbed in the duality of it all, when a voice gave him pause. “Marc! You devil! Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”

The voice was from a tall young man with shoulder length, blonde
curly hair. Marcius slowed Ruby down to a steady walk so the long legged man could catch up.

“
Jared! The same could be said about you! When did you come back from Harcourt?” Harcourt was the biggest city in Lorinia. It stood at the crossroads of several ports including Rhensford, which contributed greatly in turning it into the most important place in Lorinia outside of the King’s palace. Jared had gone there with his father to investigate a smuggling rumor, though Marcius had his doubts about Jared’s true motivations. Jared’s father was the Sheriff of Rhensford, nicknamed the Bloodhound due to his tenaciousness to staying on the trail of a lawbreaker. Marcius often pondered at the irony of an apprentice wizard befriending the son of one of the most stalwart and vocal magic haters in the country.

“
Father's done with the investigation, caught the guys of course.” Jared rolled his eyes in consternation; he and his father often were at odds. “He tried to show me the ropes, but I quickly gave him the slip and got around to the local mercenary taverns! It was great! You could feel the energy of adventure! The sweat and grime of glory clung about like. . . well. . . sweat!” Jared’s eyes now took on a very familiar misty quality and only served to confirm Marcius’s thoughts about the real reason he took the journey.

“
Uh oh. . . ” Marcius mumbled half jokingly, which earned him a mock stern glower from Jared. Ever since Marcius had known Jared, there had been one dream the blonde haired man had kept alive: Jared wished to be a famous adventurer. To be forever immortalized with tales of bravery, and battle bards and minstrels across the land. It was the fuel that spurred him to spend most of his free time training with the sword, honing his skills with every passing day.

The dream also kept them friends when he found out that Marcius was training to be a wizard. Jared had been pressuring a young Marcius as to where he disappeared to every month. Marcius, who had never had a friend before, quickly folded to the questioning
. “Every adventuring party needs a wizard. . . ” he had said, rubbing his chin after a few moments of tense silence when Marcius had finally told him. It was this acceptance that cemented their friendship. They trusted each other fully from thereafter. He even occasionally asked Marcius about his training or to perform can-trips.

“
One of these days, my friend, after you’re a full wizard, we have to go off and seek our fortune!” Jared exclaimed quietly, mostly from force of habit. By mutual unspoken agreement they had headed to their favorite restaurant to no doubt talk about the happenings of the past days. Marcius tethered Ruby to the post outside, patting him calmly for a few moments before following Jared up the steps and into the restaurant.

Pushing open
the doors of Taylor’s, they were immediately beset by the owner. The aptly named Taylor was a bald, middle-aged man of Northern Morlian descent. His rotund face a rosy cherub color that went well with the smile that graced his features. He was an old friend of Jareds. “Ah! Jared Garalan and Marcius Realure, my two favorite customers!”  Taylor said gleefully, slapping his hands together in unfeigned happiness. Marcius couldn’t help but smile back, the man’s cheerfulness was embarrassing, but also contagious. “I presume you want a secluded corner as usual?” he asked, mostly as a formality since he had already set off to locate it.