A Dead God's Tear(41)

     
 

     

And now it was all going to be taken away.

Again she tried to cast, only to interrupt herself as she had to quickly shift to the side, the tip of a wicked spear flashing in where she had been. The quick casts she maintained tugged on the edges of her consciousness, begging her constant attention as they threatened to slip free and disperse themselves back into the nether from where they came. That was something she couldn't afford.

Still, frustration ran alongside of the growing doubt that perhaps this was a fight they couldn't win, that they might die today. She couldn't find an opening to even begin casting a spell, leaving only the three quick casts that she had left to depend on. Two of them were designed to cause devastation to a large group of people. Something which she thought would have been useful given the current situation. But she had miscalculated.

No large group presented themselves as targets for her spells, something she had not expected when she selected her spells to be quick casted. All the tales she heard of bandit attacks seemed to indicate that they usually overwhelmed caravans and attacked with surprise. So she had chosen spells that could deal with large masses of people. The three bandits in front of them, and the two above them, hardly counted as a large group of people.

All had gone according to plan when the bandits had attacked with the arrows. That was something she expected. The appearance of sparsely grouped bandits and the continued keep-away game they were playing was what she didn't expect. What use is a storm of fire on only one or two of them? She couldn't even aim for the bandits on the ledge above them, since the spells made no qualms about hitting either friend or foe.

And now, since both Jared and Marcius were depending on her, it would seem as if they were doomed. Try as she might, she couldn't think of a way to make it work. Not as long as she was forced to keep dodging these damnable spears. Not to mention the enchantment that permeated the air around the trio, rendering all missiles useless, was about to wear off. She wished that perhaps she would have taken a bit more training in casting under pressure. The bit she had taken did not account for the very real terror that arose when your life was on the line.

No, she had grievously blundered.

There was only one chance that she could think of. The third quick cast was a magical shield, strong enough to hold spell and sword from touching her for a brief couple seconds. She could use it to escape the side of the cliff wall, to escape the trap of those spears. Drop a fire storm spell right on top of the three bandits in front of them, then use her spell as cover from the ones above her.

It was a waste of a quick cast and it would leave her vulnerable, without Jared to defend her, but what other choice did they have? She could use the reprieve to save Marcius, and together they might be able to form some type of defense.

It was their only hope.

She allowed her eyes to slip back into the nether, preparing to shield herself. She dared to briefly glance over at Marcius, half out of fear that her companion, maybe friend, might already be dead. No, she let go a shaky breath, thankfully he wasn't. It looked like it wouldn't stay that way for long, however.

Something caught her eye: the telltale gathering of nether around the apprentice.

What could he be casting?

Her green eyes widened. She recognized the spell! There is no way he could be intending to cast that!

Alicia barely had time to redirect the shield spell as Marcius dropped a fireball at the ground below his feet.



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Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.

A heartbeat. It was the first thing Marcius was aware of. Strong and unrelenting in its cadence. The feeling of warmth against the side of his face and his chest, and the familiar swaying motion made him realize he was being carried. Elation flooded through him at the realization, they must have won! Somehow he had not died when he lobbed that fireball, and Alicia and Jared must have beaten the bandits!

Last thing he remembered was angrily spitting in the face of the oggron as he launched the spell at the ground, defiant in what he thought would be his last action of life. How acutely the anger had consumed him then, driving him to stay awake despite the waves of dizziness that tried to force his attentions elsewhere. The eyes of the oggron, oh those terrible black eyes! It was the urge to drive away that gleaming victory contained within the darkened orbs that had allowed him to force out the correct arcane phrases despite the iron-hard hand clamped around his throat.

And now that he was alive. . .

He let go a sigh of relief, only then noticing how much his body ached. The skin on his lower half felt singed, as if it was rubbed raw, and a throbbing headache had developed in the brief time he had been awake. There was a nasty taste in his mouth, like slime, but he ignored the urge to spit it out, not wanting to ruin the moment. He was too content with just basking in the glow of victory to be worried about such mundane things as being uncomfortable.

They had won!

Something wasn't right, he realized slowly as his mind awoke fully. The pieces didn't fit. Why was he even alive? Marcius had seen the devastating effect of a fireball when he practiced the spell behind Antaigne's cottage. The spell had cut a swath of destruction in about a five foot radius from the impact point, even the rock itself had fused together in the heat. There was no way he should have been able to survive that.

Not that he was complaining.

Who was carrying him? Jared, though strong for his build, certainly wasn't up to the task of carrying an injured person any long distance. And the very notion of Alicia carrying him was absurd, though the mental image did make a flutter go through his stomach. Then who could it be? Perhaps someone had found the three of them, injured from the fight, and was bringing them back to their place to be nursed to health? Marcius found he liked that thought. He could use a bit of pampering, and he did feel beaten up.

It occurred to him that he could answer his question by simply opening his eyes, but he now realized he was afraid as to what he might find. He liked the conjuring of his imagination and was loathing to part with them. Reality had a habit of letting people down.

The gnawing sensation of 'wrongness' grew stronger the longer he tried to ignore it, until he could do it no more. Slowly he opened his eyes, the light a painful intrusion to his deprived eyes and he was forced to squint as it eventually grew clearer.

He screamed.





Chapter 15

"Boss, the raiding party has returned," Alec informed, parting the flap of the tent and sticking his blonde head in.

The Boss of the Solikivian bandit group merely nodded his confirmation. The young bandit nodded in return then exited the tent, the flap stirring gently at his leaving. The commotion outside gave weight to the boy's words. It was the shuffling of feet and of voices eagerly mingling to learn what had transpired, and judging by the general tone it would seem as if the jaunt had been a success. The familiar excitement of a returned raiding party hung about the air, but it was something that brought no positive feeling to the Boss.

The man sighed, running his hand through his coarse, long black hair. He wondered what his wife and child would have thought if they could see him now, a thought that he would often dwell on during his brief moments of solitude. The great and honorable Gregory Lecorix, former Captain of the Lorinia Royal Guard, playing leader to a bunch of bandits?

All things considered, he had managed to climb up from a proverbial hole in the ground. He had once been a homeless exile, reduced to wandering Faelon in mindless despair. Too cowardly to take his own life, and too ashamed to settle down, he hid from himself and his past by joining a loose collection of bandits, hoping perhaps somebody's sword, or perhaps the bottom of a mug, could put an end to his misery.

Fate continued its mockery. Instead of finding death, he found himself the leader of the group when the previous Boss passed away. In fact, it had been Gregory's own sword that had sped the old miser onward to the afterlife. The thing that surprised him the most was how eagerly he accepted the mantle, using the guise of leadership as yet another shield from his past.

He did garner results though. Ironically his training and knowledge of the army allowed him to cull the rag-tag group of people together into a well disciplined fighting force. All races were accepted in his band, merit alone decided who received accolades, and he treated everyone fairly. He even took the same portions out of victory spoils that they did, instead of demanding a larger part for merely telling them what to do. It also didn't hurt that he knew how the army operated, which allowed the group to stay several steps ahead of any legal repercussions. Even the infamous Bloodhound was thrown off the trail more than once.

And how they loved him for it! He had assembled probably the most loyal group of bloodthirsty criminals in all of Faelon. It was this camaraderie, so rare among bandits and thieves, which allowed their group to flourish when all others floundered straight into the local dungeons and subsequent chopping blocks.

Yes, he had done pretty well for someone exiled for murder.

But it was just so empty. The life was shallow and he found himself often just going through the motions. Once he got the band running smoothly, once his energies no longer had a direction or purpose, inevitably his thoughts would sink back to what had got him there in the first place. His family, his friends, and his honor, all of it stripped away in that one costly act of rage. Anger is fleeting; but grief is eternal. The old adage served him well.