A Dead God's Tear(25)

But, as his father was adept at pointing out, logic very rarely played a hand in Jared's decision making. A friend was potentially in danger, and despite the slight wobble in his steps, he was determined to get to the bottom of it. After all, how could a future adventurer carve his niche in history if he couldn't even help out a friend?

Each second that passed, his heart plummeted deeper. His dream was slipping away right before his eyes and there was naught he could do about it. His hands reflexively grasped the book in his tunic, seeking solace. Briefly he wondered what his father would think of his son searching through a wizard's property. The irony was not lost on him and brought some much needed levity to the situation.

He was nearing the completion of his third time around the clearing, beginning to feel the tugs of hopelessness slowly drag him down, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. It came from behind a heavy slab of roofing leaning against the remains of what seemed to be a fireplace. Jared could easily see how he might have missed something from that angle. Foot over foot, he crept closer, nerves on edge. Gradually, he started to make out a crop of muddy brown hair. It was something he would have recognized in the darkest of nights. "Marcius!" he yelled, dropping his sword to the ground and leaning against the slab, attempting to push it off his friend.

No amount of preparation could have readied Jared for the sight that greeted him when the heavy chunk of roofing was finally moved. Instead of his friend being hurt, as he feared, physically he seemed okay. There were a few minor scratches and cuts, but nothing serious that he could immediately see. It was nothing less than a miracle.

What he didn't account for was the blank stare that greeted him. Marcius had a silver lion's head in his hand, the eyes were jeweled and, if he hadn't known better, it looked like it was decapitated. Jared assumed it must have been some decoration that belonged with the cottage. Rocking back and forth, Marcius just kept mumbling incoherently.

"Marcius." He put his arm gently around his friend's shoulder. "Are you okay? What happened here?" His priority was to get his friend talking, obviously he was in shock and Jared hated seeing him like this.

One could not have a sheriff as a father without picking up a few bad habits. Jared's honor demanded to get whoever back for doing this to his friend, but first he needed information.

Of course he wasn't entirely sure how he could do that, considering the devastation caused. The idea was probably out of his league, and for all he knew, it could just have been a faulty magic spell or something. But that was something he could worry about when he crossed that bridge.

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead. . . " Marcius kept whispering his mantra, slowly rubbing the one remaining deep crimson inlaid ruby eye of the lion. He completely ignored Jared.

Jared sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He had watched his father handle situations like this before, back when a tribe of oggrons were attacking local surrounding farmsteads and villages. It had been rather commonplace to see, but the Bloodhound's methods weren't pretty.

Jared really didn't see any other option though, every minute that passed was one wasted. Goddess, forgive me. . . Without another thought, he punched Marcius as hard as could. His friend flew face first into the dirt, the lion head dropping to the ground with a dull thud. He had put all his weight behind the strike, and his hand stung as a result.

For a second, it didn't seem as if it worked. Marcius just lay there, unmoving. Perhaps he hit him too hard? With a roar, Marcius suddenly jumped to his feet, tackling Jared, knocking the wind out of the swordsman. They went careening to the ground, a tangle of arms and legs, each trying to get the upper hand in the ensuing scuffle. The tempo shifted frequently, but as quickly as it started, it had stopped. The participants lay next to each other, gasping for air and waiting for the rush of adrenaline to slowly ebb away.

"Thanks. . . Jared. . . I needed that."

"No problem. . . you were not yourself." Jared looked up at the sky, the peacefulness of the ruined clearing at odds with what had just occurred.

He brought a hand up to his left eye at that thought and grimaced. Marcius had clipped him good with a right hook, causing it to already start closing. He would most likely have a black eye for a while. A small price to pay for getting his best friend speaking again, he figured. "So. . . care to tell me what happened?"

At first, nothing but silence greeted him, and Jared was afraid the question might relapse his friend. Glancing out of the side of his good eye, he noticed, with a sigh of relief, Marcius wore not that blank stare, but seemed deep in thought, as if he was searching for words that escaped his grasp. "I'm not entirely sure. . . " He finally admitted, pushing himself to sit against the wall where Jared quickly joined him. "Well, not sure except the fact that my Master is dead. I can feel that much."

Jared watched as the lanky Marcius stood and picked up the lion's head that had been discarded on the ground during the fight. He, again, began to gently rub the deep ruby eye. A look of extreme sadness graced his features for just a moment, so quick was it, that Jared was not sure he had seen anything at all. Marcius turned and looked straight at Jared, his eyes misty and glazed over, "Do you know what it is like to have your entire world turned upside down within the span of a single day?" he asked in a quiet whisper; a plain inquiry, but the weight of it was immense.

Jared was at loss for words to that simple question. He had a taste of it. Only half an hour before, he was wishing for an adventure and wondering what the very person standing before him was up to, only to have fate unceremoniously dump it on his lap. But to have it put so bluntly, his friend could not have had a greater effect on the swordsman if he had belted him with a blacksmith hammer!

He understood far more keenly than his friend could ever realize. His own dream was etched into his will, the urge to be recognized, to be needed, and respected. He responded in the only way he knew how, by not saying anything at all. What, really, could he say that wouldn't sound contrived and placating?

Seconds became minutes as they waited, content in the memories and turmoil within their own worlds, but safe in the company of each other. Both loathed starting the journey of piecing things together, because that meant accepting whatever just happened. It was Marcius who broke the silence first. "Faerril!" it was a cry of one who had just found a long lost friend-or perhaps lost one.

Who, or what, is Faerril? Before Jared could even ask, his friend bolted off as if guided by an unseen hand, with a confused Jared in close company. Past the burning wreckage they ran, and each step was a bit faster than the last. Marcius ran as if his life depended on it.

I t didn't take them long to move past the clearing, leaving the devastation behind for the quiet, but just as deadly, Fae'lorea forest. As they delved deeper, Jared could see that he missed this part in his initial inspection, for it was hidden from the view of Antaigne's ruined cottage. It seemed as if the fight, or whatever it was, must have extended into the forest itself. Here the destruction was different, but just as all encompassing.

Trees were uprooted and the ground itself was torn, as if by massive talons, exposing the soft brown earth underneath. The sickly smell of flesh and blood permeated the air; insects, drawn by the smell, seemed just as confused, buzzing around haphazardly in their search for the source. Strange, he could smell it, but didn't see anything that would make that odor.

Maricus finally stopped at a small windfall of downed trees, cast aside like small twigs; they were piled chaotically, "Marcius, what are we doing?"

As if to answer, his friend start pushing against one of the trunks, straining with effort to push the downed tree off the pile. With a shrug, Jared joined in. Working together, they managed to push several of them off, each one raising a small cloud of dust as it hit the forest floor, toward whatever mysterious goal Marcius was working for.

They finally managed to nudge a particularly large oak, when Jared noticed the apprentice wizard was no longer pushing, instead he had jumped into the wedge they had made with their work, and came back out, tenderly cradling something in his arms.

Jared lost his balance when he leaned closer to see what his friend carried. Of all things he was expecting, the serpentine head that greeted him was not one of them. Bright green eyes took in every detail of the swordsman, and, Jared could have sworn, he felt as if he was being scrutinized with every pass of the emerald spheres. Judged and found insignificant, he shook the feeling away. It was a silly notion. "Marcius. . . what is that?"

"Faerril," he answered simply, as if that should explain everything. "And he is hurt. . . please help him." Jared wanted to say that he was hardly an expert, and that it would be best to grab one of the healers from back at town, but one look at the pleading eyes was all it took to strengthen his resolve to help. He would do what he could.

The Fae'lorea was not at all cohesive to seeing the small details required to tend the injured effectively. Taking several minutes to gather what underbrush that was around, Jared took out a flint and tinder from his pouch, striking it repeatedly over the pile. Try as he might, the brush just wouldn't take to flame. He was about to give up when he heard a gentle chanting. Looking behind himself, he was just able to catch the crescendo of Marcius casting a spell.